by Ali Harris
‘You could sell photos of me when I’m a famous footballer.’
I raise an eyebrow, just like Casey taught me to do. ‘’Course I could,’ I say dryly. ‘I forgot I’m in the presence of the next Gary Lineker.’
He grins and jogs on the spot. ‘First step, The Shrimpers, then England!’ He leans closer to me and adds, ‘And I’m much better looking than Gary Lineker, right?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Vanity will get you nowhere, my friend.’
He turns.
‘So what will get me somewhere then, Molly?’
I lift my camera to cover my face and start snapping his, capturing a montage of shots of him sweeping his hair out of his eyes. He leans forward so his features fill my frame and I snap that too. It is the closest thing to kissing him I can imagine.
‘I thought you said you didn’t take photos of things you weren’t interested in?’ He laughs.
I peer out from behind the viewfinder and find myself smiling. ‘I don’t.’
Casey and I are standing outside Leigh-on-Sea’s premier drinking establishment, The Grand, shivering with nerves and cold. She’s wearing a white embroidered bra-top that’s barely containing her curves, a black ribbon choker and tight blue hot pants that she’s sewn some patches on to. And she’s wearing lace-up, knee-length boots. She’s pulled her dark hair off her face in a little quiff and her make-up is all bronze eyes and cheeks and deep-red lips. Aside from the mouthful of metal and the glasses, I think she looks properly beautiful.
In contrast, I’m about as dressed-up as I get in an ankle-length black satin slip that I bought from a charity shop, which I’m wearing over a faded black The Smiths T-shirt and my trusty Converse. I’ve pulled my red hair off my face into a bun and unleashed a can of Elnett on it, and I’m still wearing my new dark-rimmed glasses – just to prove that I’m not trying to look pretty for Ryan. The effect I’m going for is ‘grungy Kate Moss’ but obviously way less super-model-ly than her. I’m not completely deluded.
‘Do you think they’re already here?’ Casey says, trying to peer through the window.
‘I don’t know, but we have to remember to play it cool, OK?’ I’m bluffing – I’m horribly nervous about seeing Ryan. And a bit worried about how he’ll be in front of Casey and his friends. And how Casey will be. No boy has ever shown an interest in either of us, which is one of the things that we bonded over when she started at Westcliff two years ago.
‘’Course! I don’t know how to play it any other way!’ she says, crossing her eyes and panting like a puppy on heat. I smile and squeeze her hand. ‘Now,’ she says, pulling a serious face. ‘Remember the BFF song?’ She holds out her little finger and I link it with mine. I wrote ‘our song’ to the tune of ‘Electric Dreams’. I was trying to write our BFF list of rules the first time I went to her house and her mum was playing it and the melody just seemed to fit. I sing it now unselfconsciously because a) no one is around and b) I’ve had two shots of Southern Comfort from Casey’s mum’s extensive drinks cabinet. She gets through it so quickly she never notices when we have some too. Even if she did, she wouldn’t care. I grin at Casey as I begin to sing tunelessly:
‘We’ve only got each other right now
But we’ll always be around
forever and forever no matter
What they say (they say, they say)
We’ll never let love get in the way
Or spend another day
Without saying “I love ya”
And we always will (we will, we wi-ill)
Dum dum de DUUUUUH . . . ’
Casey joins in for the unchanged ‘Electric Dreams’ chorus and we both crack up laughing. Then we clasp hands and squeeze through the doors. The pub is packed and we find ourselves immediately swallowed up by the heaving crowd and smoky air. The Grand is the most popular pub for Leigh’s teen residents. It’s an impressive, Victorian building on the Broadway. Dad told me those dead comedians Laurel and Hardy played here or something. Full of interesting facts like that, my dad is.
The place is full of 16-year-olds so we fit right in. I look across the bar and immediately spot Nikki Pritchard and her gang, ‘the Heathers’ Casey and I call them, snarling over at us. They’re swinging their hips suggestively to some crappy Kylie song and doing their best to get the attention of every guy in there. It’s pathetic. I can’t believe I was ever friends with them. It was only for a fleeting period, before Casey joined Westcliff High and saved me, but it was long enough.
‘Perhaps we should go,’ Casey says, grasping my hand, and I know she’s seen them too. Ever since they ganged up on her in her first week at Westcliff I’ve felt the need to protect her. ‘We’ll never find them in here anyway,’ Casey shouts into my ear, pulling me back. Just then we hear a voice soaring over the music and I look over and spot Ryan waving us over. Then I look at the Heathers who have witnessed this and are giving us dirty looks across the room.
‘Oh my GOD!’ Casey hisses gleefully. ‘Is this really happening?’
‘Over here, Molly!’ Ryan calls for good measure. I turn and drag Casey towards the bar.
‘Where are we going?’ Casey asks in confusion, craning her neck back at Ryan Cooper and Co. ‘Aren’t we going over? Oh my GOD, I can’t believe Ryan Cooper wants us! This is the best night of my life it’s . . . Hi! HI RYAN!’ She shouts and waves at him as I try to pull her arm down. ‘Hey, what did you do that for?’
‘We’re acting cool, Casey!’ I chastise. ‘Two Southern Comforts and lemonade,’ I say to the barman who barely glances at me before serving me.
Casey smiles as I pass her the drinks. ‘Gotcha,’ she smiles and readjusts her bra-top to expose more of her abundant cleavage. I look at her doubtfully as she leads us towards the five-strong gang that makes up Ryan’s posse.
‘Hello boys,’ Casey drawls and sticks her chest out in a brazen attempt to imitate the Wonderbra billboard campaign that everyone’s talking about. Is this her version of playing it cool? I go to pull her away then I look at her bright, friendly smile that is unencumbered by awkwardness or attitude, and realize I could probably learn a lot from her. She’s just herself and I love her for it. I kind of envy her, too.
I watch Casey chatting amiably to Alex Slater, a tall, dark-haired, dimple-smiled lad who girls seem madly keen on. Including Casey it would seem, judging by her body language. I glance across and see he is standing next to a shorter, broader, dark-blond guy with spiky hair, who looks a bit like Ryan but much beefier. Casey whispered when we first spotted them all that he’s Carl, Ryan’s brother, before she abandoned me to chat up Alex. There’s also a little guy in a hat, dribbling over every girl on the dance floor – he’s called Gaz I think, and some other cute, floppy-haired Mark Owen lookalike, called Jake, dancing along to Baby D’s ‘Let Me Be Your Fantasy’. Casey glances over and nods her head in the direction of Ryan. Clutching my drink desperately, I shuffle over to him; he stood back a little from the group. Think Casey. Be like Casey, I mutter under my breath.
I stick out my chest and lift my slip up to show a bit of ankle and then drop it again. Oh God, I give up. I am basically my mother. The genetics are too strong. I’m going to be a virgin forever.
‘Hi Ryan,’ I drawl huskily. ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ I then shout enthusiastically over the music, just as the song finishes. Ryan’s wearing the flannel shirt I picked out for him in Topman. I pluck at his sleeve awkwardly and look up at him. ‘It looks go-oo-od on yo-o-ou,’ I say. My voice has suddenly, inexplicably, taken on an unnaturally high-pitched staccato.
‘Erm, thanks,’ he replies, smiling passively and swaying a little on his feet. His mates all grin like loons at each other. I take a sip of my drink and look around awkwardly.
‘I didn’t think I’d shee you here,’ Ryan slurs, his eyes losing focus a little as he lurches in close to me. I take another gulp for Dutch courage. Clearly I have some catching up to do.
‘No?’ I reply in my best flirtatious fashion. ‘I thought you’d t
hink I was a sure thing.’
Another silence. Someone snorts and slaps him on the shoulder and Ryan turns and laughs openly. I see one of them – Carl, I think – whisper something to Ryan. If I lean forward I can just work out what he’s saying: ‘ . . . dare you to kiss her . . . ’
A dare? I stagger back. Humiliation and anger surge through my body as I mentally chastise myself. Stupid, stupid me. I glare at him, turn and walk off as fast as I can.
‘Molly, stop!’ I feel a hand grasp at my arm and he pulls me around. His friends are still laughing in the background and he looks embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just dead hard with my mates here an’ that, but I just want to say . . . ’ For a split second I see his face lunge towards mine and I remember how sweet he was earlier in the day and how much I wanted to kiss him. Then his mouth is yawning towards me, his nose hits mine and his lips crash-land awkwardly. He grasps me close to him and kisses me, urgently, firmly, then moistly as he rotates his tongue like a hamster in a wheel. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to enjoy my first ever kiss but all I feel is waves of dismay at his drunken, public lunge, so different from the sensitive, romantic, tender experience that I’ve seen in the movies . . .
I push him away as his jeering, cheering, leering mates circle around us. Ryan looks at me in confusion and panic as he tries to focus on me.
‘Whass wrong, Molly?’ he slurs.
I look at the crowd that has gathered around us, the sneering faces of the Heathers loom out at me and I see they’ve surrounded Casey and are goading her about her weight and clothes. I shouldn’t have left her.
Tears prick at the back of my eyes and my throat swells so much I can’t speak. They’re all laughing at the fat Greek girl and the stupid goth who thought they stood a chance with the local pin-up. I lurch over towards Casey, grasp her hand tightly and I break free, pushing my way through the crowd trying to get us as far away as possible from Ryan sodding Cooper, his mates and those bitches. We lunge through the doors and the cool, salty breeze of the sea air claws at my exposed skin. And as Casey and I stumble towards the bus stop, I can hear him calling ‘Molleee, Molleee,’ and with the laughter still ringing in my ears I make a vow to myself that I’ll never trust anyone other than Casey again.
9.45 a.m.
The phone has been ringing for at least a minute, and panting with the sudden exertion of hurrying down the stairs I put my hand on my chest. I look down and realize I’m still holding one of my old diaries after finding a box of them. I’ve been reliving my teen years for the past half an hour, rather than getting ready. Bad Molly. It’s been hilarious and heartbreaking reading my angsty entries. I glance down at the open page and re-read it.
3rd March 1995
Saw RC outside school. He was with his usual gang of mates posing in front of all the stupid Year 11 Westcliff girls who were swooning over them like they were the frickin’ Brat Pack. C got all excited and said RC had looked over at us. She reckons he fancies one of us. I didn’t tell her that he’d actually looked over because the Heathers had walked past at that precise moment and did the mocking two-fingered bunny ears sign over our heads. C is so deluded, I let her live in her bubble as it’s a much nicer place than in mine. She’s my best friend but sometimes I wonder how she can be so naive. I envy her sometimes. I mean, I know she has it pretty hard what with her mum and everything. But no one has it as hard as me. My life sucks.
15th May 1995
Mum and Dad had another row again. I wish they’d just put us all out of our misery and divorce. I mean, what’s the point of being married if you detest each other? Life would be so much easier for me if they lived apart. I’d be popular, gets loads of presents at Christmas and Mum would HAVE to let me get my ears pierced. I’d threaten to live with Dad full-time if not. (Although, knowing her, she’d probably take me up on it.)
I swear, right here, right now, that I’m NEVER going to get married. I’m just going to be a successful career woman and have loads of boyfriends that I use for sex and then dump. I just need to get started with one. It’s so depressing that I’m nearly 16 and still haven’t had one. I’m dying to get rid of this pesky virginity. Even Casey’s done it now. I blame RC. He’s made me even more of a leper than I was before. I HATE HIM!!
The phone is still ringing and I answer it gasping, ‘Hello?’ breathily, as I close the diary, my head still full of my poor, angry teenage self.
‘Awight, Molly love,’ says a gruff but friendly Essex voice at the other end of the line. For one panic-inducing moment I think it’s Ryan’s dad – maybe he thinks I’ve got more of Ryan’s stuff? – but then I realize it’s just the removal man.
‘How’s it all going?’ he asks. I look guiltily around the house hoping that my mum has secretly visited in the last half an hour I’ve been aimlessly pottering. Nope, still in a state of absolute chaos.
‘Um, all’s good here, really good!’ I reply in a jolly tone that belies the sheer panic I’m feeling. I tuck the phone under my ear as I sweep a load of paperwork into a box, seal it with some masking tape and mark it ‘Ship’. ‘Er so when do you reckon you’ll be here?’ I add flippantly, as if it doesn’t matter a jot to me when they arrive because I’m so organized.
‘Thass wot I’m calling to tell ya, love,’ he says cheerfully, ‘we’ll be wiv you in fifteen, awight?’
‘GREAT! See you then,’ I squeak enthusiastically. I put down the phone and take a deep, yogic breath calming myself with the thought that it’s probably an occupational hazard for removal men to see people in this state. I can’t be the worst they’ve witnessed. And if I am . . . sod it, I’ve got bigger things to worry about. Like leaving my friends, my family, my entire life behind on a crazy whim. Have I lost my mind? What the hell am I doing?
The Never Let Me Go Kiss
You know how some people think of their life in ‘movie moments’? They walk down the street with an internal soundtrack playing, or imagine themselves as a romcom character whenever they go on a date? Well, not me. Up until I met Ryan I never thought my life could be anything like a movie, and then when we got together it felt too comfortable to be anything epically romantic. At points I was desperate to, dare I say it, be swept off my feet. Maybe it was working in women’s magazines but I, Molly Carter, found myself hypnotized by Woman’s biggest enemy: ‘The Fairytale Ending’.
FF>> 14/05/05>
There’s nothing like being on a plane for twenty-four hours to get some serious time to reflect on your life. Despite my best efforts to stop thinking about Ryan and the mess I made of our relationship by watching three films in the last ten hours (Mean Girls, Pride and Prejudice and now Brokeback Mountain), eating two in-flight meals (both of which professed to be chicken but tasted like cardboard) and drinking two small bottles of Australian Chardonnay (does wine go to your head more when you’re at 30,000 feet?), I’m thinking way more than is advisable when seated in the middle of a bunch of strangers and facing the prospect of a future alone whilst watching a heartbroken cowboy cark it in a caravan.
I swipe away a tear and think about the three weeks I’ve just spent with my best friend from university, Mia. I booked it after seeing Ryan kiss that girl on New Year’s Eve. I needed time away. Time with sorted, sussed Mia with her great job, incredible lifestyle and cavalier attitude to love. She doesn’t even remotely believe in it and even she admitted that she thought Ryan and I were meant to be together forever. She told me that if I felt so strongly that the break-up was a mistake that I should just tell him. So I did. Over email, which was probably the wrong thing to do but it doesn’t matter because I know it’s not going to make any difference.
I didn’t hear back from him.
I’ve just got to face the fact that Ryan and I are over and move on. I put the eye mask on and try desperately to go to sleep so I can forget what a mess I’ve made of everything.
I come out of Arrivals with the rest of my fellow long-haul travellers, too exhausted and too busy tripping over my stupid boho skirt
(bought in a moment of break-up madness) to even think about looking up. But then, just as I’m rubbing my sore ankle, I look around and notice all the people who are being greeted by loved ones. I can just imagine the montage of photos of the greeting couples, but I resist lifting up my camera, concluding that I’m not in the mood to photograph other people’s happy reunions.
I sigh, muss up my fringe and pull my hair back into a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck and wearily pick up the handle of my huge suitcase again, thinking about the next leg of my journey and wondering how I’m going to summon up the energy to get on the tube and then back to Casey’s flat. And then go back to work tomorrow.
Work. I’d almost forgotten what that was like. My suitcase crashes into my ankle again and I swear under my breath, then quickly lift my camera to my eyes, unable to resist it this time. I start snapping photos of the people greeting each other, the hugs, the cries of joy . . .
And then, through the viewfinder, I see him.
He’s standing next to a tall, well-built man who is holding a huge placard that says ‘I love you!’ and that Ryan is pointing at.
I look in amazement at Ryan who is smiling at me. He stares at me for a moment and then points again before slowly opening his arms. He grins and then I am running, laughing, crying, stumbling, swearing, but mostly crying. I run, dragging my massive bloody suitcase behind me, camera banging into my chest and my heart pounding out of it. My bra strap slips down my shoulder, my skirt tangles around my knees and if I’m not careful I’m going to fall flat on my face in front of everyone, but none of that matters because now . . . now I am back in my Ryan’s arms.
I throw my body against his, entwine my legs and arms around him like he is a tree, a magnificent, grounded oak tree and I am a bird who has found her way back to her nest. I’m clinging on to him and I can’t speak.
