Being Lara (3 page)

“It's not time.”

So, there
was
something.

Even the next day in the local paper shop, where Lara regularly used her £1 a week pocket money to purchase sweets and comics, the atmosphere suddenly felt colored with “grown-up” seriousness. A woman with a huge hat stared at Lara and Dad as she pretended (badly) to be interested in the newspaper headlines of the day. Her eyes stalked them as Lara browsed the teen magazines longingly and Dad, as usual, joked with Mr. Maharajah, the newsagent, as he secretly eyed the rows of cigarettes sitting on the back shelf.

Clues previously hidden behind fluffy clouds of ignorance now began to magnify all around Lara, and gradually, the staunch belief that people just liked to look at her once-famous mum sadly began to ebb away. The lady with the hat wasn't even pretending anymore as her beady eyes studied Lara, making her feel like a specimen in a lab—not that she knew what that felt like (Lara had simply been dozing on Dad's lap as he avidly watched a documentary about it). So yes, she was now a specimen.

When a policeman walked in, the lady in the hat didn't even try to hide her nosiness.

“Hello there,” said the policeman to Dad as they stood in line to pay for the newspaper, cigarettes, and the bag of secret sweets costing well over a pound, which Lara promised not to tell Mum about.

Dad nodded cautiously back to the policeman, who turned his attention to Lara.

“Are you okay, lass?” asked the officer, who Lara realized had a funny accent. She wanted to laugh but was overcome with a tinge of fear since the only time she'd ever spoken to a real-life policeman was during a visit to her school by the local constabulary regarding “stranger danger.”

She looked to Dad for help or guidance and he simply turned to the policeman and said, “Why are you asking my daughter questions?”

“Your daughter?” The policeman stared at her—from her hair right down to the tips of her scuffed white plimsolls—with a blank look on his face. Lara wondered if he was going to make an arrest right there and then in the sweetshop. The woman with the hat slid in closer for a better view.

“Dad, I want to go home,” said Lara, feeling a sudden urgency but determined not to cry.

“She looks very distressed,” said the policeman with the funny accent.

“Of course she's
distressed
!” said Dad. Lara noticed how red his face was turning. She'd never seen him like this. Well, not since the sunburn incident in Blackpool.

Mr. Maharajah finished serving a customer and joined Dad and the policeman as Lara placed her face in her hands, shoulders shaking slightly. She wanted her mum. She wanted to take Dad's hand and lead him out of the shop. Were they about to be arrested?

Lara managed to slip in and out of the adult's conversation: Mr. Maharajah said something about “vouching for them”; Dad said something about a “complaints procedure.” The woman in the hat looked on as if banana-flavored ice cream had just fallen from the sky.

Lara stayed put, but nervously shifted her weight to each foot impatiently, while the grown-ups whispered in the corner by the milk and cheese. It went on for ages—at least five minutes—ending with Mr. Maharajah shaking his head as he patted Dad on the back.

With his face the color of one of Mum's tomatoes, Dad grabbed Lara's hand and they walked out of the shop. She was so relieved to be on her way home, Lara decided not to ask about what had gone on, her mind a jumble—she even managed to forget about the lonely pack of sweets nestling on top of Mr. Maharajah's shop counter.

The weekend after the shop incident, Mum and Dad refused an invitation from Agnes and Brian even though they knew how much she enjoyed spending time with her cousins, especially Jason—as well as their beautiful Labrador named Goldie; not to mention there was a fully stocked toy shop nestling in the next street, which they'd often venture into just to “look around,” always leaving with a gift from Brian.

So of course this exclusion felt like a punishment. Lara quickly began to suspect Mum and Dad had said no for other reasons. She wasn't stupid. She was almost eight after all.

It was time.

She sat on the edge of the sofa, hands resting on her lap, heart full of expectation. Dad had been up in the attic, and as he carefully climbed down the thin ladder, dust in his light brown/gray hair, Lara noticed a dirty blue file box under his arm. He handed the box to Mum, who wiped it free of dust before giving it to Lara like a “pass the parcel” game.

Lara unclipped the file box. Inside was an envelope containing yellowing newspaper cuttings and, beneath that, photos.

“Star Patricia Reid Adopts a Baby!” screeched a headline. Lara glanced at it, feeling slightly shocked that Mum had once been in a newspaper. Lara imagined how she would tell her friends at school, what she would say. She'd always known about Mum gracing the covers of old music magazines and a few posters—but in a newspaper? Like Princess Diana. Wow!

“Sweet pea, listen carefully,” said Mum, sounding agitated.

“Singer Patricia ‘Trish' Reid, 32, who had a top ten hit with ‘Do You Want This?,' has adopted a baby! Husband Barry, 42, flew over to Nigeria, returning last night with three-year-old Lara. The family were reunited in emotional scenes at the airport. Of their new daughter, a beaming Trish said; ‘Lara is beautiful and all we've ever wanted!' and judging from the way Barry is gazing at his new daughter, he feels so, too.” Mum's hands appeared to be shaking as she read from the cuttings.

And another one.

“African baby for Trish!”

“Pop star Trish has done something rather unusual—she's adopted a little girl from a flea-bitten, rat-infested orphanage in a remote African village. Trish a.k.a. Patricia Reid took delivery of the three-year-old on Tuesday and was beaming as she held on to the little girl's hand. ‘Isn't she gorgeous?' said Trish. Her husband, Barry, added: ‘We can't wait to introduce her to our loved ones. Our family is now complete!'”

There were lots more cuttings, ancient and yellowing, but suddenly, Lara didn't want to look at them anymore.

“I know we told you some time ago that you were adopted.... But we've never really spoken about how we came to have you,” said Mum.

Lara turned to her dad, needing and wanting him to say something this time, anything, but the look he returned didn't say an awful lot.

“You … you said I was special…” said Lara, her face contorted into confusion.

“You are, sweet pea,” said Mum with a pained looked on her face. “But we thought it was time you saw these, so we could answer any questions you may have.”

Lara wondered what Mum meant by the word
but.

Does that mean I'm not special anymore?

Dad reached into the box and pulled out two pictures, which he handed to Mum, who then handed them over to Lara.

“Can I go now?” she said quickly. Her parents glanced at each other before Mum nodded her okay, leaving Lara to walk slowly to her room feeling as if they'd just spoken to her in French and she now had to go and find a dictionary to decipher every single one of their words.

Lara sat on her bed, switched on the steel gray lamp, and placed the two pictures beside her Sindy doll on her bed.

One of the pictures was of her as a young child—around three years old. Lara could be sure of this as there was an abundance of similar pictures neatly dotted around the house—but she never looked like this in any of them. Tight plaits resembling worms stuck out of her head, and she was dressed in clothes totally unfamiliar and cut into a really unusual shape. Plus she had no shoes on! How silly did she look?

Lara studied the picture some more, quickly noticing something like a handkerchief in her hand. The walls in the picture were a dull green, which was strange because none of their walls in that little house in Entwistle Way had ever been painted green. It was an ugly green, too. She placed the photo to one side and studied the second picture. It contained a really old and dirty-looking shack with a sign on the front that read
THE MOTHERLESS CHILDREN'S HOME
, and beside it grew a tall and luscious tree that to Lara resembled a huge pineapple. She carefully placed both pictures beside the gray lamp and sat Sindy on her lap, gently stroking the doll's long blond hair as the realization that she'd now stepped over some imaginary line began to dawn on her. She'd clearly ventured into a realm that was unfamiliar, scary, and more important, permanent.

And at almost eight years old, Lara realized her life would never feel the same again.

Now

T
he week of Lara's thirtieth birthday started off with a rain-filled morning blanketed by a dull and murky sky. Lara sifted through the bills and offers to make her rich, her excitement level rising steadily as she plucked out birthday cards from a mound of junk mail. Sandi's X-rated efforts contrasted effortlessly with Mum and Dad's pastel-colored sweetness. And by the time she'd placed each card on the mantelpiece beside the family of Peruvian statues, Lara had managed to convince herself the buildup was actually worse than the actual day.

Thirty didn't have to be a fast track to Oldsville, but an age full of fresh possibilities and opportunity. The future was hers, and she felt determined to use every opportunity to work hard and enjoy her success while trying her best to be a good person. Wasn't that what life was all about?

As was tradition every birthday, her mind erupted like the clouds overhead as it turned to thoughts of
her,
followed by a brief fantasy of what it would possibly feel like to rip open an envelope sealed by
that
person. To read words written by
that
person. To gaze at a card
she
had selected with her own fingers. Would it be a modern design or a traditional floral number? Indeed, Lara wondered if
she
even realized the significance of the day. How could Lara even be sure of her actual birth date anyway?

The downpour continued. Lara ran into work where her personal assistant, Jean, presented her with a large bouquet of thirty pink roses. Each business meeting concluded with a badly sung rendition of “Happy Birthday” along with the customary congratulatory handshake. Thoughts of
her
were buried until next year, and Lara allowed herself to feel heady and happy, suspecting that despite the rain, the day would turn out well.

“Thanks so much for the flowers. They must have cost a fortune!” she complained playfully to Jean.

“It's not every day you turn twenty-one, Lara!”

“For that, in about half an hour, you can take the rest of the day off.”

“Really?” he beamed. It was only one
P.M.
but the fact remained that Jean would regularly work late if a deadline loomed and this dedication wasn't lost on Lara. She appreciated him, perhaps more than he thought. Lara wasn't one to give in to too much emotion. Especially at work. The bare minimum was all that was needed.

Buoyed by fresh optimism, Lara stared out the office window as yet another “Happy Birthday” text appeared on the screen of her phone. She smiled to herself, noticing the patches of blue poking through the gray sky, remembering how thrilling it felt to have finally achieved an office with a view, and her name on the door, as well as the satisfaction of knowing all her hard work had paid off. She recalled that feeling of having “arrived” shadowing her every move, her every thought; governing how she conducted herself. Some may have translated her tough exterior as arrogance, but she knew it was more to do with relief, mixed in with a quiet fear that it could all be taken away from her at any given time. Nothing was forever after all. She placed strands of her slickly bobbed hair behind her ear and began to tap the middle finger of her right hand on the table. Four times.

As far back as she could remember, Lara had always dreamed of becoming a success, reaching a place where no one could ever touch her, and that no one in the Reid family had ever attained.

In fact, she and her best friend, Sandy (soon to be “Sandi” in later years), had hatched that plan as teenagers, in the corner of the school yard somewhere, sometime far back in the past, when they favored chewing gum for breakfast and regularly argued over who was the best band—Nirvana (Sandy) or Public Enemy (Lara).

“Bloody stinks being poor!” complained Sandy, kicking a clump of dirt on the ground with her scuffed trainers.

“We're not that poor!” said Lara.

“You may be okay, what with your pop star mum, but me … blimey, that family they put me with last night don't have a pot to piss in. Stuff all over the place, dirty. Even the dog did a runner. The so-called ‘dad' just spends most of his time in a bar drinking while she doesn't say a word to me. Don't social services do any checks before they place kids these days? I'm better off in the kids' home and that's saying something. What a crap hole that was!”

Lara wasn't sure how to answer that one. She'd only ever lived with Mum and Dad and had never really wanted for anything except a golden Labrador and perhaps a bigger room.

“Don't sweat it. You'll be well shot of them soon, right?” she offered weakly.