The Years of Loving You

‘Art. I want to be an artist. A great, great artist.’ Molly ducked her head, feeling embarrassed. ‘Now I sound arrogant. But anyway. Uni is the plan. Lincoln,maybe.’

‘No way!’ Ed grinned. ‘That’s where I want to go. We could end up at the same uni! Imagine.’

‘Gosh. We might have to talk to one another every day.’

Molly smiled again and Ed felt something expand in his chest. And in his groin. Shit. Could he be any more uncool? He just hoped he was hiding his ardour. Being on his front might start feeling uncomfortable soon.

‘Tell me about your art,’ he said, desperately trying to quell his urges.

Molly hadn’t noticed his ‘urges’. If she had, she might have felt better about what happened later. Instead, she obliged. She waxed lyrical about art for a long time and he managed to join in, despite not knowing an awful lot about the subject. But he liked hearing Molly talk about it – she was passionate, enthused. And that made him want to talk about it as well. After a while, they moved on to novels. They talked about childhood books, about classic literature and about their favourite writers. They discussed Oscar Wilde (consensus: ‘nothing short of a fucking genius’), Shakespeare (‘I call him Willy Shakes,’ Ed told Molly. ‘It’s affectionate.’ ‘It’s rude,’ she retorted, but she laughed accordingly) and they dissected the works of Thomas Hardy (reaching a mutual agreement of ‘turgid’). They talked about universities, about friends, about life and about love. They talked a lot about love – what they thought it was, what it should be, if they had experienced it (Molly, yes – Ed, no) and how long it lasted in general. They talked and talked and talked. For six hours straight.

‘We’ve talked for six hours straight,’ Ed commented, glancing at his watch. ‘I am covered in sand; it’s in my hair and everything. And instead of stars providing light and brilliance, we are clothed in early morning sunshine.’

‘“Instead of the stars providing light and brilliance”. Oh, I like that.’ Molly sat up and yawned. ‘Six hours? I don’t think I’ve ever talked to anyone for six hours in my life.’

In fact she knew she hadn’t. And they had barely paused for breath. It was astonishing. She hadn’t noticed the time and if she had, she might not have cared, even though she was due home and her parents were probably worried sick. Even though she had never done anything like this in her life before. Molly shook sand from her curls.

‘I am a bit special,’ Ed answered. Molly had sand in her hair and goose-bumps all over her arms. And she looked stunning. Just beautiful.

‘Special needs more like,’ Molly chided. ‘Christ. I’ve caught your crap joke disease. Hey, what’s Ed short for? Edmund … Edward …?’

He frowned. He was rarely asked that question. ‘It’s just Ed.’

‘What, you came out and your mother said “That baby looks just like an Ed.”’

‘She did, actually.’

‘Liar.’

‘For fuck’s sakes.’ Ed gave Molly a sheepish smile. ‘Ok then. Ed is short for Edison. Go on. Laugh yourself silly.’

She considered him. ‘Edison. That’s not so bad. Original at least.’

‘Yeah. Original is right. Downright mortifying is the other way to look at it.’

She grinned. ‘You can carry it off. You’re cool enough.’

‘Oooh. Careful, Molly. That right there was a compliment.’

‘Goddammit. You’re right. Forgive me, Edison. Won’t happen again.’

Ed could practically hear the barely contained chuckle she was withholding and for some reason, it made him want to gather her up and do … something. She had her knees drawn to her chest, her arms clasping them, her chin resting atop her arms. It was a wistful pose. Appealing. Everything about her was appealing.

She turned as though feeling his eyes on her. His glorious mouth tilted into a smile. Molly realised she wanted to know everything about Edison. Everything. She knew an awful lot after their in-depth chat, but she had this strange feeling that however much she found out, she might never be able to find out enough.

‘Are you a romantic, Ed?’

‘A what?’

‘A romantic. Are you one of those types?’

‘I’m what I call a dirty romantic. Does that count?’ He laughed self-consciously. ‘Might sound a bit rude. I just mean I’m a romantic, but I try not to be too flowery about it, you know? So I do love romantic novels and all that. If I’m being honest, and I am, Romeo and Juliet is my favourite play by Willy Shakes. And I found E.M. Forster’s A Room with a View achingly romantic,’ he added earnestly. ‘But don’t tell anyone. Dirty, but yes. Romantic. I suppose I am.’

‘Ok, so a dirty romantic then. Oh, I like that. I like that a lot, Edison. You are full of surprises.’ Her eyes met his. ‘I like being surprised.’

So did Ed. And he liked her calling him Edison. For no real reason other than that it was her doing it. Without another coherent thought, Ed took the back of her neck in his hand and drew her in. Within seconds his mouth had met hers. Gently. God. Her lips were exquisite, soft and full. They met his willingly. Ed experienced sensory overload; the scent of her hair, the perfume wafting from her neck, the taste of the fruity cocktail she’d been drinking hours ago, her mouth, her ripe, but somehow delicate mouth.

Molly put her hands on his face and Ed felt a shiver. He felt her rings, cold against his skin, but her palms were warm and soft. She kissed him more ardently, her tongue searching his out. A bolt of lust shot through Ed and he fought to restrain himself from hurling her to the sand and taking her.

Control yourself, Edison, he berated himself. He had kissed countless girls. Countless. But Molly was rocking his world and he had no idea how or why. Yes, her hands were delving into his hair. Yes, her fingertips were stroking his scalp. Yes, it was exquisite. More exquisite than he could articulate. That was the thing; he simply couldn’t pinpoint what it was she was doing that made this all so incredible. It was everything put together.

Molly kissed him again. Yep. There it was. A shot of something bouncing all around her body, pinging off of every angle. Tingles, bursts, sparks. What the hell was happening to her? She was in danger of doing something really foolish in a second. She wanted to do other things, things she normally stopped herself doing to boys. Things she didn’t normally think about when she kissed boys, but that she knew might be expected.

And though Molly was a ‘good girl’, she had kissed rather a lot of boys. Often in place of sleeping with them. Which made her an aficionado in some ways. And Ed was a good kisser. A very good kisser. The kind that made Molly want to lose control of herself.

Ed luxuriated in the feel of those lips on his skin. It was romantic, yet erotic. Her hands were sliding under his shirt and he could barely stand it. He rolled on top of her, needing to regain control. His arms were around her and he could feel the warmth of her skin through her clothes. He smoothed her hair away from her face, gazing into her eyes. They were alert but slightly glazed.

Molly met Ed’s eyes. Was her lust for him obvious? She wasn’t sure she could do anything to control the emotions and desires being reflected in her eyes.

Ed fell headlong into them. Headlong. He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her again, groping for the feeling it gave him. Yes. There it was again; he wasn’t mistaken. It was like coming home. A comfortable newness. No. That made it sound too cosy. It wasn’t. It was an excitement that felt so right, it was bloody mind-blowing. Ed owned that feeling. He wanted her. Badly.

‘I want you,’ she murmured against his mouth. ‘Badly.’

How did she seem to know what he was thinking? It was like half starting a sentence and her finishing it, but it was even spookier than that because she was in his thoughts.

Christ, he’d be going all Wuthering Heights in a minute.

Edison, he said to himself, smiling slightly as he remembered Molly’s comments about his name, do rein yourself in. She is just a girl. This is just a kiss.

It was just a kiss, right?

Molly coiled a leg around his, drawing his body to hers. Their groins were crushed together, hard against soft, hot against hot. And it felt right. They rolled again. She was on top of him, her chest squashed against his. His breath smelt sweet as she found his mouth again. He felt amazing against her. Amazing. Molly was falling. She was bloody well falling.

Ed sank a hand into her hair, claiming her. Kissing her. Owning her. But wait. He needed to take a minute. More than a minute. This was spiralling out of control. He was out of control. He was in danger of being … inelegant. He was also aware that he was in danger of being completely and utterly done for if this went any further. But he wanted it to go further.

Molly took advantage of the pause to collect her thoughts. Something huge was going on and she didn’t know how to control it. ‘I … I think you’re going to be … very important in my life,’ she said, feeling the need to put some kind of label or description on what was happening. Her father always told her she over-analysed. ‘Does that sound weird? It sounds weird. Sorry about that.’

‘Important in your life?’ Ed drew back. With an effort that was so monumental, it felt akin to unsticking something tightly glued together. ‘How so?’

‘I don’t know.’ She met his eyes. ‘But … you are … this feels …’ She faltered. ‘It’s just me. You’re not thinking that …’

Ed said nothing. And cursed himself. It wasn’t just her. He did feel something. He didn’t know what, but something had just happened. The earth hadn’t exactly moved but Ed’s life had surely just shifted on its axis. Molly had rendered him dumb. Another first.

‘Right.’ Molly sat up a bit and slowly rubbed her hands together. Mostly to dust the sand off them. Also to give her a moment to think. ‘What I mean is … I don’t mean we’re going to run off into the sunset together or anything. I mean maybe, but not now. I just think we seem to have some sort of connection. It’s like … I think I sometimes know what you’re thinking, what you’re about to say.’

‘Am I that predictable?’ Ed frowned. He hated being predictable. But at least his mouth was working again.

‘No. Not remotely. That’s what I mean.’ Molly looked unnerved. ‘There’s just something between us. Something a bit … freaky.’

‘I guess so.’ Ed knew so, but saying that would make him feel far too vulnerable. ‘Maybe we’re going to be friends?’ He offered this as a question, testing the waters. He wanted more, far more. Perhaps not right now. Perhaps he meant later, when he’d grown up a bit. But what did Molly mean?

Her eyes were fixed on his and just for a second, he sensed a glimmer of disappointment. But it was fleeting.

‘Friends,’ Molly repeated. She was trying it out, seeing how it sounded. She wasn’t sure if she felt somewhat disappointed. She had felt something far, far deeper than mere friendship surging between them.

But Molly was a dignified girl; she hated looking silly. ‘I suppose we could be that. Yes. Good friends. Why not?’

Ed battled with himself. It was more. What had sparked between them was more. It was … oh, fuck. Had he been about to mentally use the expression ‘soulmates’? Did he even believe in soulmates? Something had sparked between them, like a firework that had been inadvertently lit in a room, bouncing off the walls crazily, leaving delicious little scorch marks everywhere.

Ed swallowed. Could it be that true love malarkey people always banged on about? Had he and Molly got really, really lucky and at a very young age found that thing that people sometimes searched their entire lives for? Or was that just romantic nonsense for losers? He was seventeen, for fuck’s sakes.

Ed released Molly and sat up. He wasn’t ready to meet the love of his life yet. If that was indeed what had just happened. He had too much to do. He had responsibilities; he had an impossible home life. He was going to try with everything he had to become a great writer, and writers needed experiences. What the hell would he write about otherwise? He was surely destined to love many women. Hundreds. He wanted to travel, to see the world, to experience everything life had to offer. If they started something now, he might hurt her. He would hurt her. And Ed didn’t want to do that.

He looked down at Molly. God, but she was beautiful. And sexy. In that girl-next-door way that made him want to both cuddle her and tear her clothes off. He had the urge to inhale her neck, to breathe her in, to consume her, to allow her to consume him. She was different to anyone he had ever met before. He felt a connection with her he simply couldn’t explain. He knew she felt it too.

So what was stopping him?

Molly sat up, leaning against him casually as if she was perfectly fine with everything. It was a knack she had, appearing fine. A useful skill that allowed her to rise above situations that had hurt her in some way. She had learnt it at a very young age when her brother had blackmailed her shamelessly after she broke the foot off an expensive china doll. She had behaved as though she was completely unmoved by the event and her brother had given up because her lack of reaction had presumably been tedious. More recently she had honed her technique when a girlfriend had done the dirty on her with a guy she had really liked. In both cases, she had been distraught, but she had developed a way of appearing haughtily indifferent. A handy gift, that.

The thing was; she had never spoken to a guy for this long before. She had never shared so many intimate details of her life. Molly felt exposed, vulnerable. She had trusted Ed – she still did, oddly – and letting her guard down had actually felt good.

Ed put his arm around her; it was involuntary. He couldn’t seem to be this close to her without touching her, wanting to coil her into his body. He had never felt so confused in his life.

Molly leant into him. He crushed her a little, but it felt so right to be held by him, she couldn’t find it in herself to pull away. She knew if she was dealing with another boy right now she would stand up, disdainfully look down at him before marching off, vowing never to speak to him again. But for some reason, Molly knew she wouldn’t do that with Ed. Because he was different. Because she somehow felt able to forgive him for hurting her when she wouldn’t allow it from someone else. Even if she didn’t quite understand why.

‘The thing you need to know about me is that I am always classy, Edison,’ Molly said, before he could say anything. She sensed – although she had no idea where this sixth sense came from – that he was about to justify himself, to excuse the way he had behaved. He’d acted as though he wanted her more than anything, before backing off like a frightened rabbit. She had to get in first, before he – this boy who seemed so incredibly sensitive, so eloquent and full of thought – said something thoughtless and deeply insensitive. Molly feared he was capable of such a thing, that despite declaring himself a ‘girl’, Ed was very much a male of the species.

‘Classy?’ Ed was confused.

‘Maybe classy isn’t the right word. Dignified, perhaps? Anyway, I rarely make a prat of myself if I can help it.’ Molly wished his eyes weren’t so devastating. She wanted to dive into them, but it seemed that it was not to be the case. ‘And the other thing you need to know is that I don’t ever chase people. If it’s not mutual, it’s not happening.’ She smiled and she made sure it was a sunny one. ‘So, friends it is.’

Molly then leant forward and kissed Ed on the forehead. On the forehead. But slowly, deliberately.

Ed felt emasculated, put in his place and aroused all at once. It was a tender, non-sexual gesture that positioned him firmly in a box, and, ironically, it made him want her even more. Whatever she was saying she had felt was mutual. It was. It was.

Molly hoped the languid forehead kiss had done the trick. Her friend Sara had taught her that, said it was the best way to arouse a guy (the proximity, the erotically slow action) and to put him right in his place. Molly hated playing games but she detested looking idiotic even more. Her mother always said her pride would get her into trouble one day.

Ed inwardly groaned. That kiss on the forehead. It had sealed his fate. Jesus. What had he just done? Molly was the most incredible girl he had ever met. The feeling he’d had when he first set eyes on her had been spot on. She was special. He didn’t want anyone else to have her. Would he ever have this moment back again?

Molly got to her feet, grabbed his hand and clumsily yanked him up. ‘Come on,’ she said. She found herself grinning in a totally spontaneous way. Whether he fancied her or not, Edison made her feel happy. ‘We should go home.’

Now

‘Sam. I really need to talk to you.’

Give me a sec, Molly.’

Sam sounded impatient. He was on the phone to an important client and Molly wanted to give him space. But she had also sat on her news for an entire fortnight and she felt that she needed to finally let it all out. But it was the weekend. And Sam was still working. He was conscientious like that.

Molly sank down on to the sofa. She wasn’t sure how Sam was going to take the news. Sam was a practical guy, but Molly hadn’t really seen how he coped with illness. They hadn’t ever been challenged in this way before. Illness hadn’t featured. But Sam coped with everything. He was very capable. Molly relaxed.

Sam finally finished his call. Turning his chair to face her, he gave her his full attention.

‘Sorry. You wanted to talk to me.’ ‘Yes.’ Molly took a breath. ‘I’ve had these symptoms for a while now.’

‘Symptoms?

‘Tremors. A few other things.’

‘You haven’t mentioned anything before now.’ Sam frowned.

‘I know.’ Molly immediately felt guilty. She should have mentioned something before, shouldn’t she? If she had, her illness would have been drip-fed as opposed to being a massive bombshell. ‘I … I didn’t think anything serious was going on.’

Sam sat forward. ‘It’s serious then?’

‘Ummm … yes. It is.’ Molly chewed her lip. ‘I have …’ She faltered. She didn’t want to say it out loud. Saying it out loud made it real. And reality was a scary place at the moment.

‘Molly.’ Sam came and sat next to her. ‘What’s going on? What do you have?’

Molly took his hand. ‘I have early-onset Parkinson’s.’

Sam stared at her. ‘What?’

Molly said it again.

‘I heard you. I mean how … you’re … I know you said early onset but Parkinson’s … it’s …’

‘An old person’s illness, right?’ Molly shook her head. ‘Wrong.’

‘But …’ Sam stopped. ‘I just can’t understand it. You’re so healthy! You’re fit, you look after yourself. How could this have happened?’

‘Well, it’s not anything I could have prevented.’ Absurdly, Molly felt the need to defend herself. ‘I do look after myself. It’s just one of those things.’

Sam got to his feet. ‘Well, it’s ridiculous. I mean, it’s awful.’ He began to pace. ‘So. Tell me about it. What does this mean?’

Molly told him about it. A condensed version. A slightly more glamorous effort than it could have been. Which was her way of drip-feeding. Molly strongly felt that immediately blasting Sam with all the details wasn’t the way to go. There was time enough for that.

A few seconds later, Molly felt that her approach was justified.

Sam stopped pacing and sat down suddenly. ‘God, Molly. That’s grim. I mean, grim for you. For us. What a curve ball. Ok.’ His mind was clearly racing. ‘So what do we do about it?’

‘Do?’

‘Yes. There must be some course of action. We need to do something here. There must be drug trials, something we can do to make things better, to get you well again.’

Molly stared at Sam. ‘I mean … I’ll never be well again, Sam. Not completely. This is progressive.’

‘But we can manage it, right? We can slow things down.’

‘I don’t know.’ Molly was starting to get a headache. ‘We need to look into it.’

‘We do.’ Sam sat down at his computer again and started typing rapidly. ‘We need to look this up and get to grips with it.’

‘Yes.’ Molly felt oddly surreal. She had dreaded telling Sam about her diagnosis. She had put it off for a fortnight because she had been trying to get her head around it. And Sam’s reaction was sending her all over the place again. Mainly because he was being so practical.

Suddenly, Sam caught her off-guard. He turned in his chair, walked over to her and gathered her up in his arms.

‘Molly,’ he whispered. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Molly burst into tears. Clutching Sam’s shoulder, she sobbed hard. This was what she needed right now. A cuddle. Some sympathy. Sam was so incredibly practical and that was a great skill. A wonderful skill. But nothing beat a hug.

‘But we’re in this together,’ Sam said, pulling back and wiping her tears away. ‘You and me. We’ll get through this. Together.’

Molly nodded. ‘I know. Thank you. I’m so sorry.’

‘Never be sorry.’ Sam kissed her forehead. ‘We can beat anything, you and me.’ He returned to his desk and started typing again.

Molly lay back against the sofa. Whatever she and Sam did, they weren’t ever going to ‘beat’ her Parkinson’s. Surely he knew that?

Maybe the drip-feed approach had been the wrong way to go after all.

Ed

August 1997

‘Edison. I’ve said it’s fine! Stop worrying about me.’

Ed watched his mother as she moved around their tiny kitchen. She seemed normal. Together. She wore a summer dress printed with flowers. Her dark hair was held up by a scarf – it clashed but it was a cheery touch, one that showed some thought for her appearance. On closer inspection though, the dress had a tear in the seam under her armpit and the scarf was splattered with glossy white marks, as if a candle had accidentally been spilt all over it. But still.

Florrie Sutherland. A statuesque woman on days like today. Calm, composed and in control. On days like these, Ed could almost imagine bringing his friends home to meet her, but still, he wouldn’t dream of it. Anything could happen. Literally anything.

‘I’m fine, honestly,’ Florrie reassured him, placing a cup of tea in front of him. ‘I have Michael now. He looks after me. I’m on top of the world right now.’

Ed gamely drank the tea, even though he only ever drank coffee. But the offer of any kind of drink was unheard of around here, so he was grateful, in principle at least. He tried to conceal a grimace. It was laden with sugar and tepid. The way his father used to drink it. Ed wasn’t sure what that meant exactly.

‘I want you to have this chance,’ Florrie insisted, reaching out to stroke a lock of hair away from Ed’s eyes. It wasn’t so much a gesture of tenderness; it smacked of irritability. Florrie frowned. ‘I’m not a child, Ed. I can take care of myself.’

Ed nodded. ‘Right. Of course.’ It really wasn’t worth him disagreeing. Not when she was actually being amenable about the whole thing. He sat back in his chair and inspected the kitchen. It was small and dingy. Even when it was scrupulously clean (which only ever happened when he was around), it looked grubby. Formica worktops in a shade of grey, garish tiles from the seventies in clashing oranges and yellows. Basic cupboards and shelves fronted with off-white MDF, all set off by a lino floor that stuck to the bottom of every shoe as though smeared with year-old jam.

Out of all the rooms in the small house they shared on the outskirts of town, far away from the likes of Boyd and Ed’s school friends, the kitchen depressed him the most. It seemed to epitomise everything difficult about his life.

‘So. Are any of your friends going to the same university?’ Florrie removed the tea, not appearing to notice he had barely touched it. She swished it into the chipped sink, her eyes fixed on the disappearing liquid.