Being Lara

by Lola Jaye

  being Lara

  LOLA JAYE

  Dedication

  For Nanno

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Yomi and Pat

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Lara

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Pat and Yomi

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Lara

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  A+ Section

  Recipes

  Nan’s 888 Cake

  Butter Icing

  Mama’s Puff Puff

  About the Author

  Books by Lola Jaye

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Now

  Lara was now an alien.

  Her transformation had been swift and had appeared on the evening of her thirtieth birthday party, around six and a half minutes after blowing out thirty candles stuck into the top of a huge yellow cake.

  “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.

  Lara’s 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. Lara wants to exhale now; she can’t hold her breath like she used to when she was a kid. She’s thirty now, remember?

  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 even though she doesn’t recognize her, Lara Reid is consumed by a strong, strong feeling, nearly a certainty, that she has known this woman her entire life.

  It was the morning of her fifth birthday when the Little Girl first found out she was an alien.

  Standing in the middle of the school playground by the white oblong water fountain, this was less than eloquently explained to her, through a series of hand gestures and grown-up words, by someone named Connie, who had bad breath, freckles, and a pair of uneven socks.

  “You’re definitely an alien!” repeated Connie, whose fiercely plaited blond pigtails swung from side to side, like two whips, completing that evil demeanor the Little Girl had almost come to expect from Connie, as part of her school day.

  Itching to be let into the source of Connie’s information, the Little Girl felt only vaguely confident the comments had no real truth.

  “Do you wanna know how I know?” said Connie. “My dad said so!” she continued, hand on hip, body twisted into a sort of “S” shape, immediately awakening her to the belief that Connie Jones was not only the school bully, but could also read minds. That knowledge, along with a sudden image of an actual grown-up confirming an ET ancestry, blurred into an uneasy focus that shed new and unwelcome light on the moment.

  The Little Girl was clearly about to be exposed.

  “So … so … what else did your dad say … about me?”

  “He said you were an alien. Are you not listening?!”

  The words hung about like unwelcome pungent odors, threatening to overpower anything good or decent within the Little Girl’s reach. Although used to being on the receiving end of Connie’s nastiness, the Little Girl knew that something about Connie’s confidence, her whole manner, and that adult source meant this particular verbal onslaught plainly stood out from the rest. A mammoth revelation in a sea of minute insults she’d been forced to digest over the weeks.

  The Little Girl searched the playground for a friendly face, wishing to join the short-trousered boys who remained at the far end of the playground chucking marbles on the floor, chatting in general about boys’ stuff and the like. She wished for such simplicity and not the worrying revelations she was now forced to confront, thanks to Connie.

  “I’m telling my dad you called us aliens!” she threatened, part of her acutely aware that this cowardly approach could make things worse.

  She backed away and Connie followed.

  “Why? He’s not an alien, YOU are. My dad said so!” Connie’s blue eyes flashed with triumph.

  “Well … who told him?”

  “They told him at work!”

  “You’re lying!” the Little Girl protested as Connie’s words began to jumble up into shapes and colors she just didn’t understand.

  “My dad said it’s only YOU! We could all see it when your mum brought in your birthday cake. If you don’t believe me, just look in the mirror when you get home!” Connie sang eerily.

  “You’re lying!” she reiterated, mainly because her five-year-old brain couldn’t come up with anything stronger to articulate her feelings of confusion, helplessness, and growing frustration.

  “You don’t look like them and that’s because…” Connie rolled here eyes mockingly, and the Little Girl began to imagine what it would feel like to knock each and every one of her teeth right out of her head. “Because… YOU’RE an alien, stoopid!”

  And with that killer ending, Connie skipped off to terrorize another classmate or stamp on a spider, leaving the echo of her words to waft around in her wake like floating ash after the fire.

  That night, the Little Girl called out to her cousin Jason who was staying over, with the clever pretext of sharing leftover birthday cake. She tugged him by his orange-juice-stained T-shirt, pulling him toward the tall mirror in the corridor, as Mum sat engrossed in the telly and Dad snoozed in front of it.

  “What you doing?” asked Jason with agitation, as she forced him to stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder with her, like toy soldiers on an inspection. His head shot down in defiance, and she masterfully propped it up again with her forefinger.

  “Stand still, Jase! I’m not joking!” she hissed, careful not to shout and disturb the tranquillity of her parents’ “downtime.”

  Her eyes bore into the mirror, then to her cousin, to the mirror and back to him again. She did this so much her neck began to ache.

  “Whaaaaat?” whined Jason, perhaps once pleased to be free of his bossy older sisters for one blissful night, but now wishing they could forge a rescue mission A-Team style and get him away from this clearly deranged cousin.

  “Just stand still!” she said, pulling against the rigidity of
his arm.

  “I’m telling Aunty Pat!” he threatened.

  Narrowing her eyes and forcing the stream of concentration needed for such an important task, she stared intently at their reflections, acutely unsure of what she was actually searching for.

  “Aunty Pat!!!!” called Jason, traitorously.

  Opening her mouth to retort, she could only gaze at their reflections, immediately noticing that her cousin Jason appeared to be slightly taller than she was.

  “What’s going on?” asked Mum, appearing in the hallway and tucking away strands of blond hair that had fallen from the elastic band used to tie it in a rush.

  “I’m being held hostage!” he wailed with gross exaggeration.

  “Let go of your cousin, please!” said Mum in a warning tone.

  The Little Girl wrinkled her forehead, as if attempting to calculate her seven times table, before releasing him. Jason immediately ran in the direction of the bedroom as Mum crouched down to her height, filling the Little Girl’s nostrils with that familiar scent of lavender. Mum placed her hand on her daughter’s and, in that instant, something was revealed.

  “Sweet pea, what is it?” asked Mum.

  The Little Girl widened her eyes in wonderment, not able to actually close her mouth. This fresh realization was so raw, so real and it was staring right back at her from the mirror.

  Mum’s eyes looked different from hers.

  “What is it, sweet pea?”

  Mum’s eyelashes weren’t bushy like hers either.

  “Sweet pea?”

  The shape just above her lips stuck out a bit too, whereas Mum’s didn’t.

  And the tiny hole at the top of her ear and her really long eyelashes were also not shared by Mum or anyone else in the family. In fact, Mum, Dad, Uncle Brian, Aunty Agnes, Keely, Annie, and Jason all resembled one another in tiny doses while she…

  Forcing another glance at Mum’s hand, the truth knocked a little harder on the door of denial and suddenly she’d no idea what was happening.

  “Sweet pea, what is wrong?” asked Mum again.

  Unsure why, her reply was to simply stare down at her feet, noticing how lovely the pink-and-white fairy slippers with the gold sprinkles tipping from a magic wand looked on her feet. They were one of her many birthday gifts from Mum, picked to match the pink nightdress with the sleepy teddy bear on the front.

  She focused again on the image reflecting back at them, and Mum called her name.

  The Little Girl didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer. Not because she wished to be naughty, but because when her mouth opened again, nothing would come out, apparently struck dumb with the image before them. Fairy slippers stuck firmly to the floor, her whole body feeling trapped on an island with sharks swimming all around.

  And the fear. Nobody to call out to. Locked in a scary place—and worst of all, all too aware that Connie and her dad had been spot-on all along.

  Lara Reid was indeed an ALIEN.

  Chapter 1

  Then

  Lara’s family certainly wasn’t like anybody else’s living within spitting distance of Entwistle Way, Essex.

  They stood out.

  Mum had once used the word unique, whatever that meant. But for the most part, Lara was able to understand the differences between her family and those of her neighbors and friends. It had a lot to do with Mum, who hadn’t always lived in Essex, smelling of lavender, cooking her dinners, and washing her clothes. Once upon a time, before Lara was even a “twinkle in her parents’ eyes,” Mum had lived the life of an international pop star, with number one hits like “Do You Want This?,” a sort of “disco meets pop” song according to Dad and some ancient magazine Uncle Brian would bring out from time to time. Mum’s songs had been played on almost every radio station in England, allowing her to travel the world, mingle with stars, and regularly slip into sparkly dresses she never even had to pay for. Mum’s stories of that time were like a sweet spread of strawberry jam on a warm piece of toast—comforting and familiar—with Lara, at seven years old, never tired of hearing them.

  “What was it like?” she asked Mum, possibly for the tenth time that year, wistful eyes, huge smile, and palms resting daintily beneath her chin.

  “Well,” said Mum, placing a piping hot sponge cake on the table and wiping her hand on a slightly worn floral apron. Her red slippers glistened like Dorothy’s as she sat down and crossed one leg over the other, smiling with the heavy warmth Lara had grown used to. “What bit shall I tell you about today, sweet pea?”

  Lara sat on Mum’s lap with the steaming hot cake between them, in the back of her mind acutely aware she may be too old to do so, and cleared her head of Sindy dolls, Connie Jones, and whether Dad would ever stop pinching her chips and she listened.

  Lara “gasped” as Mum reeled off that familiar story of when she actually met Madonna (before stardom hit), giggled at what happened at the magazine photo shoot with the stroppy makeup artist, and imagined what it truly felt like to sing on a famous stage surrounded by truckloads of screaming fans.

  “Tell me more, Mum, pleeaase?!”

  Lara wrapped her arms around her mum’s neck, absently kissing her forehead in between each story. They were tales that felt a trillion miles away from that little semidetached house in Entwistle Way with a mum, a dad, and an invisible puppy, but yet they were so very exciting in their inaccessibility. Her young mind soaked up every word to retain until the next day at the playground, when she’d be happy to repeat it all with added embellishment to all her friends as Connie Jones watched jealously from afar. Connie didn’t bother her as much anymore. Calling out a few recycled gibes here and there that had since lost their power.

  “Do you miss it, Mum?”

  “Why would I? I’ve got everything I want with you, and your dad.”

  “And the puppy…” Lara added, searching Mum’s eyes for confirmation they’d actually be getting one someday.

  “Anyway, sweet pea, that was then, in the past. Remember, you and I are going to have our own little cake shop one day.”

  “Oh yeah, Mum! We’re going to sell lots and lots of colorful fairy cakes! And play dressup with pearls and long gloves!” she said excitedly.

  “Exactly. Now—” said Mum, gently standing up as Lara jumped off her lap. “I’m going to mix some butter icing and if you’re a good girl, I might let you lick the bowl…”

  Lara’s eyes widened with glee at the thought of not having to share the large spoon with anyone. Knowing her mum used to be a pop star was good, but even better was that Mum didn’t have to keep traveling to and from Los Angeles or the Oscars or whatever it was pop stars did and she could have her all to herself.

  Lara always looked forward to summer breaks, and the year she was seven, the Reid family spent that precious time in a town called Blackpool.

  Blackpool represented so much more than just an atmospheric world of funfair rides and candy floss; it was a glorious moment in time in which Lara got to sample the sweetness of freedom and forbidden treats—all under that watchful gaze of Mum. There was nothing like eating popcorn and multicolored candy floss until her lips resembled melting rainbows, laughing so much her cheeks and jaw ached. Lara loved the noisy, exaggerated exploration of open-top trams—a full-on adventure worthy of Indiana Jones—and on the beach, the meticulous construction of sturdy sand castles to cover a “screaming” Dad neck to toe in sand. It was easier making friends when they were on holiday, too. A girl—Sarah from the chalet next door—even agreed to swap dolls with Lara for the remainder of their stay, sealing an unspoken bond that would last at least until the holiday was over. Sarah had two brothers named Ryan and Toby, who liked to kick a ball about as Sarah and Lara discussed Wendy houses and dolls, careful to stay out of each other’s way as each set of parents sunbathed on the sand together.

  One day, Ryan said to Lara, “How come they’re your mum and dad?”

  “Because they are,” she replied confidently while also thinking it had to
be the dumbest question she’d ever heard in her life.

  “You can’t be though!” he added, anyway.

  “I’m adopted,” she countered, tilting her head in confidence, pleased as his expression morphed from nonbelief into confusion. Mum and Dad had sat her down and explained everything to her one day, saying that Lara was special and had been sent to them.

  A special little girl, Mum had said.

  “It still doesn’t make sense!” he said. Lara chose to ignore his blatant stupidity, rolled her eyes, and ran off to find Sarah. He was only a boy after all, and every one of Lara’s friends had long since agreed that boys were a bit stupid.

  Mum, Dad, and Lara walked back to their rented chalet that night, Dad clutching Lara’s hand as she skipped along and Mum holding on to an almost empty picnic basket, save for one banana and a half-eaten cheese and pickle sandwich. Lara’s eyebrows scrunched as she allowed thoughts of Ryan to form a huge question mark above her head.

  How come they’re your parents?

  Lara looked up at her dad, his mustache curved into a smile. He was thrilled to have finally tanned eight days into the holiday because Mum had been teasing him about his skin throughout. She’d called him pasty earlier and he’d responded with a playful slap on her bum, which had caused a surge of giggles among Lara and her new friends. But, no matter how hard she tried to shoo it away like an errant fly, Ryan’s question stayed with her. And at that moment, thoughts of that “alien” playground incident two years previous drifted back into her present memory—along with that absolute need for a Tiny Tears doll and a dislike of cabbage—threatening to confuse her yet again.

  They’d been back home in Essex a few weeks, with school starting again in the morning, when Mum tucked Lara in bed and read her a story about a beautiful soul-singing princess and the headbanging punk rocker who fell in love and lived happily ever after in a glitter-covered mansion in Surrey. As always after one of her stories, which were never read from a book, Mum kissed Lara on the forehead plus both cheeks and said, “See you in the morning, sweet pea,” right on cue, just as she always did each and every night for as long as Lara could remember. Lara hated the dark and regularly kept the little gray lamp with the adjustable long steel neck beside her bed, switched to “on” for most, if not all, of the night.