Being Lara (6 page)

“I'm fine,” smiled Lara, welcoming Sandi's jokey sarcasm and for perhaps the first time beginning to entertain the thought that Mum's party wasn't on the cusp of disaster after all. And as they sat in the cab, with Tyler jumping in his car behind, Lara knew that everything was going to work out, whatever he threw at her. Wasn't she a survivor, who'd been through so much worse in life and come out fighting?

The car pulled up outside Entwistle Way and Lara was immediately overcome with pleasant nostalgia. Mum's flower beds were clearly growing nicely behind the steel gate, flung open thanks to an evening breeze. And then a flood of memories rushed into the moment.

“Sandi, do you remember the time I fell over by what used to be the phone box over there and scraped my knee?” she asked, pointing to the spot now occupied by a bin.

“No, but I remember getting so drunk I fell over right there by Ladbrokes, and you had to get your dad to carry me to your house and sober me up with about a pint of coffee,” replied Sandi.

Tyler joined them after parking his car across the road.

“What are you two talking about?” he asked, shrugging off his thin jacket to reveal a smart shirt and skinny tie as the three of them stood outside the house. Lara was so used to seeing him in casual wear, it was a rare treat to catch him like this; and she had to admit, he looked utterly amazing. And too good for her. Perhaps.

“The past,” replied Lara, brushing an imaginary piece of fluff from his shoulder. “We're just talking about the past.”

“I thought it was all about the future now? Didn't you say that?”

“It is.”

The door to her childhood home swung open and out came Mum.

“Sweet peeeeeea!” sang Mum, enveloping Lara in one of her lavender-scented hugs. “Happy birthday, my love. Where's your key?” she said coming up for air. Her hair was rounded into a newly permed bouffant, and she wore a mauve cardigan, which Lara guessed had to be a new purchase just because of the party.

“Nice cardie, Mum.”

“It's Cashmilon from Marks & Spencer. A poor man's cashmere, your dad calls it! So where's your key? I hope you haven't lost it. You were always losing things when you were little.”

“I can't use my key tonight, Mum; that would be just weird.”

“I don't see why!”

Mum went on to hug Sandi and then Tyler before the four of them entered the corridor and into the lounge and absolute … nothingness.

Lara attempted to hide any disappointment as her forehead wrinkled in confusion, all until an almighty shriek of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LARA!” punctuated the air. People leaped out from behind the sofas, the TV, the door, with Lara nodding her head with happiness and slight amusement.

Mum's oldest friend, Maria; Aunty Agnes, Uncle Brian, and their three adult kids Keely, Annie, and Jason; along with dad's cousin Rob each offered hugs and oddly shaped gifts in colorful wrapping. Even Kieron who used to live next door had come with his wife and two kids. Mum had definitely kept it small, which wouldn't have been so hard since Dad's family consisted of a couple of siblings and an elderly uncle and Mum hadn't spoken to her family in almost thirty years.

“You're wasting away,” commented Agnes.

“I'm fine, really!” Lara protested. Agnes, as always, was overly slim and meticulously made up. Her “powerhouse” rounded perm completed her look. In contrast, Brian was portly if not a little cuddly, and they just seemed to simply adore each other.

“And this is Tyler, right?” Agnes asked, almost poking a hole into his chest. “Fine looking he is. Just like my Brian. You better keep hold of him.”

As soon as Agnes had said it, Lara felt her tummy muscles constrict.

“You enjoying yourself?” asked Mum as Brian pressed Play on yet another cheesy '80s classic.

“It's great, Mum, and thanks for the M & S voucher. You shouldn't have spent that much.” Lara popped a salt and vinegar crisp into her mouth.

“That's nothing. Besides, it isn't your real present.”

“No, your real present's a lot racier!” butted in Maria, all burgundy hair and innuendo.

Mum led Lara through to the kitchen, a slightly chaotic scene of cheese and pineapple on sticks, trifle, and various other party foods, plus a huge yellow cake clumsily concealed in an aluminum tin. Framed pictures of Lara dotted the walls of every room except for the bathroom, which had a painting of a nameless Labrador puppy above the sink.
The puppy we never had,
Lara used to call it.

“I wanted to give you this with your father but I think he's in that shed of his, sulking.”

“Why's he sulking?”

“His little girl's thirty and has a steady boyfriend. He's probably thinking up threats he can make toward your Tyler.”

“Dad's a softie.”

“I know. Besides, he'd dealt with it all by starting to refurbish the shed. So we'll all be okay. Anyway, here's your real present.”

Mum handed over a huge beautifully wrapped square, which looked a lot like a painting.

“Go on, open it up!”

The paper was fine and came away easily in Lara's hand. The first image was of herself, then others of her with Mum, Dad, Sandi, aunts and uncles and their children, all in various guises and scenarios: on the beach in Peru five years ago; attempting to stay on the seat of a tasseled bike for the very first time; blowing bubbles with Jason, aged four; hiding under an umbrella with Sandi and Kieron as teenagers; sleeping on Dad's lap and Lara's raised ankle with its baggy white sock; a closeup of Lara, Keely, and Brian sticking out green tongues to the camera; the Reid family in a cheesy family shot on Blackpool beach. Stages of Lara's life were displayed as a collage on an “easy to use” adhesive board, perhaps the most thoughtful and beautiful present she had ever received.

“Thanks, Mum,” she said understatedly, unable to marry the rising emotion with her physicality.

“Oh, and there's one row left at the bottom. I left it blank.”

“For the grandkids, right?”

“For whatever my daughter has planned for the next phase of her life. I'll leave that for you to complete.”

She hugged her mum tightly, slightly embarrassed she may just need a tissue for her nose and clumpy mascara at any moment.

A bit later, en route from the bathroom, and after dabbing her eyes, Lara soon found herself inside a chaotic garden shed looking toward her dad.

“There you are,” said Lara, sitting beside him on one of the white plastic chairs. A ladder was propped up against a wall with various empty plant pots and boxes blocking the passageway. Beside that sat a tall rake, an orange lawn mower, and three old gnomes. Once colorless when they arrived twenty years ago, Lara had one day sat down and painstakingly and artistically painted tribal masks onto each of their faces.

“Hello, Laralina, love,” said Dad with that term of endearment he still held on to despite her age.

“Not looking so good in here,” said Lara, running her finger over the windowpane.

“Just needs a quick clean and a lick of paint. Nothing much.”

“Everything all right, Dad?”

“Bit overcome, that's all, what with it being your birthday. You've come a long way, my girl.”

Dad never said much, but sometimes when he did, he had the power to just catch her right in the middle of her heart.

“Aww, Dad…”

“I can't believe my baby girl is thirty years old… I remember when you were a toddler, holding you in my arms, you know? And now look at you.”

“It's still me, Dad.”

He smiled broadly, squeezing her hand back. “I know, love.”

The smile then morphed into something stern. “And that Tyler, the American, he better take good care of you, or else!”

“Dad, I can take care of myself,” she said, rolling her eyes playfully. “But you're just a call away…”

“Too right!” he said, balling his fists jokily.

“And thanks for the present. It was lovely.”

He smiled knowingly and Lara was just about to give his hand a gentle squeeze when the sound of a commotion erupted from inside the house.

She went to investigate and saw Brian colliding with a trifle and Mum screaming in absolute horror.

“Nice party,” said Sandi without one hint of sarcasm just as someone had to go and do “it”—move the needle on the old record player and belt out
that
song.

“Brian, I'll swing for you!” shouted Mum playfully as out came Mum's dulcet tones. Brian launched into a sort of chicken dance complete with triangular arms flapping about for effect as the song continued. Although Mum's singing career had ended a long time ago, her hit song “Do You Want This?” was and would always be the family joke. Mum, as usual, took the sudden invasion quite well, as she mock threatened Brian with her wooden spoon.

The somewhat cheesy tune came to an end and whispers of a huge cake began. Lara looked around for her dad, bracing herself for the “surprise.” Mum had baked a cake with candles every year since her fourth birthday (except her twenty-fifth when she'd traveled to Peru). But she enjoyed the yearly pretense, the bad singing, the clapping and the attention that would always follow. The ritual allowed her to regress and be a little girl again for a few short seconds, embracing a time when acting like an adult just wasn't required.

“You have to close your eyes, before you blow them out!” commands Agnes. So Lara squeezes them shut. She thinks she can hear the doorbell. The inside of her lids darken. Someone switches off the lights. She's tingling with excitement, thinking of a birthday wish.

“Not yet! Open 'em up!” Jason says. She opens her eyes. There's singing. The cake, in the shape of a Chanel bag, is plonked in front of her. She can't wait to taste the smooth butter icing. She closes her eyes again. She can feel the heat of the candles.

“Make a wish!” Mum, in that new mauve cardigan, calls out.

Her lungs fill with air. The light switches back on.

“She's not done it yet!” shrieks Mum giggly/angrily.

“Turn the lights back off!” commands Sandi.

It's hard to hold her breath. Dad is by the door, next to him a woman in a severe blue-and-black head tie. Tie-dyed? They're talking. He looks strained. Angry even—his face as white as a sheet. She doesn't recognize the woman. She wants to exhale now; she can't hold her breath like she used to when she was a kid.

She blows out the candles, finally. Clapping. A loud cheer erupts.

She's staring at the woman. The woman stares back. She's a stranger. Why is she here? She wasn't invited. Who is she? Why has she come? The questions float around her annoyingly. No answers—but the strangest thing is, even though she doesn't recognize her, Lara Reid is consumed by a strong, strong feeling, almost a certainty, that she has known this woman her entire life.

Yomi and Pat

Yomi

1971

T
hirty-nine years earlier and approximately thirty-one hundred miles away in a small area of Lagos, Nigeria, an eighteen-year-old girl with a gap in her teeth and plaits as thick as baby bananas sat daintily on one of six cracked sandy steps outside her home.

Yomi Komolafe was pleased the raining season had finally ended, as the soil would feel less slippery against her bare feet when she ran across it to fulfill her errands for the day. Ola, the family's house girl, had been sent to market earlier, but in her haste had forgotten to buy enough ingredients for the huge pot of soup Mama planned to cook for the important and distinguished visitors, which included Chief Ogunlade, due to arrive that evening. As expected, Yomi was ordered to collect those extra ingredients from the overly expensive but very
local
trader, Mrs. Apampa, across the street.

Yomi was used to and accepting of her role in the house. As the oldest of six children and the only girl, her place had been rigidly defined from birth. Like her male siblings, she was expected to help around the house with washing and cleaning, but the cooking was what clearly set her apart from her brothers. Regularly assisting Mama and Ola in the kitchen gave her a distinction from her brothers, which she enjoyed, as it allowed her an identity in the large brood. She was already confident that her soup tasted sweeter than Ola's, due to years of practice and Mama schooling her well on the basics: how to grind the pepper to the required texture; how to calculate the correct ratio of peppers to tomatoes; how to determine how soft the meat should be.

Yomi may have learned the art of soup making, but her confidence ended the moment a lid was firmly placed on the pan of pungent, bubbling ingredients. She also understood why she'd never be as beautiful as Mama, who boasted skin as smooth as that of an infant, a perfectly rounded body, and a sophistication Yomi could only imitate in her dreams.

Perhaps the only other arena she'd ever excelled in was English class at school. She daydreamed often about one day climbing into one of those planes she'd seen flying high above the house and being whisked away to that beautiful land named England. Huge castles and Big Ben as a backdrop as she confidently conversed with distinguished people such as Mr. Darcy and Emma Woodhouse. Perhaps greeting the Queen and her husband (a mere prince; Yomi often wondered why he was not a king!) on the way to Hampstead Heath where she would consume cucumber sandwiches and sip tea from a rose-decorated china cup.