by Ali Harris
‘Oooh, I nearly forgot!’ Jackie says, putting down her glass on the coffee table and handing us a present. ‘It’s a little house-warming gift from me and Dave!’
‘Nothing to do with me!’ Dave interjects holding his hands up. ‘I built the place, that’s my gift!’ He winks at us and throws himself down on the brand-new, white Ikea sofa.
‘Aaahh, thanks Mum!’ Ryan says as she hands it to him, ‘you shouldn’t have.’
‘No, Jackie, you really shouldn’t have,’ I add, trying to hide my horror as Ryan pulls out the gift from the wrapping paper.
It is a big, bright-pink, plastic, flamingo table light.
She squeals and claps her hands. ‘It’s a bit of fun, innit? I thought it’d look just lovely here.’ Jackie plonks it next to the TV, a.k.a the place where no one can miss it. ‘I bought it because it’s pink and I thought the place needed a bit of brightening up. Dave wouldn’t let me loose on the interiors, said we should keep it ‘minimal’ so you two could make it your own.’ I look at Dave gratefully and he winks again and silently sips his fizz, letting his wife do the talking as usual. ‘I also thought it was appropriate,’ continues Jackie with a wistful smile on her face, ‘because flamingos mate for life.’ And she takes both of our hands and squeezes them, a single tear dropping from her eye. She is nothing if not dramatic.
‘I thought that was swans?’ says Carl, looking confused.
Jackie sniffs and flaps her hand dismissively. ‘Swans, flamingos, they’re all the same!’
My mouth twitches a little and I look at Ryan, but he is gazing gratefully at his mum. In the last three months I have learned to accept as Gospel anything that Jackie says or does. Which means – oh dear God – the flamingo has to stay.
‘It’s a lovely thought, Mum,’ Ryan says. ‘We love it, don’t we, Moll?’
‘Umpff,’ I say, taking a swig of champagne to drown my response. I’ve never been a good liar.
10.05 a.m.
I open the door with a beaming smile. ‘Come in, come in!’ I say brightly to the two familiar men, making a point not to mention their hour delay in any way whatsoever – I dread to think the state they’d have found me in otherwise. I can smell a vague but distinct whiff of greasy spoon on them, which makes me want to hurl, but I manage to contain myself.
‘Tea, one sugar, am I right, Bob?’ Bob gives a thumbs up. ‘And two for you, Ian?’ I smile at his teenage son, praying he’ll turn it down. After all, they don’t need a tea break just as they’ve got here do they?
Amateur error, Molly, amateur.
‘That’ll do nicely, Miss,’ says Bob. ‘It’s been one of them mornings.’
I tootle off to the kitchen. When I return to the hallway they’ve already started lifting the boxes there.
‘Right boys,’ I say, clapping my hands which instantly makes them put down the box, as I hoped it might. ‘So my plan is for us to finish off upstairs today if that’s OK? There are some final bits to pack up in the bathroom and two bedrooms, the mattress needs to go and there are quite a few boxes up there. Some of them are marked for storage; you’ll be taking those first. My dad will meet you at the storage facility to pack it all in. The others are to be shipped. Make sure you check with me if you have any doubts on anything whatsoever. There is a system!’ I chirp. ‘Even if it doesn’t look like it right now!’
They glance around at the mess the house is in as if to say, Call this a system, love? I can see what they mean. There are all sorts of random bits still lying around, not to mention the DVD playing again in the background. It doesn’t exactly look like I’m taking this move seriously. But I am.
I am moving – and moving on.
The Domestic Bliss Kiss
At university I used to lie in bed in the house I shared with Mia and three distinctly grubby boys, thinking about the years I had ahead of me to live alone in blissful solitude. I dreamed of living in a little North London pied-a-terre or an East End loft. I’d wallow in my own minimalistic style, drink white wine on the sofa and have candlelit bubble baths just like single women always do in films and books. All this was so much more exciting than the thought of living with a guy, which, as far as I could tell, started with a metaphorical adventure in the Ikea bedroom department and ended in old age (or divorce) by the hotdogs and Swedish biscuits. This did not sound like a particularly palatable prospect to me. And then came Ryan . . .
FF>> 22/02/02>
‘Ryan, I’m home!’
‘I’m in the shower,’ he calls.
I walk through the front door of our converted garage, throw the keys in the beautiful shell Ryan gave me in Ibiza and which I’ve proudly put on display on the Ikea sideboard in the hall. I notice it has a new, garish floral display on it, too. Jackie keeps popping in once a week and ‘doing an Elton’ as I call it. She says every home needs fresh flowers. I say every home needs a Do Not Disturb sign. Obviously I don’t actually say that, I just think it.
I walk into the lounge and flop on the white couch, exhausted after my week-long commute but blissfully happy to be home. We’ve only been here for a month, but there is honestly no better feeling than walking through this front door every night. I’ve spent the last few weeks turning it into our home, painting the walls the exact shade of duck-egg blue Ryan and I wanted and carefully putting together photo collages and hanging them up the stairs: photos of me and Ryan, him and his friends, me and Casey, our amazing holiday, and it occurs to me how different I am since meeting Ryan. I’m such a people person these days! Ryan says it is his ongoing project to immerse me socially, not just with his friends and family, but my own. So Casey and I are seeing lots of each other again. I even make more effort with my parents.
I still like my own space though. And I’ve spent most weekends pottering around home shops whilst Ry is at the football or at the pub, finding little vases and cushions and putting finishing touches to all the rooms, so it looks like it could come straight from the pages of a magazine. I love it, but it still doesn’t feel like home. I don’t want to sound ungrateful but I feel like we’re playing grownups in a Wendy House in Jackie and Dave’s back yard.
I pop Ryan’s shoes by the door, and pick up his socks that are strewn in the lounge. Then I shake out the fake fur rug and lay it back down on the floor, adjust the candlesticks on the mantelpiece and straighten the big blown-up picture of the pebbles on Leigh beach that I took the day we moved in and gave to Ryan as a present. Much as I’d love a cool ELLE Deco-esque flat with quirky, vintage furniture, I’ve accepted that this brand-new annexe is not the place to do it. Not least because, really, it’s Jackie and Dave’s brand-new annexe. I know that from the way Jackie checks it meticulously whenever she comes round, occasionally adding a framed photo of her and Dave, or one of the boys. So the décor is more them than me. But that’s OK. I know we won’t be here forever. I stare at the pebbles print for a moment, proud of the thought that went into it. I wanted something that represented where Ryan and I grew up, where we live and where we fell in love. I’d etched our initial into each stone and photographed them when he wasn’t looking. Then I’d popped the stones in my pocket before we walked home. It was my way of combining our ways of collecting memories: physical (his) and photographed (mine). These stones are the starting point of our joint memories – we can keep adding to the collection as we make more and more.
Ryan was speechless. He isn’t particularly creative, apart from in the kitchen, so he’s kind of in awe of what I do (his words, not mine). He has the stones on his bedside table now.
‘I don’t have an original idea in my body,’ he said once when I praised him for making me another amazing culinary feast. ‘I can copy a recipe down to the last letter, buy a cool outfit that I’ve seen in a magazine, or quote a line from a movie, but I can’t come up with anything myself. ‘You have this incredible way of seeing the world, Molly. It’s one of the things I love the most about you.’
I accepted the compliment but wasn’t sure I agreed. Rya
n’s view of the world is like a sunny holiday snap. He’s bright, uncomplicated and completely exposed. Whereas I am black-and-white, heavily laden with emotion and complex in composition. But I guess when those photographs are placed next to each other, they become a perfectly balanced album.
I feel him before I see him, his arms winding their way around my waist, his nose finding the crook in my neck where it fits perfectly.
I turn round and smile. Home, I think as our lips meet. I pull away and look at him, still marvelling that he’s mine. He’s freshly showered from school and ready for a night out. His hair is closely shorn, and he’s wearing a tight, V-neck T-shirt and baggy green combats with box-fresh white Adidas trainers. He looks gorgeous. But I’d love him if he were fat, bald and ugly. As much as I’m sure people think Ryan Cooper is all about looks, I know better. I know because he chose to go out with me, Molly Carter, ex-teen outcast. So trust me, if he were all about looks he would not be with me. Part of me can’t help but still wonder why. My life’s like a teen film come true. Molly Ringwald, eat your heart out. I didn’t need Sixteen Candles, Jon Cryer or a pink dress. I just needed Ryan Cooper.
I glance over at the dining-room table that is covered with muddy football boots and kit, his school paperwork spread everywhere, bottle of Becks perched precariously on top, and resist the urge to have a tidy up. I’ve had to become less anal since moving in with him, not just because he’s so bloody messy but because put simply: Ryan loves stuff. He keeps everything: ticket stubs, receipts, magazines, he’s even got his old eraser collection from when he was a kid. There are piles of things all over the place which I’ve suggested putting away or ‘editing’ but Ryan insists they stay. It’s like he’s lined our nest with all his old memories. It’s sweet, really.
‘Aren’t you meant to be going to the pub with the boys?’ I say as he pulls me into his arms for another kiss.
Ryan nods. ‘Yeah, but I couldn’t go without seeing you first. How was your day?’ He throws himself down on the couch and takes a swig of beer before handing it to me. I snuggle up next to him.
‘Brilliant! Jo, the Aussie picture editor, says I can go on the cover shoot next week with her,’ I say excitedly. ‘I’ve done loads of work for it, finding the location and suggesting a photographer, but I never thought I’d get to go myself. Picture assistants don’t usually, and I’ve only been in the job four months!’
‘That’s brilliant, babe,’ Ryan smiles. ‘Is it anyone famous?’
I shake my head and take a sip of his beer. ‘No, it’s a model shoot, but it’ll be fantastic experience. The photographer is someone I’ve admired for ages. He’s shot for all the big magazines and done some amazing fashion campaigns. It’ll be great to see someone like him at work.’ I turn and look at him. ‘Anyway, how about you? Did you manage to get Year Eleven to do their GCSE course-work on time?’
Ryan nods over at the pile of papers on the table. ‘Only just. I’m worried some of them aren’t taking it seriously enough. I reckon I’m going to have to get tougher on them.’
‘I’ll believe that when I see it!’ I laugh. Ryan has a brilliant relationship with his students. He says he doesn’t want to be a boring, uninspiring teacher that they can’t talk to. He’s most comfortable running around a field, revving them up to perform and encouraging them to love sport. Telling them off for not listening and learning about the biology of the human body isn’t his strong point.
Just then the phone rings. Ryan pulls on his jacket and downs the rest of his beer, leaving it on the mantelpiece before striding over and kissing me goodbye. I hold his hand and walk over with him to the front door, gasping as the shock of cold February air envelops us. He kisses me again, mouths ‘I love you’ and I pick up the phone just as he disappears from my vision and into the fog.
‘Case!’ I squeal, tucking the phone under my chin and heading over to the freezer to get out some pizzas. ‘When are you coming over? Now? Cool! No, Ryan’s gone out with the boys so I’m a pub widow tonight!’ I laugh and grab a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge. ‘What? No, of course I want you to come. What part of “pub widow” didn’t you understand? I’ve got pizza, wine and I’m ready for a girlie evening with my best mate. It’s been a long week! Alright, see you in half an hour!’
I put the phone down, throw some posh crisps in a bowl with some dips alongside, put out some olives and pour myself a large glass of wine. When Ryan isn’t around to cook for me, my eating habits revert to university-style nutritional debauchery.
‘Case!’ I exclaim opening the door and giving her a big hug before ushering her in.
‘Hiya, Moll,’ she smiles. ‘Wow – this place looks amazing!’ She turns around, gazing at the walls covered with photographs and pictures as if searching for something in particular. ‘Where am I then? Oh, you put that one up, Moll? It’s gorge of you but I look totally hammered!’
‘You were hammered,’ I laugh.
‘OK, fair point, but at least put up one where I look cute and hammered. I know there are plenty of those!’ She giggles. She carries on nosing around the flat.
‘Um, has the local church got any candles left for Sunday worship?’ she jokes, gazing at the fake fireplace which has a stack of candles burning brightly in it.
‘Ha ha, I’ll have you know that church candles are very stylish,’ I say.
‘I’d prefer a glitter ball myself,’ Casey replies, ‘or, like, proper flashing disco lights! Yeah, that’s what I’d have if I ever get to move out of my mum’s shithole!’
‘Glass of wine?’ I offer, picking up the bottle.
‘Ooh, aren’t you the little homemaker!’ Casey chuckles, throwing down her fake Burberry bag and wandering around the place. ‘Have you got any vodka? It’s Friday night and I wanna go dancing later. Wine just sends me to sleep. It’s the drink of the middle-aged.’
‘Um, I’m not sure, maybe in the cupboard?’ I say, pointing at the corner kitchen unit. But I thought we were hanging out here this evening?’
‘We are for now, but the night is young. Just because you’ve settled down and are boring doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be! Surely you weren’t planning on us staying in all night, were you?’ She gazes at me incredulously with her heavily mascaraed eyes. She still hasn’t realized that she’s beautiful enough without it. That’s what happens when an ugly duckling turns into a swan. It has taken some time for her style to catch up. I wish I could let Freya, our fashion editor, loose on her and dress her in something less . . . tacky. Then I’d scrub off the fake tan that she doesn’t need on her gorgeous Greek–Italian skin and get rid of the cheap highlights in her hair.
‘Um, well I just thought we could have pizza, watch an old eighties movie, like we used to, you know, The Breakfast Club or St Elmo’s Fire or something, drink some wine and have a proper catch-up, like the old days!’
‘Bor-ing,’ Casey yawns, sounding exactly like she did when we were fifteen. ‘No offence, babe, you may be wallowing in marital bliss but some of us have had a hard week at work and need to let off some steam. Mum’s given me a rare night off and I don’t want to waste it!’ She grabs a bottle of Smirnoff and pours a large measure into a highball glass before adding a token splash of orange juice. ‘Up yours,’ she says, raising it before necking half of it. ‘So how’s married life treating you?’
I blush. ‘Stop it, Case, we’re not married!’
‘As good as,’ she winks. She looks around. ‘I feel like I’m sitting in a replica Ikea display!’
I nod shyly, taking this as a compliment. ‘I never thought I’d say this, but I love it, Case! It couldn’t be more perfect. I love coming home to him, waking up with him; I love our little weekend routines. Last week I even attempted a Sunday roast,’ I say proudly. ‘I completely burnt it. But at least I tried!’
Casey splutters in her drink. ‘Fuck me, you’re freaking me out now.’ She grabs my face and looks into my eyes. ‘Where’s my best mate, the one who couldn’t cook, said she was never g
oing to settle down and live with a man. What happened to you travelling the world, being Miss Independent? Next you’ll be telling me you actually like living in Leigh!’
She looks at me and I make a guilty expression. ‘Shut UP!’ she gasps.
‘Well, I can’t help it, I do!’ I pour myself another glass of wine and settle back on the sofa with a piece of pizza.
She shakes her head in disbelief.
‘I don’t know, maybe it’s just a novelty, but I really do like it. I don’t want it to be forever. When we can afford it, we’ll definitely upgrade to a place in London.’
‘Upgrading, eh?’ she says wistfully.
‘How are things with Toni anyway?’ I ask, suddenly aware of how different our home lives are. Poor Casey, I know how desperate she is to get her own place, get out from under her mum’s shadow.
Casey shrugs. ‘The same, she’s busy with all her men and leaving me to manage the caff – and the boys. Without me the little shits would never go to school.’ She looks up through her dark eyelashes and smiles. ‘I’ve got some news though. I’ve got a new job.’
‘You have? ‘Where? Doing what?’ I yelp excitedly.
‘It’s at Players, the brand-new club in Southend!’ she squeals back. Casey pours herself another large measure of vodka. ‘It’s going to be wicked! It’s opening next month and they want to make it this really cool, really exclusive place, you know like a West End club. They want a couple of girls to work on the door, doing the guest list and stuff. And one of them is gonna be me! They like the fact that I’ve lived here all my life, I’ve got service industry experience, I know the scene and lots of people. I can’t wait to start! Just think, Moll, my job is actually going to be clubbing! How cool is that?’
