Being Lara (22 page)

Now

I
t wasn't in her to mope, ponder, and raise pertinent questions as to the reasons for the Lady's visit. Why, after twenty-seven years, she finally wanted to meet Lara. It just didn't matter anymore, because frankly it was too late.

Lara no longer wanted to see
her
. Every year and each silent tear had eroded any need for that. One day, Lara finally acknowledged her inability to be in two countries or lives at once. Lara just needed to live one life comfortably—a life that involved England, cold weather, and sausage and mash. She no longer needed this woman. No longer wanted her. Curiosity was wiped out and replaced with an ability to store away the past and embrace… Her. Life. Now.

After the party, everyone she knew had become overly concerned about “poor old Lara” and her “fragile” state of mind, if the phone calls, e-mails, and text messages were to be believed. “How was she feeling?” and “Did she need to talk?” But Lara was fine, and of course she didn't need to talk! To anyone (regardless of Mum, Sandi, and Tyler's insistence otherwise).

Didn't they know her at all? Or what it was like to be her?

Of course they didn't.

Because until they'd walked a mile in her wedge heels, they'd never, ever know what it was like to be Lara. Or what it felt like to be dumped in an orphanage like she was nothing. To feel abandoned. To be a black adopted child of white parents.

Of course they didn't. How could they?

She was strong now, could handle anything, and one unwelcome guest at a birthday party would never shake her. So, finding herself back on the hamster wheel of life, feeling quite comfortable and in control again, Lara was able to breathe evenly as she fit herself back into her usual schedule: work, gym, meet Sandi on Thursday, and out with Tyler on Friday. And the counting began to reduce.

“It was really good to hear from you. Finally,” said Tyler as they held hands and walked across Leicester Square. “I was prepared to hunt you down but figured you needed your space. And I respect that.”

“Thanks, Tyler.”

“Just don't do it again. Just disappear like that,” he said tenderly, kissing her hand. She tried her best not to notice the disappointment in his eyes.

“I had a lot to do at work and some new contracts…”

Tyler stopped. “But what about—?”

“Let's enjoy the evening, Tyler,” she said, cutting him off.

“You'll have to talk about it sometime. This is big, Lara.”

She rolled her eyes, wondering why Tyler had this incessant need to talk all the time. Perhaps it was an American thing, she wasn't sure, but it was really starting to annoy her. She also hadn't forgotten his need to
talk
about their relationship, which if nothing else, the birthday party fiasco had at least put on the back burner.

“I was a little surprised when you said you wanted to see a movie,” he said, opening the doors to the Prince Charles Cinema.

“I've wanted to see
Pulp Fiction
for years but never got round to it.”

“Was it on purpose? You choosing a movie?”

One of the things that had drawn Lara to Tyler was his frank, up-front, in-your-face directness, which stood beside a gentle strength she knew was there if she ever needed it. However, at that moment, it wasn't welcome.

“Well?” he pushed as they stood in line.

“It's just a movie, Tyler… Okay, maybe… I just wanted to watch a movie and not have to talk…” she relented.

“Lara, about the party. No B.S., tell me how you're feeling about it all.”

“Well, there's a lady who has jumped into my life, wanting to start up some relationship while I have a mum and a dad. I'm trying not to be upset by it all. Plus this whole new culture I'm suddenly supposed to be a part of. I mean, do you even know what fufu is?”

“Yes, I do.”

This revelation surprised her.

“Of course. There are different types, you know.”

“There are?”

They moved to the front of the line, and Tyler paid the cashier as Lara had a think.

“I wouldn't worry too much about fufu!” He laughed, and Lara felt a tiny steam of anger move up inside of her.

“I won't,” she whispered untruthfully.

“Don't sweat it, babe. This is more than about fufu. This is about you and your—”

“Don't say it!” she said quickly.

“It's okay,” he said tenderly, soothingly, as he squeezed her hand gently.

She nodded her head reluctantly as a crowd of teenagers rushed past them.

“You go get the ice cream and popcorn, before we miss the trailers, okay!”

“I'll do that,” she replied, pleased he hadn't said “it.” That word. A word that had no place being connected with a person she didn't even know. Because it wasn't true and would never be true. She already had one and one was all she needed.

The next day—almost five days after her thirtieth birthday party, Lara finally responded to the bug of curiosity, which had irritated her ever since that night. She'd pondered, listened to the unwanted advice of others, and finally gone with her head albeit with strict rationalizations.

That's why she decided to answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Hello, good evening,” said the voice on the phone—the same voice she'd heard as she'd fled her own birthday party.

“I would very much like to meet with you,” said the foreign accented voice.

Where? At a café? Anywhere Lara wanted.
How about the moon?
she'd wanted to say. Her flat at Artillery Court would be fine. Later, yes. Eight o'clock. Bye.

At home that evening, thoughts of the polka-dot dress sneakily slid into Lara's thoughts. Even though Mum had bought her dozens of items over the years, that dress continued to stick out in her memory as the one that meant the most. So much meaning was encased in the simple fabric of a dress. The night she'd peeled it off her body signaled, in her eyes, the moment she'd said good-bye to a huge chunk of her innocence.

So, now, instead of a polka-dot dress, Lara chose to remain in her work clothes—a flared trouser suit, black pumps—and she kept her hair pulled back into a severe bun.

Power dressing.

Lara grimaced as she twisted the light knob on the wall to bring a brighter fluorescent glow into the room, hoping it wouldn't expose the big fat dollops of “whatever” that really lay below the surface.

“Omolara,” said a voice through the intercom.

“Yes?” she replied. A word, a question, which sounded pointless, tossed into the air with absolutely nowhere for it to go.

“It is your mother.” Four words said in an unfamiliar African accent and that meant absolutely nothing to Lara Reid from Essex.

She pressed the buzzer and waited for what seemed like her entire childhood all over again, knowing the Lady would have to navigate her way through two entry systems and a flight of stairs because the building lacked a lift. And naturally, the Lady would take even longer than was necessary since most new visitors took time out to marvel at the cannons and then demand a full history lesson on their origins. Lara's knowledge only went as far as Wikipedia would take her, mildly aware they had something to do with the First World War. Artillery. Arsenal. Stuff.

Perhaps the Lady wouldn't ask.

Lara waited, knowing the Lady's footsteps would soon reach her door. And then what?

Lara pulled open the door, at the same time tapping lightly on the side of it. Even numbers. Two more. Then she shrugged off her stiff jacket and was face-to-face with
the Lady.

“Hello, Omolara,” she said.

Lara's whole being seemed to undergo a rapid sequence of every negative emotion she'd ever felt over the years—anger, sadness, loneliness, confusion—which resulted in a paralyzed inability to say anything at all, let alone something remotely clever. Or rational. Or that made any sort of sense.

The Lady moved in closer toward Lara's stiff posture. Alien arms encircled Lara's back as the Lady squeezed her weight against Lara. The scent of the Lady's perfume was strong—an unrecognizable smell and not the lavender Lara was used to. Lara felt a heartbeat pulsating in the fabric of her crisp white shirt, not sure if it were her own or the Lady's. This woman's body felt awkward, unfamiliar, that of a stranger. The invited intruder who wore a very bright, long, and wide dress with a matching head tie that added a few inches to her already tall, confident frame and completed a picture of a woman very at odds with Lara's previous and fragmented imagination.

A beautiful yellow beaded necklace adorned her line-free neck. She wore open-toe gold sandals, somewhat bright yet fitting in with her ensemble. However, Lara thought the black leather clutch bag with silver beading did nothing for her outfit, meaning the Lady clearly had no clue about accessorizing.

Lara pulled away quickly. “You'd better take a seat.”

“Thank you,” the Lady said, her gaze roaming the space around them, squinting at the bright fluorescent light, which revealed her face in all its youthful splendor: a forehead with no frown lines to give away twenty-seven years of guilt; skin as smooth as freshly melted chocolate; full lips an A-list celeb would pay big bucks for; and huge dark eyes Lara realized she herself must have inherited. The Lady was clearly an attractive woman in her fifties; Lara had expected or hoped she would have had the decency to look wizened, worn, and at the very least, broken up by the choices she'd made, bereft at the loss of that newborn she'd so callously given away like a used free newspaper. But clearly, doing so had perhaps injected her with an elixir and vigor for life that keeping an unwanted child would have sucked out of her.

The Lady seemed to take in the flat-screen television, the clean lines of the kitchen worktops (thanks to an efficient cleaner), the retro-styled red telephone by the sofa, her eyes traveling up the thin spiral staircase that led to Lara's bedroom.

“This is a strange house?”

“I like it,” replied Lara defensively.

The Lady sat down and gazed at the magazines on the coffee table.

“Would you like something to drink?” asked Lara.

“No, thank you. Maybe later.”

Lara didn't care whether she wanted a drink or not. She wanted answers. She wanted nothing. She wanted her there. She wanted her gone.

Lara sat down on the round swivel leather armchair, rarely used, foolishly purchased after a fun trip to the Ideal Home Exhibition with Sandi. A loveseat it was called. Lara wanted to laugh out loud.

The Lady placed her neatly manicured hands on her lap, and Lara noticed the color of her nails. Shiny blue, decorated with a white flower with green spirally stems.

“It is a wonderful moment to be speaking with you,” the Lady said. Lara was not sure if it was the language barrier, but she noted the Lady's use of words and the way she exaggerated each one. Lara suddenly wished she'd suggested the local McDonald's, heaving with divorced dads and their kids for this first and only “meeting.” Or maybe Mum was right and they should have met in Essex, surrounded by pictures of Lara and her family strewn about the place, in rooms where she'd once played hide-and-seek and Monopoly and cried herself to sleep on numerous occasions. They could have had a “chat” in the garden where years ago Lara had fallen into the rosebush and experienced her first prickly behind; seen the shed where she and Dad had numerous heart-to-hearts on world peace and whether the whole puppy thing was ever going to happen; sat on the concrete square on which Dad had stood wearing an ill-fitting apron, clutching a barbecued sausage on the end of a fork on the very day Lara had decided to become a temporary vegetarian; walked on the patch of grass on which Brian's Labrador had soiled and Mum threatened to chop its balls off as Sandy and Lara had almost wet themselves laughing. So many memories of the only life she could remember. The life the Lady had never been a part of.

“You are so beautiful!” exclaimed the Lady, jarring Lara out of a trance. The Lady smiled and revealed a gap between her two front teeth. “You haven't changed!”

“Really? I was just a baby the last time you saw me,” she pointed out snappily. The Lady faltered, and Lara felt a tinge of guilt. One minute, she was strengthened with anger; another moment, she felt so weak. She was a tub of schizophrenic emotions, unsure of how this would all end.

“Omolara…”

“My name is Lara.”

They both took a deep breath, inhaling simultaneously, and then her nose began to itch, just like it always did when she became nervous. She scratched it slightly, and to her utter surprise, the Lady did the same.

They small-talked one hour away, covering topics such as the Lady's current life in Nigeria, where she grew up, how she grew up. It was a descriptive reference Lara knew could surely lead to one moment when the Lady explained how she stood outside the Motherless Children's home contemplating what to do next. But Lara just wasn't ready to hear that part of the story yet, or perhaps the story just wasn't ready to be told, because Lara abruptly said, “That's enough for now.”