Being Lara

by Lola Jaye

  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.

  “Yep. I move on to the next lot of idiots, veeery soon. I tell you, girl, one day I’m going to be so rich! So rich, I won’t need anyone. You get what I mean?”

  “Yep, sure do.”

  “I’ll buy a huge mansion and lots of cars.”

  “And a swimming pool!”

  “With a side bar that only sells cocktails with umbrellas. Maybe your mum has some contacts and she could hook us up with some rock stars or something.”

  “Don’t know about that!”

  “Why not? It would be great… I can just see it now. No one could touch us!”

  Sandy propped herself against a dusty half wall. “Yep, the best way to stay safe is to be minted. Rich. To never have to ask anyone for anything.”

  “Yep, I agree.”

  “So, I don’t know about you, but that’s where I’m heading.”

  Sandy’s plan had panned out well for her. Now at the top of her field as a senior digital adviser, she earned well into six figures as a consultant, traveling to and from Europe bimonthly with a permanent smile etched on her beautiful face. And Lara wasn’t doing so bad herself. She obtained an honors degree from a decent enough university, after which she managed to score a job as a department store buyer before having the audacity to apply to her current employers as an assistant and be promoted to online editor within three years. Lara had always adored all things sparkly, so now being paid handsomely to work with jewelry on a regular basis felt at times like a professional dream come true. On the surface, she had everything: beauty (according to a very biased mum and best friend, although to Lara she had a bum that just wouldn’t quit and a bad dose of spotty skin once a month); her own apartment; parents who were still married; and the regular attention of a very amazing man (according to best friend, Mum, and Agnes). But to Lara, so much more was missing.

  Something just wasn’t right. She’d never felt complete—a whole person. She was happy, yes. Complete, no. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was possible to be one and not the other. Was it? She felt unsure of where she began or ended. It was hard to explain to anyone, so she didn’t.

  With the prospect of a busy day ahead—fielding calls, meticulously checking contracts, browsing the website for any mistakes or inconsistencies before allowing herself a peep at the “traffic” figures—Lara welcomed the interruption from Jean.

  “Lara, your mum is on line one,” he said.

  “That’s great, Jean. Put her through and then go home! It’s almost two P.M.!” She slid into the gray swivel chair as another beep, this time from her BlackBerry, sounded. Another “Happy Birthday” text.

  “Mum!” she said with a mixture of happiness and guilt.

  “Happy Birthday! How’s my sweet pea, then?”

  “Mum, I’m a big girl now!”

  “Thirty, I know!!”

  “Please, don’t remind me.”

  “Why? You’re still a young girl. Wait till you get to my age.... Which is why I’m calling you … about that family get-together this weekend. Your father and I want to make it into a sort of party for you. You, me, your aunty and uncle…”

  “Mum, wait. I thought we’d agreed we were just having dinner? I don’t want a fuss.”

  “I know, but it’s your thirtieth…”

  Lara sighed, recalling just how much her mother loved to throw parties. It had been like that ever since Lara was a little girl. She remembered how much Mum enjoyed the whole buildup even though she’d spend the whole week in an apron, baking. Mum’s gift for baking was something they now joked about with a mixture of laughs and guffaws, until someone had to go and mention the whole genetics thing, that such a gift for Madeira, fairy cakes, and soda bread could only have been passed down from a mother. At which point, Mum’s face would fall, with the air suddenly uncomfortable and Dad or someone else interjecting that it was Mum’s duty, of course, to pass on culinary skills to Lara, who, unfortunately, had yet to boil an egg for less than twenty minutes. Ha ha.

  “Please keep it small, Mum; I’m not into all that birthday party stuff anymore.”

  “Why not? Look at what you’ve achieved. It’s not as if you had the best start in life, is it?”

  A minute moment of awkwardness passed through the phone line.

  “Mum… Please, nothing big. I had enough parties when I was a kid.”

  “Well, this can be your last one … for now.”

  “Fine,” said Lara reluctantly, wishing Mum had given her a bit more notice. She’d need time to prepare. It was bad enough reaching thirty and all the feelings it was bound to dredge up à la aging. But far from the stereotypical “will I ever get married?” and “where am I going?” mantras most of her friends seemed to have on internal loop, Lara feared it would be the same “where did I come from?” question/statement/feeling that always seemed to pop up around this time of year, covered with a familiar coat of emptiness. She snapped out of her overly deep and meaningful thought process—she had to stop doing that—and discussed more pressing issues.

  “Just make sure there’s cake, Mum, and lots of it.”

  “That goes without saying. Cake, family, and a bit of music. What could go wrong?”

  After a quick chat with Dad concerning tough negotiations over the refurbishment of his shed, Lara hung up with a “can’t wait to see you at the party.” As soon as the call ended, she shifted her position regarding the party only slightly. Perhaps she was willing to partly acknowledge that having a thirtieth birthday might not be so bad after all. Not all birthdays had to be disasters or an excuse to delve into the depths of despair and abandonment—or a day full of “hard done by” streams of thought that existed merely to allow her the release of counting and tapping. No. It didn’t have to be about all of that.

  Lara remembered how her eighth birthday had started with such fun.

  How different it had promised to be. It wasn’t long after Mum and Dad’s bombshell regarding the nature of her adoption, and Lara was not averse to playing on their guilt. So it was no real surprise when Mum agreed to a McDonald’s party instead of one at the house. Yummy burgers and strawberry shakes instead of cheese on sticks and orange squash. Lara was thrilled when Dad sorted everything out, securing the WHOLE of the upstairs just for her as regular customers sat below.

  Lara and a handful of her classmates danced and frolicked just like other eight-year-olds, thrilled to be allowed cola with ice and mouthfuls of french fries.

  In keeping with tradition, it was obvious to Lara that Mum had baked a cake, but she’d yet to see it. So when a uniformed member of staff walked in clutching a colorful rectangular object, Lara feigned surprise as her friends gasped at the beauty of the L-shaped cake, decorated with pink edible flowers and sky blue polka dots. Lara was used to her mum’s baking artistry, but never got bored with the look of surprise on others—as she herself filled up with pride at what her mum could do.

  Her mum.

  The member of the staff clutching the sides of the foil base, which held the cake, had huge “round” hair. Lara would never forget her or how she smiled so widely, wobbling a little as she carried the precious cargo toward the masses. Lara began to worry she would drop the cake or trip over a pair of pumps that one of her friends had taken off in a moment of childlike abandon, which were clearly in her path. But no, she walked right around them, placing the cake in front of a little girl called Sally Warner, who had a generous mop of ginger hair and a slight lisp.

  “There you go, Lara,” said the woman as she placed the cake in front of Sally. Sally glanced toward Lara and then at the woman. The room fell silent. The children were no longer chatting and neither were the grown-ups.

  Dad seemed to sprint over, saying, “That’s not Lara; this
is Lara.” He pointed toward his daughter and the woman’s expression changed so dramatically, so clearly, her smile now a frown tinged with embarrassment. Lara was unable to feel anything but the shame and unhappiness that this one act had helped create.

  At that moment Lara had truly wanted to die.

  The cake was cut, and Sally and the others were tucking in. But Lara had lost her appetite. Her enthusiasm for the day was now buried someplace she’d no interest in visiting.

  She was sure it was the most humiliating birthday she would ever have to experience. No matter how bad life would get, nothing else could top that moment.

  Lara stepped out of her car to find the familiar black Mercedes parked in the visitors’ spot, lights flashing as she walked up beside it.

  The window slowly rolled down. “Happy Birthday, baby,” he said in that slow drawl she always found irresistible. He jumped out of the car, grabbed her, and placed a set of beautifully soft lips on hers. She stiffened momentarily, unable to cope with the potential change to her evening and the affection. Mum making new plans without telling her was bad enough, but this? Lara had already planned an evening that included a check on sales figures for the last quarter, watering the plants, and then having a little think about … life. Her life. A bit of reevaluation. Tyler had not been part of her mental agenda, and his sudden appearance made her feel uncomfortable.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, unable to remove the slight irritation from her voice as he slipped his long-fingered hand into hers.

  The cold from a sudden gust of wind whipped against her cheeks as he chivalrously took the laptop from under her arm, ignoring the question. “You’re late today. Can’t believe you’re working late on your birthday.”

  “I went to the gym—I always go on a Wednesday, you know that. Did you leave something the other night?” Lara asked uneasily as she turned the key in the gate lock.

  “It’s your birthday, lighten up!” he said.

  “I know but—”

  “Do I need a reason to see my lady?” he said, smiling with that beautiful mouth that seemed to stretch from ear to ear. She turned her face away as they walked through the gated complex, the harsh sound of crunching gravel following them as they trod past the statues of two stationary cannons, then through to Artillery Court and upstairs to 52—Lara’s flat. Once inside, Tyler placed her laptop on the dining table and switched on the light. Lara’s open plan “living experience,” complete with mezzanine bedroom, had been a good idea at the time, but now she realized it increasingly meant being unable to shut herself away from others when she needed to. She often craved her own company and would happily spend hours at home working or, on the rare days she took off, just basking and being—feeling safe knowing that she could always rely on herself and proud she was self-sufficient enough to never actually need anyone around. People. Of course there was Sandi, her oldest friend, whom she adored. But even she’d never dream of popping over uninvited, birthday or not. A lot of her friends lived in Essex, so that, too, would require prior notice. She wasn’t a loner of any sort—Lara just preferred solitude. That was just who she was, and at that very moment, Tyler clearly didn’t understand this.

  “I missed you,” he said in that American drawl full of a mystery that at times comforted her.

  “I just wished you’d let me know you were coming,” she complained.

  He smoothed his hand over his close-shaven head and sighed with slight exasperation. Lara knew his hackles were rising just a little bit. She also knew it was time to turn off the road marked “negativity” where this conversation was clearly heading. It was her birthday, and perhaps she should take a break from the internal conflicts that regularly plagued her and just go with the flow. No fighting, no planning; just go with the flow, Lara.

  “Lara, I know you said you wanted to be alone tonight, but I thought I’d come over anyway. It’s your birthday and forgive me if I have an issue with you spending it alone.”

  “I have so much to do—”

  “Hush,” he said, gently placing a finger against her lips to silence her. “Can we just go? I have a table booked for us at your favorite restaurant, if it’s not too much trouble?”

  “But I haven’t prepa—”

  “Did you not hear me? Your favorite restaurant…”

  “The Wolseley?”

  “Yes, the Wolseley,” he replied.

  A squeak of excitement threatened to appear. Just a squeak.

  “Okay, all right. But I need to go inside and freshen up…”

  “No way; I know how long you ladies take. You look great, like you always do. We’re going now!” he said with a laugh. Her eyebrows scrunched in frustration. She needed to at least change and wash—even if she had just taken a shower at the health club.

  “Come on, it will be all right,” he said playfully yet firmly as he led her to his car. “Just take a couple deep breaths. Spontaneity is good.”

  “So, thirty…” said Tyler, leaning back in his chair as Lara’s fork scraped the remnants of the rich dessert that only minutes ago had been topped with a sparkler over iced letters that read “Happy Birthday, Lara,” thanks to an attentive maître d’. Despite the prickly beginning, they’d had a lovely evening so far. Eating, talking about work and an indie film they both wanted to watch, and discussing, of course, birthdays.

  “Thirty is nothing but a number,” she said, dabbing at her lips.

  “I agree, but doesn’t it make you feel all grown up?”

  “You tell me, you were there a few years ago.”

  “Hey, not that long ago!”

  They both laughed as people buzzed around them. As always, the place was packed with chatter, laughter, and general merriment, but also as always, to Lara it felt as if they were the only two people in the room.

  “Mum’s having a sort of party for me on Saturday. You’re welcome to come,” she threw in casually.

  “And you’re only just letting me in on it now?”

  “I only just found out. Tyler, you know me, I’m not into fuss. I would have told you…” But Lara wasn’t wildly confident she actually would have. Not for any malicious reasons at all … more the reality of looking back at pictures of her thirtieth birthday and seeing Tyler “her lost love” staring back at her—because to think they would still be together so far into the future was a fallacy. A total impossibility. So it would be better to limit the pain now by not creating too many reminders for her to cringe at later. Of course, she was old enough to know if she’d ever said any of what she was thinking out loud, she’d be laughed at. But she understood.

  Lara had always understood.

  She’d understood and known it ever since the first day Tyler had chatted her up at a networking event six months ago. She’d known it as soon as his beautiful eyes had held her gaze for longer than was necessary and she’d wanted to run and hide because of the intensity of it all. She’d known it the first time they’d held hands walking along the South Bank and they’d stopped to look at each other. And she’d known it the first time they’d kissed. She’d experienced an almost out-of-body experience as she allowed herself to be transported into a beautiful, peaceful, and floaty world where only she and Tyler existed. Happiness and fear fought for supremacy there—happiness that she had found something so beautiful in Tyler but fear that it would somehow, and very soon, be taken away from her.

  They drank coffee as the evening edged to a close.

  “For your next birthday, we’re going to Paris, have lunch, a long walk along the river. A bit like what we got up to on our first date, huh?”

  “That would be okay, yes,” she replied quietly.

  “We could jump on the Eurostar, just me and you,” he continued as Lara imagined what that would feel like. To just jump on a train to a foreign land, away from everything. Just the two of them together. One year from now. It sounded amazing. It sounded scary, because being Lara meant a cold sweat at the thought of such spontaneity. She only felt a
semblance of being human if her life was planned daily, because in her thirty years of experience, it paid to be prepared, to make sure all bases were covered—catch the shit before it hit the fan, if you like.

  Back at the flat, Tyler pulled her into his arms as her mind wondered about those sales figures or whether she should prepare for that conference call in the morning. But as he moved in for a kiss, she felt the pages of her internal itinerary just melt away, albeit temporarily, as she allowed herself to surrender to the robustness of his arms. In contrast, his kisses felt soft and buttery against her skin, his tongue probing and wanting as her mind switched to the blank canvas it was rarely allowed to be.

  He stopped to look at her, his blazing blue eyes—a legacy from his Danish father—alert and questioning.

  “What?” she asked with a smile.

  “I love you, Lara Reid,” he whispered hoarsely. And very quickly, her smile stiffened.

  Oh, how she wished he hadn’t said that.

  The first time he’d uttered those words was around three months ago, after which she’d shifted uncomfortably in the chair with a false smile, eyes cast downward. Part of her was a little grateful he’d said it; another part did not truly believe him. She’d even assumed that by now Tyler would have stopped feeling it, stopped saying it, but no, he’d pressed on. Tyler Jonsson had said those words whenever the mood seemed to grip him—in the car, during a meal, on the telephone—and yet she’d never uttered them back. Even though during his absence, her mouth would always curve into a smile whenever she was reminded of him—by someone with the same name or hearing a favorite song of his. Even though she’d at times imagine the contours of his face outlined on the screen of her computer. Even though she could never imagine kissing another man, ever again, in her entire life. Even though the mere thought of him would flood her entire body with warmth. Even after so much more, all she could reply was a muted, “Me, too.”

  “Me, too,” she replied on autopilot, turning her gaze away from him. “I’m sorry, I’m… I’m a bit tired, Tyler.”