by Ali Harris
They’re only together because of some misplaced sense of social standing (and because no one else would have them). They can barely be in the same room as each other any more. Mum’s always in the kitchen, cooking, marking, moaning at me. Dad’s always in his office, looking at his paintings and his books, but mostly looking out the window, as if he’d like to be anywhere but here with us. So they continue with this ridiculous web of pretence. The older I get the more I see it and the more I hate being around either of them.
But Mum won’t give up. She insists on trying to find out what ‘makes me tick’. (I am so tempted to say one day, ‘Sex, drugs and rock and roll . . . ’ just to watch her freak out.) And I know she only wants to go shopping so she can try to get me to buy some clothes that she approves of (loafers, A-line skirts, roll-necks). I don’t know how many times I have to tell her that I like my old, holey jeans, my battered Converse and array of flannel shirts, army-surplus jumpers and short skirts.
‘Shall we go to Topshop dear? Or Mrs Selfridges?’ She smiles desperately at me now and tries to link my arm. I swiftly pull it away.
‘Miss Selfridge,’ I hiss. ‘And I wouldn’t be seen dead in there.’ I lift my Nikon F50 to my face from where it permanently hangs around my neck. It’s an early Christmas gift – and their attempt to buy my approval. At least now I can escape my miserable present by focusing my attention (and my lens) on my future career as a photographer. It’s all I’ve wanted to do for as long as I can remember. Mum and Dad tell me that the reason there are hardly any photos of me as a toddler was that I’d always run around to whoever was taking the photograph and stand behind it too, desperate to see what they were seeing. I picked up a camera for the first time aged four. It was Christmas and I can still remember looking through the little square window and secretly loving the fact I knew exactly what to do without anyone forcing me to learn. I didn’t need lessons, unlike the ballet I’d been sent to once a week since I was three. With this, I could just look and click. And I seemed to understand instinctively how to do it well. There were no chopped-off heads in my pictures, even at that age. That camera became my third eye. I walked around looking through it all the time. I remember thinking, when I was about seven, that it was like Dad’s glasses, it made me see better. Now I realize that it was because my photos captured real emotions instead of the fake ones people always seemed to portray for everyone else. It made me feel powerful, like they couldn’t keep any secrets from me whilst I was looking through it. I didn’t always take actual photographs though – Mum and Dad rationed my films to two a month, but I’d pretend, seeing, visualizing, adjusting, framing. As I got older I’d write notes in a book about light, shadow, composition and focus, and I became obsessed with famous photographers like Henri Cartier-Bresson, a master of candid photography who developed the street-style reportage photography that I’m inspired by.
And now, seeing the wet, rainy High Street of Southend shimmer through my viewfinder makes the day – not to mention this shithole seaside town – seem brighter somehow, turning it from something depressing into something beautiful. Sometimes I wish I could have the camera permanently attached to my eyes. Life looks so much better through it. Plus there’s the added bonus that it would hide my face enough for Ryan Cooper not to spot me.
‘Mrs Carter!’ he calls, hitching his sports bag up on his shoulder and increasing his pace as he swigs sexily from a Lucozade bottle.
Shit. He’s seen us. I busy myself changing the film in my camera, so I don’t have to acknowledge his presence.
‘Shouting at me in the street?’ Mum mutters. ‘What will people thi— Ryan Coopah!’ Mum trills as he appears in front of us. Mum uses her best Standard Received Pronunciation voice whenever she’s around fellow teachers, her students or their parents.
‘Alright, Mrs C?’ Ryan grins, lighting up the street with his smile, and then peers over at me. It’s not the style I like – way too clean-cut – but I have to admit he’s looking kind of hot in a hooded top, baggy jeans and trainers. And smelling nice, too. All freshly showered. I glance at his Puma bag. He must’ve had a match this morning.
‘Hi, Molly. I haven’t seen you around for a while. How are you?’
I don’t answer. I just turn away, lift my camera up and pretend to be busy snapping photos.
‘Shouldn’t you be at home doing your coursework, Ryan?’ Mum says tightly.
‘It’s Saturday,’ Ryan responds politely, glancing at me through his curtains. ‘I’ve just had a game of footie and thought I’d come into town.’
‘Time and tide wait for no man,’ Mum replies archly. ‘We all know you have a very bright future ahead of you in the sporting world, Ryan. The school is proud of your achievements, but you need a good education to fall back on if the – what do you call it – the ‘Beautiful Game’, doesn’t work out, hmm?’
My skin burns with mortification. Can’t she switch off her teacher act just for a second? Can’t she see I’m literally dying of embarrassment here in front of the hottest guy in town?
‘You’ve got your A levels coming up,’ she continues primly, ‘and your recent essays suggest . . . ’
Clearly not.
‘Mum, leave it,’ I hiss furiously. ‘You’re not at school now.’ She glances at me, her lips pinch and her cheeks flush – a striking contrast to her normally pale, unmade-up complexion.
‘It’s OK,’ Ryan smiles. ‘Your mum’s right, I am always training. It’s my dream to play pro for Southend by the time I’m eighteen, y’see – so that only gives me a year!’ He nods politely at Mum. ‘But Mrs C is spot on. I need to get my head down this term. I wanna do well in my A levels and with a great teacher like your mum, I’m hoping to get a good grade in English at least!’ He grins at us and I turn to look at her, shaking my head as surprise flickers over Mum’s face and her pursed expression softens into a smile.
‘Oh Ryan, you’re too kind,’ she blushes. Jesus, he’s even worked his charm on my mum. Is there no limit to this guy’s powers? She touches his arm gently. ‘It is every teacher’s dream to inspire their pupils . . . ’
Oh God, I feel a Dead Poets Society moment coming on.
‘As the great Joseph Conrad once said, “A man is a worker. If he is not that he is nothing.”’
‘Never was a truer word spoken, Mrs C,’ Ryan replies sagely and I shake my head at him from behind my mum’s shoulder. He is taking the piss, surely? I try and catch his eye but he appears to be busy listening to my mum’s impassioned speech so doesn’t notice.
‘You know, Mrs C, you must be exhausted walking round town after such a busy week at school,’ Ryan says, once she’s finished her monologue. ‘Why don’t you treat yourself to a cup of tea somewhere? Molly and I could mooch around Topshop then come and meet you in about an hour, yeah? Would that be cool?’
Mum looks predictably startled and negative. But then she looks at me, and then back at Ryan. ‘Well, yes, that would be coo— I mean fine. I am rather tired, I must confess. I’ll maybe go and browse in the bookshop. Yes, that’s what I’ll do . . . ’ And she pulls her embarrassing grandma-style plastic scarf over her head, zips her anorak up and goes to kiss me on the cheek. I dodge out of the way and she turns and walks off down the rain-soaked street.
I stand still, slightly flummoxed by the situation I now find myself in.
‘Alone at last,’ Ryan winks when she’s gone.
‘That was a sly move,’ I say as I stride off down the High Street, hoping he’ll get the hint and give up. He doesn’t.
‘Well, I have a way with women,’ he laughs, easily catching me up. ‘Especially teachers. They love me.’
I see him look at his reflection in a shop window and inwardly gag. God he loves himself, not without reason, but still. ‘I thought the great Ryan Cooper would be way above the whole teacher’s pet routine . . . ’
‘Not if it gets me time alone with a girl I like,’ he grins.
‘Your mates aren’t around now, Ryan,’ I say. ‘
You don’t have to pretend.’
He frowns and shrugs, like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I turn and take a picture of a couple kissing outside a café.
‘What are you taking photos of?’ he asks.
‘Just stuff. I take photos of everything.’
‘What about me?’ He jumps in front of the camera and performs a series of cheesy catalogue poses, laughing unselfconsciously at himself as he does so.
I lower my lens and stare at him unflinchingly. ‘Sorry, I should have clarified. I take photos of everything . . . that interests me.’ I lift my chin and stalk past him.
‘Oooh, that hurt,’ he says, clutching his stomach and staggering around as if I’d stabbed him. I try not to smile as he bounds back over to me. ‘So do you fancy hitting Topman with me? I want something new to wear tonight to The Grand.’ He pauses and flicks his blond hair out of his face with his hand. ‘Are you going?’
‘Not allowed,’ I say. Then I mentally kick myself.
A smile hovers over his lips. ‘From what I’ve heard, that has never stopped you before.’
He’s right. I’ve been going to pubs and clubs since I was fourteen. Not that my parents know. The drainpipe outside my bedroom window comes in pretty handy and they’re always too busy doing their marking or reading or listening to their embarrassing old 60s’ music to notice I’ve gone. I turn and walk towards Topshop, biting my lip to hide my delight as Ryan follows me.
‘Guurghh.’ I stick my fingers down my throat as Ryan steps out of the changing room wearing a pair of denim dungarees.
‘What?’ he says defensively.
‘Why is one of the straps flapping over your shoulder like that? I can see your nipple!’
Ryan looks offended. ‘But it’s really fashionable,’ he pouts prettily. ‘Robbie Williams looked well cool in them in the ‘Pray’ video. And all the girls love him . . . ’
‘Not all the girls,’ I reply with a grimace. ‘Seriously, take my advice and take them off. NO, not here!’ I flap my hands and cover my eyes as he starts to undo the other strap.
Ryan grins. ‘I knew you couldn’t resist me . . . ’
I fight back a smile. ‘Get back in your changing room! Go!’ I order.
‘Make up your mind, Molly Carter, you either want me or you don’t.’ He grins.
I manage to stay poker-faced despite the unexpected fireworks in my pants, and Ryan shrugs and then retreats back inside.
‘You know,’ I call, as I examine my chipped plum-coloured nail polish, trying desperately to reduce my heart rate at the thought of him undressing. ‘I was under the illusion that it’s girls who are obsessed with shopping, not wannabe local football stars.’
He pops his head round the changing-room door and I see a flash of bare chest as he pulls on a sandy-coloured suede shirt. I can feel the blush spreading over my cheeks, and I immediately lean down and closely inspect my trusty scuffed Converse, which I’ve customized and which I’m wearing with a long black skirt and a crushed-velvet black bodysuit. I like black. And not just because it’s the only colour that doesn’t clash with my self-cut and hennaed hair.
‘I didn’t think Topshop was your style,’ he replies with a grin.
I fold my arms. ‘You think you’ve got me all sussed, don’t you, Cooper?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nope. I haven’t got a clue about you, Molly. That’s why I like you, babe.’
‘I’m not your babe,’ I reply snitchily.
He raises an eyebrow and his crystal-blue eyes sparkle mischievously as he folds his arms and gazes at me. ‘No, you’re not.’ He pauses and grins. ‘Well, not yet,’ he says, and he closes the door behind him again.
I turn and grab a couple of dark, checked flannel shirts hanging on the rail and thrust my hand through the door, turning my face away but not before I get a glimpse of his smooth, tanned chest once more. ‘Here, try these. Wear them open over a T-shirt for a more grungy look and hopefully it’ll stop you looking like such an Essex boy. No offence.’
‘None taken.’
I feel his hand brush mine as he takes them and a volt of longing shoots through my body. ‘I know you love me just the way I am.’
I tut and turn away, hoping he didn’t notice that I didn’t correct him.
Half an hour later we’re sitting in a café just off the High Street. I feel like pinching myself to check this is really happening. So I do.
‘Ow!’
Holy shit. It is.
‘Are you OK?’ Ryan asks.
‘Oh, um, yep, just, you know, banged my ankle on the table.’ I suck in my breath and rub my leg. He looks under the table at it and winks.
‘Can I help with that?’
I blush. Pull yourself together, Molly Carter! Emily Davison did not throw herself in front of the winner of the Epsom Derby so you can sit here simpering at a boy.
‘No. I’m fine,’ I answer primly. ‘Now what were we talking about?’
‘You were telling me about your parents,’ he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table.
Somehow he’s managed to make me tell him things that I never imagined revealing to anyone other than my diary. He seems to have this knack of asking the right questions, like he already knows the answers. Maybe it’s because at seventeen he’s nearly two whole years older than me. He’s much more mature than boys my age. I love how he listens so intently, with his head slightly tilted to one side so his sandy curtains flop into his eyes, his cheek resting against his knuckle so his eyelashes brush against it and his lips parted slightly as if to offer soothing words of encouragement at any moment.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I say, swirling my straw around in my Coca-Cola. I don’t do hot drinks.
‘Shoot.’ Ryan blows on his hot chocolate before taking a sip and a cloud of froth lands on his upper lip. I resist the overwhelming urge to lick it off. Control yourself, Molly!
‘Why do you act like such a macho prick when you’re actually really sensitive?’ I look up and see him grinning at me.
‘I’ll answer if you explain why you dress like you’re ugly when you’re actually really beautiful.’ He leans forward and gently removes my glasses.
I snatch them back in case he realizes that they’re fake lenses. ‘You are a giant cheeseball, Ryan Cooper!’
‘I just want to look at you without anything between us.’
I crack up laughing and bang my hand on the table, my silver moonstone rings clatter on it satisfyingly loudly. ‘That’s the worst line ever. Where did you steal it from? Some terrible eighties romcom?’
‘What if I did?’ He leans back and puts his arm across the leather banquette. ‘Can I tell you a secret, Molly Carter?’ He leans forward across the table so his lips are inches from mine. ‘But you have to promise not to tell anyone.’ I raise a pencilled eyebrow expectantly.
He takes a deep breath and looks around furtively. ‘I am a romcom addict,’ he whispers dramatically, his eyes glimmering mischievously.
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing.
He looks at me with mock offence. ‘Hey, this is serious. No one can know though, OK?’ he whispers, looking around again.
‘Why?’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious!’
‘No,’ I laugh, ‘why do you love them?’
‘You really wanna know why I like them? I like that you know how it’s all going to end, that there aren’t any big surprises. People follow their hearts and everything works out.’
I prod him across the table. ‘So what’s your favourite romcom then?’
He answers instantly. ‘Top Gun, obviously. Tom Cruise is the nuts . . . ’
I roll my eyes and he hurriedly adds: ‘but you name them, I’ve watched ’em all. When Harry Met Sally, Pretty Woman, Sleepless in Seattle. What about you? What’s your favourite?’
I gaze at him unflinchingly. ‘None of them, I don’t believe in all that love stuff.’
‘Really?’ He smiles. ‘I
don’t reckon you can knock it till you’ve tried it,’ he murmurs.
I look down and sip my Coke loudly. ‘I want a career instead of being stuck at home being someone’s wife. Cleaning up after someone doesn’t seem like much of a happy ending to me.’
‘Whooo,’ Ryan whistles. ‘That’s the most cynical thing I’ve ever heard! You remind me of someone from a film . . . ’ He snaps his fingers. ‘Harry. That’s it! You’re just like Harry Burns!’
‘I am so not.’
‘Are too.’
‘Am not.’
‘You only think you’re not, Molly.’
‘I do not.’
‘Do too . . . Ha!’ He snaps his fingers and points at me and I look at him quizzically.
‘You’re smirking. Why are you smirking?’
‘Because I knew you liked romcoms too.’
‘I do no—’
He is still smirking and I realize he’s got something on me. ‘Then why are we re-enacting a scene from When Harry Met Sally right now?’ he says triumphantly, banging his hand on the table and pointing at me. I go to protest my innocence. ‘Harry,’ he says warningly, the grin still evident on his face, ‘I’ve got you sussed. I reckon your dislike of romcoms is as fake as those glasses you wear.’ He winks at me and I shut my mouth.
We’re walking through the town and I keep pausing to take snaps of the glistening reflections of shops in the puddles – and the people that are passing them. I love how it makes the town look like it is floating on water, like a less romantic version of Venice. I imagine the credit in an art gallery ‘Southend In the Sea’ by Molly Carter. Ryan is waiting patiently beside me.
‘So I guess I don’t need to ask what career you want then,’ he laughs, folding his arms and tipping his head to one side.
I nod, lift my camera up, focus it and quickly take several shots of his face, doing my best to capture the softness of his expression, the way his blond hair perfectly frames his face, the intensity of his blue eyes and those soft, plump lips . . .
