The First Last Kiss (46 page)

So no matter what Ryan or anyone else thinks, I can’t actually do anything to forget any of this. But still, every night he asks me if there’s a bar I could go to, or some press launch I could drink champagne at – as if that might make me forget for a moment.

He also asks if I’ve spoken to Casey, and I tell him I have, but I know he doesn’t believe me.

‘Don’t let what happened ruin nearly fifteen years of friendship, Molly, it’s not worth it,’ he said the other night, when we were curled up on our couch, watching back-to-back DVDs and picking over some snacks after he’d come out of hospital from his third – and as it turned out – his last bout of chemo. The doctor told us that there was no point continuing. It is now in his bowels too. I knew Ryan wanted to add, ‘Life’s too short’, but thankfully, he didn’t. Instead he said, ‘Casey just made a silly mistake.’

I’d nodded, but ignored him all the same. I didn’t want to talk about her, not any more and especially not now. Strangely, this post-chemo time has become something to look forward to. It’s been an opportunity for us to slow down time, slow down life. I’m not at work and no one bothers us. When he’s in hospital for the day, on a drip after the chemo injection, we just hang out, chatting for hours, reading magazines and making each other laugh. I’ve started taking along photo albums for us to look through as we’ll always have a giggle at ourselves. Afterwards we always go home, get lots of little snacks (Ryan doesn’t have enough of an appetite to do anything other than pick at things) and we re-watch our favourite movies, just like we used to do when we were first dating.

Life feels normal, for a while.

But the cancer is a silent partner in our relationship, sprawled confidently on the couch between us, just like Casey used to be. In many ways we have replaced one poisonous disease with another. Because the way I see it, Casey tried to kill our relationship, and that’s why I can’t forgive her. Or forgive myself for letting her infiltrate her way between us. For ignoring her, like Ryan ignored his mole.

All I want to do now is close off the rest of the world and look after my husband. Although according to him, I’m not
allowed
to look after him. It’s why we’re still living in our flat in London instead of moving home, like Jackie and Dave want him to. It’s why he’s still teaching, well, part-time anyway. I want him to stop but he says being around the kids makes him feel better. And he can still shout and train them on the pitch, even if he can’t run any more. He says he’s a bit like Tom Cruise in
Born on the Fourth of July
, but without the wheelchair (yet) and less hair.

So the lists, but mostly
this
list – Ryan’s Fuck It list – has become my life. It feels like the only positive list I have. And it gives me a reason to go to work. I know I couldn’t organize a fraction of the things without my colleagues. He doesn’t know I’ve written it, but it’s my way of getting the most out of the last few months . . . out of his last summ— out of his
life
as we possibly can. I want him to feel like he’s achieved everything he’s ever wanted, I want to pack in everything we possibly can, make him feel like he hasn’t missed out on a thing.

‘Hey! Molly! I’ve got something for you!’ Cara comes over to my desk with a weird smile painted on her face. I look up from Ryan’s list and I study her face, her teeth-baring, eye-squinting, frozen smile.

Everyone seems to be sporting these for me ever since I told them that my husband is dying. The reactions from people I know are extreme; they’re either black-and-white woeful or technicolour cheerful. Is that really what life and death comes down to? Those two theatrical masks?

It’s like they’re worried that if they don’t act upbeat I will fall apart in front of them, and if they think I’m going to fall apart they want to be properly prepared to join me in my misery. Most of my friends don’t know how to talk to me. Some of them
aren’t
talking to me, OK . . . I mean, I’m not talking to
them
.

Mia phoned me immediately. She just cried. I’ve never heard her cry before. It was most odd.

My mum and dad told me they were praying for him. I hadn’t thought about doing that, so I’m glad they are. It’s strangely comforting.

Jackie, well, Jackie doesn’t believe it’s happening. She’s what the counsellors call ‘in denial’ and what I call ‘unhinged’. She won’t even utter the word ‘cancer’ and she calls his chemo ‘the saviour’. She doesn’t seem to understand that it isn’t curative, it is just to prolong his life for as long as possible.

Dave is perpetually quiet and sober. Neither are words I’d have ever used to describe him before.

Carl won’t talk about it, and all Lydia will talk about is holidays; where we’re going next, the ones we’ve had before. It’s like she’s gone into Extreme Hairdresser mode. It’s her way of not speaking, in that she’s saying nothing at all.

No one seems to be dealing with this disease in any sort of helpful way, but at least it means I can just put all my focus on Ryan. I feel very alone though. Already.

Then there are the people I don’t know. I’ve told them, too. Funnily enough they don’t know what to say either. Like the guy from the call centre who was trying to sell me life insurance and was understandably thrown off script when I burst into tears and told him that my husband has cancer. Oh, and the man from the newsagents at the tube station who asked if I wanted a free bar of Dairy Milk with my magazine and I said no, I’d just like my husband to not have terminal cancer. I don’t mean to tell them, it just kind of comes out. It’s like it’s always there, on the tip of my tongue, in my mouth, my throat, behind my eyes, under my nostrils, beneath my fingernails, on my skin, between my toes, under my scalp.

I’m living and breathing the cancer, and Ryan is dying from it.

‘Hi, Cara!’ I smile and sit back on my chair. I spin around and then smile again. Her smile is still frozen in place, her eyes dart from side to side like she’s looking for an escape route. ‘Ahh, what can I ahh . . . do you for?’

I frown. God, I sound like my dad. It’s the kind of thing he blurts out awkwardly. Cara swallows, looks around awkwardly and then the cartoon smile returns.

‘I just wanted to let you know I’ve got you guys tickets for tomorrow! Can you go?’

‘YES!!!’ I do an air punch then pick up my pen and draw a thick straight line through ‘Go to film premiere’. ‘Thanks, Cara! That’s brilliant!’ I stand up to give her a hug and then glance down at my computer screen. It’s open at my blog page, and on it is a photo that I’ve just uploaded. It’s me and Ryan kissing on the top of the Franz Josef glacier in New Zealand.

The sun is just rising behind us, shrouding us in light so we look almost metaphysical. Ever since Ryan’s diagnosis I’ve been posting pictures of us. Mainly because I don’t seem to feel much like taking photos right now. I give them all a little heading; this one is ‘The Kiss at the top of the World’, and sometimes I write more. A memory of ours, a moment or a thought about love that I want to share. I want it to be out there in the ethos, so that when Ryan is gone, I’m not the only one left with them. They feel like my own little messages in a bottle. I don’t know who’s going to receive them, or what they’re going to think, but it helps me somehow.

‘I’m sure there’s more I can help you with, too!’ Cara says brightly. ‘And I spoke to Susie and she’s sure she can sort the surfing championships, and the press passes for the Take That gig is a definite!’

I feel my heart flutter with appreciation and . . . is that panic? So many things to cross off The List! That means I need to think of more things to do.

‘Thanks, Cara,’ I say gratefully. ‘Ryan is going to be so thrilled! We went to the UEFA cup quarter-finals at the weekend, too!’

‘Wow!’ Cara exclaims overzealously. ‘I bet he absolutely loved it!’

I think back to that afternoon. We’d sat in a corporate box, glass of champagne in our hands, a rug over our knees, watching Seville play Tottenham Hotspur. I kept glancing at Ryan in excitement and squeezing his hand, and he’d turn and smile at me, but then I’d see him look away and down, into the crowds, and it would disappear like a cloud passing over the sun.

‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ I’d asked in excitement.

‘Oh yes, Molly,’ he’d said politely. ‘It’s well good! A dream come true! I can’t believe you organized all this!’ But there was something in his voice that told me this wasn’t the whole truth.

‘Well, you know me, friends in high places and all that!’ Everyone knows about The List – except Ryan. It’s quite overwhelming how much my colleagues want to help me and how much they’re willing to put themselves out. Christie couldn’t have been more supportive.

‘I can sign you off if you like, Molly,’ she said gently, ‘at full pay. Whatever you need . . . however long you need, you just let me know.’

I’d shaken my head vehemently. ‘No thanks, Christie, I need to be here. I’ve got so much to do! Such a long list! And Ryan wants things to be normal. He’s at school most days. I just need the days off after he has the chemo, if that’s OK?’

‘Of course, whatever you need . . . ’ she’d paused. ‘This photo of you and Ryan is beautiful.’ I’d looked up and seen that her computer was open at my blog; it was the one of Ryan and I kissing in a photobooth in Lakeside.

‘That was just after he asked me to move in with him,’ I’d said, tears burning behind my eyes. ‘God, we look so young! What
are
we wearing?’ I’d laughed, then snorted so that a bubble of snot came out of my nose. I’d wiped it away quickly, embarrassed to be doing this in front of Christie. She’d quickly clicked the window shut.

We’re standing in a heaving Leicester Square, the crowds are pouring into it like mixture into a cake tin, the drip, drip, drip, of the crowd trying to spread as close to the edge of the red carpet as possible. I’m clutching our embossed tickets. I feel horribly overdressed in my metallic dress, giant chandelier earrings and silver high heels. Ryan looks like he wishes he was at home on the sofa. Dressing up just felt like the thing we should do but no other non-celebrity has made this much effort. We look like we think we’re the stars of the film. It’s excruciatingly embarrassing.

‘Shall we just get this over with?’ Ryan says, his voice reedy with nerves and exhaustion. We stare at the stretch of red carpet before us that felt incredibly exciting in our heads, but now looks petrifying. It’s like we’re being forced to walk the plank.

‘No,’ I say determinedly with a big smile. ‘Let’s just wait a bit longer.’ I’m not going to show him I’m scared. We need to get as much out of this as possible, and that means waiting to ensure we get to stand near some superstar celebrities.

‘Molleee, come on,’ Ryan says through gritted teeth. ‘I’m shitting myself here.’

‘You Essex boys,’ I chastise, ‘all mouth and no trousers.’ I grab his hand. ‘Come on, there’s nothing to be scared of!’

‘Right now, cancer seems less frightening than this red carpet,’ Ryan replies, uncharacteristically quietly. This is the most subdued I’ve ever seen him but I know how he feels.

‘Look,’ I whisper, ‘we’re only doing this once and we’re going to do it properly, OK? Now, just do what I say.’

‘Ooh, OK, Little Miss Bossy,’ Ryan says. I look at him and wink, trying not to show how upset I get when I look at him. I glance back quickly and see a long, sleek black car has arrived. Then I see a leg emerge, a short, suit-clad leg, with a body attached to a smile. And another Cheshire Cat smile, like Dr Harper’s. But this is bigger, beamier. It is one of the most recognizable smiles in the world.

‘It’ssss him,’ I hiss. ‘Tom Cruisssssse.’ Ryan’s head swivels, trying to catch a glimpse of his all-time favourite film idol.

‘Don’t look now!’ I say. ‘Play it cool. Do what I do, OK? Wait, wait . . . And GO!’ I start walking, slowly, deliberately down the red carpet, waving at the crowds, clinging on to Ryan’s hand. He squeezes it and looks at me, his eyes bulging out of his head as if to say, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ But also because they do that these days because his face is so sunken. He’s lost so much weight since the last bout of chemo – and his hair loss doesn’t help. Not that he isn’t still jaw-droppingly handsome, of course. He’s still gorgeous to me, just in a more . . . ethereal way. But I know to others he’s horrifying. His skin is sallow; the yellowy-grey of a streetlamp glowing in the fog. His head is bare and there are lesions over it. His clothes, which fitted just a week ago, hang off his body, even his teeth appear too big for his mouth.

‘Walk slowly,’ I hiss. ‘Re-ea-all-yyy sloooow-leeey.’

‘Why?’ Ryan hisses back at me. ‘Everyone’s looking at us . . . ’

‘That’s the point, Ry,’ I say. ‘We, my friend, are going to get papped next to Tom Cruise!’

‘Are you
crazy
?’ he says, pulling my arm taut to try to stop me. ‘Everyone can tell we’re nobodies. And have you seen his security team? They’re massive!’

I stop in my tracks, right in the middle of the red carpet, turn and grip him by the arms. I realize that I can feel his bones. ‘You, Ryan Cooper, are not
nobody
, you never have been a
nobody
and you never will be a nobody,
do you hear me
?’

People are looking. A couple of photographers are holding their cameras away from their faces and looking at us quizzically. ‘You are
not
a nobody, OK, Cooper?’ I repeat firmly, doing my best not to cry.

Ryan glances back at the crowds behind us, at the photographers who are now ignoring us because actual celebrities are walking past (‘Kelly! Kelly Brook! Over here! Nice dress, darlin’! Oh, and Fearne!!! Fearne Cotton! Can we get a picture? Gis a smile, Geri, come on, darlin’!’) I wipe my hand across my nose and put my clutch bag under my arm, and then I see Ryan turn back round to face me and he’s grinning and his eyes are bright, and then he grabs me, pulls me towards him, tilts me backwards and kisses me for such a long time that I can’t breathe. Flashlights pop and I close my eyes, not just to savour this kiss, just like I promised myself I would, but because I am blinded by the flashes. (‘Who are those two? Were they in
Big Brother
? Oh yeah, I knew I recognized them! What are their names! Gissa another kiss, wontcha?’)