by Lola Jaye
“I’ve been searching the whole room for you. Where have you been? Hello, nice to meet you,” he said, acknowledging the two men on either side of her.
“Are you about to steal this delicious creature away from us?” asked the man in the red tie.
“I’m afraid so,” said the Most Beautiful Man in the World, who at that point could also have been slightly insane.
Lara didn’t say a word as he grabbed her hand and led them both away from the fray and into the hotel foyer, the two of them giggling like schoolchildren even though they hadn’t even been introduced.
Upstairs in the hotel bar, with a view of most of London, Lara’s savior was keeping their glasses filled to a respectable level as they chatted like old friends. He impressed her with each word he spoke, and she secretly found his American accent both uncommon and irresistible.
Tyler Jonsson was successful, handsome, and confident, everything she could desire in a man; and she tried not to engulf herself with the thrill of what could be.
My business takes up most of my time. I’m too busy for a relationship with a man. Any man.
But as they spent more time together after the event, Lara began to realize just how redundant her excuses were becoming. Tyler did not become a hindrance to her life, but a welcome addition. He understood if she needed to work late, at times even helping out with the paperwork. He understood, he encouraged, he said he cared—about her. He said he loved her.
And that was when the problems began.
Lara felt for Tyler with an intensity she found hard to articulate—even if she’d wanted to.
She’d fought against her feelings in the early stages of the relationship, maintaining an armor of fear and uncertainty—just like she had in past relationships with men. But Tyler always seemed to fight back, refusing to just back down, call it a day, or simply give up. He possessed an irresistible duality of traits molded together to make a man that women’s magazines could perhaps describe as almost perfect. He was a man’s man, but with enough of a feminine side to encourage Lara to “talk things through” with him, never afraid to almost nurture her at times. Like the day she knocked her wrist against the door. Tyler constantly made sure she hadn’t damaged her hand, asking if she needed treatment, offering bandages, kissing the tops of the bruised skin with such tenderness and warmth. He was also one very unapologetically tactile individual who needed to be touched, in contrast to Lara’s rigid and sometimes repressed way of being. She didn’t want to hold hands in the street or steal kisses as they walked across a park. She didn’t want to be like that. But Tyler was insistent. He tapped into somewhat masculine traits to grab her hand when she’d least expect it and, when people were about, to kiss her cheekily on the face as they stood in line at the jazz café. Although she turned away with a “Don’t do that!,” secretly she kind of liked it. He was also the type of man to insist she walk on the inside of the curb, his body a shield against anything that could potentially harm her. Tyler was constantly challenging Lara in ways she had never experienced before, and this scared her. But as time went on, something unexpected happened. She began to want his touch, feeling uncharacteristically complete when he’d finally sense her silent longing and just hold her hand, brushing his thumb against the surface of her skin. Sometimes her eyes would close involuntarily as she allowed herself to experience this sensation. The sensuality. The closeness. Only for a moment though. And then she’d pull away again—as if too much of it would somehow make it disappear, just like that.
And then she would go to the bathroom and tap the side of a sink. Or anything with a hard surface.
When they were apart, Lara didn’t allow herself to think of Tyler, but at times this was impossible. For example, if something reminded her of him, she’d be consumed by a rush of something good. But just as quickly, the feeling could turn negative, taking her to a dark, dark place intent on highlighting just how much better off Tyler Jonsson would be without her.
The more she felt, the more afraid she was of him slipping from her life as easily as sand from the palms of her hands.
Relationships came stamped with a sell-by date that could be weeks, months, or years—but none held a “forever” guarantee. Abandonment was only a heartbeat away, and Lara had decided a long time ago that it was best to preempt it.
It was Sandi who still teased her to this day that such beliefs on relationships stemmed from a boy named Mitch who dumped her when she was a teenager. But Lara knew her ideas had taken shape a few days after her birth.
And now Tyler, her boyfriend of over six months, was striding confidently through her door, smiling, arms outstretched, beautiful eyes sparkling, his mouth open to speak.
“It’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you so much,” he said.
“I think we should split up,” she said.
He stopped.
And so she repeated herself. “I think we should split up.”
“What? Where is this coming from?”
“Nowhere, I just…”
“I know what this is about. It’s all this craziness that’s been going on, right?”
She turned away.
He said, “Do you really think I’m going to leave you during one of the craziest times of your life? Talk to me. What is going on here?” He grabbed her shoulders gently but with a hidden firmness.
“I’m sorry, Tyler.”
She broke free from his grip. “Just respect my decision. If you love me—”
“What? Of course I love you! And I would respect your decision if it wasn’t for the fact that you’re just confused right now.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are. Let me help you. Don’t push me away like you always do. I mean, don’t I have a say in this? Why do you always need to control everything?”
“We both know you’re getting fed up. I haven’t forgotten the night at the Wolseley. I could hear it in your voice. You’re getting fed up with me. All the drama has just delayed things for you. This is obviously what you want.”
“You’re speaking for me now, are you?”
“Everybody leaves, Tyler.”
“You can’t keep using the ‘abandoned child’ card; lots of kids get adopted and they don’t act like you! Look at Sandi!”
“You know nothing about me!”
“I know enough.”
A long silence passed between them, when all she wanted was for him to put his arms around her so that he could kiss her crap away and promise her everything was going to be all right. But she knew that to be a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep.
“I need this break so that I can concentrate on… I need to concentrate on being Lara.”
Tyler sat down and flopped back onto the sofa like a discarded dolly, the look on his face threatening to soften her resolve.
“How long do you need, Lara?” he said quietly, his voice breaking.
“As long as it takes,” she replied, knowing he’d soon get bored and find someone else. Which was all right. She was effectively setting him free to do what was best for him, making it as painless as possible for the both of them.
“Tell you what,” he said, standing up.
She looked up at him, not sure what he was about to say. A part of her hoped he would fight a little bit for her.
“You take all the time you need, Lara. I’m done with all this. This is finished. We are finished.”
She suddenly wasn’t breathing, her eyes following Tyler Jonsson as he strode out the door, leaving her standing. Watchful. Empty.
And he was gone.
Pat and Yomi
Chapter 21
Pat
The arrival of this woman, Yumi, Yami, or whatever her name was, had affected Pat in ways she hadn’t anticipated.
For twenty-seven years, Pat had been allowed to experience an easy transition from pop star to all-baking, all-sewing mum, in a somewhat perfect straight line, no twists or turns. Just a lovely life that included her husband, little girl, and sm
all extended family, and along the way she even found her calling, so to speak. Her identity was no longer bound up in whether she’d score a number one hit, but in the well-being and laughter of a child named Lara.
Pat had always known Lara was “the one.”
She’d known ever since clapping eyes on her at the Motherless Children’s Home all those years ago. Initially she was fearful that Barry might not agree to the adoption, even though he’d never refused her anything in the past. But any fear evaporated that moment in Heathrow when she’d seen the obvious bond between them. Those few precious days in Nigeria and a six-and-a-half-hour journey had connected Barry and Lara in a way Pat knew she’d never be able to penetrate. Since Pat had not had such a relationship with her own father, it at first seemed a bit unfamiliar to her—unfair, perhaps. But as time went on, she began to see what a blessing and an aid it was to Lara’s transition into the British way of life. Their family was complete. Perfect even, despite her brother-in-law Brian’s reservations about “plucking a child out of one culture to another,” despite the odd stares as the three of them traveled to someplace new, despite those radical Public Enemy tapes she’d found stuffed down the side of Lara’s bed all those years ago.
And despite a small, tiny blip a few years back, when Lara was ten or eleven or twelve—Pat had blocked it out really—when a nosy do-gooder named Rosie had attempted to question the very essence of who they were as a family.
Instantly reminded of that frightening time because of how she now felt, Pat sat down at the table, transporting herself back to then.
Pat had always wondered why each and every sock she pulled out of the washing machine was odd—blue with gray spots, one plain yellow; one white sock, one green one. A diverse collage, a fact that wasn’t lost on Pat as she unloaded the contents of the washing machine into the plastic basket. She wondered whether her daughter loaded the basket with dirty odd socks purposely or whether some mythical sock fairy just magicked each sock away.
The latter story would probably be the topic of fierce debate as soon as Barry returned with Lara from school. Or they could discuss other topics, such as Lara’s new best friend or (much to Lara’s horror) maths homework. Pat as usual couldn’t wait for her to walk through the door. Her day, however busy, frantic, calm, or productive, always produced a staunch longing for the arrival of her family.
So the doorbell ringing at 2:30 startled her. They rarely received visitors who weren’t prearranged, and the afternoon post had already been.
Pat was unsurprisingly confused as she tentatively opened the front door to a woman dressed in a crumpled trouser suit, with short but slightly messy hair. A woman who, as Pat’s mother may have put it, must have “gotten dressed in the dark.”
“Mrs. Reid?” said the woman.
“Yes?” replied Pat suspiciously, as something about this woman didn’t sit right with her, and it wasn’t just her unkempt appearance. It was her whole demeanor, and Pat just wasn’t used to experiencing an instant dislike to someone on contact. She wasn’t like her brothers. She even liked the insurance man who came round every month to collect his money and when she and Barry were a bit short would say irritatingly, “But you’re a pop star, luv—all pop stars are rich!?”
“I’m Rosie O’Day and I’m from social services,” said the woman with the short hair.
Pat actually felt her heart sink to the floor, was sure she could see it lying helplessly on her hallway carpet, bleeding profusely as the quick realization began to hit her.
“Are we in trouble?” asked Pat without thinking, wondering if her words echoed with guilt. The last time she’d uttered such a sentence was as a six-year-old, late back from collecting conkers with her brothers over on Lakeview Common. Her mother’s frantic worry was overshadowed by a fierce wallop for each of them and the immortal sentence: “You wait till you have children, then you’ll know why I’m bloody well angry! It’s not easy being a flipping parent!”
Pat let the woman in.
Two teacups, Pat’s best teapot, and an uneaten plate of biscuits later and it was now four o’clock.
Predictably, Lara rushed for the plate of biscuits and appeared to be surprised at not being met with a stern “not now, you’ll spoil your tea!” Instead Pat watched the little girl she loved sit and gobble down two chocolate biscuits, perhaps with a look of surprise at being able to get away with it, capitalizing on Pat’s lethargic response.
But Pat just stared at her, heart swelling with love. She suspected the love had actually begun long before the little girl was pushed into the world by her birth mother, that at the very moment of birth, Pat felt a tug in her heart, a heart that had experienced its own past of pain and loss, only to be robust and ready enough to receive the love of this wonderful child.
And someone was going to imply that was wrong?
The mere thought repulsed Pat as she watched her little sweet pea (who, with long limbs and beautifully defined features, was no longer a “little” girl anymore) tuck into the chocolate biscuits. She wanted to catch hold of her daughter, grab three passports, and just disappear. But this wasn’t an action movie. And as Barry had said on the phone after she’d frantically phoned him earlier, the adoption had been legal and aboveboard. They had papers, documents from officials.
Pat turned away and felt a warm droplet race down her face. The fear that someone could actually take Lara from them had yet to subside, but a deeper fear languished in the back of her throat—the assumption that they, she and Barry, weren’t good enough for Lara because of their skin color.
As white people, we’re not the “right” parents to bring up a black child?
What?? Who made the rules? How could love be determined by color?
Endless questions.
Pat gripped the handle of the kitchen door, thinking she had to be in a dream. A nightmare. She’d always wanted an open plan kitchen but Barry had said it was hardly en vogue and would never “catch on.” Barry, with his off-the-cuff phrases; Barry, the man she loved, the best father she had ever come across. A thousand times better than the man who had fathered Pat and yet still, in the eyes of some, he was still not “good enough.”
Because he is white.
Pat wondered who had called social services with their “concern that a colored child was living in a white household.” Whose business was it anyway?
WHOSE FUCKING BUSINESS WAS IT ANYWAY?
Pat’s thoughts spun to now. Different time, same feeling of helplessness. Same level of anger boiling beneath the surface and threatening to spill out into a sea of expletives Pat wasn’t used to uttering. She quickly reminded herself that apart from that small blip, life with Lara had been absolutely perfect.
She’d never said such a thing out loud because it sounded conceited, and where she was from that just wasn’t the done thing. But it really had been. Or at least, this was how she’d perceived it to be.
Now this—Yumi’s arrival—and everything was about to change. Maria would probably call it a “balancing out” of life events or something. Because to have such perfection was unrealistic and something would have to give. Apparently.
Maria and her “theories.”
As Pat ironed Barry’s shirt, her lips tensed as she wondered what Lara was doing at that precise moment. Her sweet pea. A child who’d never disappointed her. Pat’s only real complaint was the child’s inability to even boil an egg! It was a running joke in the family, with Pat never voicing how much this pained her since it put paid to any dream she’d harbored of opening a cake shop with her daughter one day in the future. Pat’s fondest memories were of those moments together baking cakes—just like she’d done with her own mother. But Lara was more into fashion and sparkly things, and over time, Pat had come to accept that. Oh well.
As a teenager Lara had experienced the normal ups and downs, staying up in her room, displaying slight moodiness at times, but she’d never given them any trouble with boys, fighting, or bad grades. She always seemed
happy at school with no real problems—in fact she was the model child—and for the first time, Pat felt their relationship was about to be changed by a woman she’d assumed would never be part of their lives again. She hated this woman Yumi and everything she stood for. What type of woman abandons her child like that? Pat wished she’d just get back on a plane and basically disappear again like she had for almost thirty years. Why couldn’t she just leave them all alone?
Pat knew her thoughts were wrong, bad in every sense of the word, but she just couldn’t help it. Lara was theirs. Pat had been the one to soothe her to sleep after a nightmare at three o’clock in the morning; Barry was the one who’d walked her to school and back, every day for six years. Pat was the one who’d rubbed antiseptic on every playground cut and graze, read to her every night until she was seven years old and “could do it myself, thank you, Mum.” Pat was just so tired of being the charitable one, and she most definitely regretted the day she’d dutifully left their address with Kayo. They should really have just disappeared, fake address floating in their wake. Or they should have moved. The property boom definitely would have afforded them a bigger house, but she’d loved their home in Entwistle Way and still did. It was the first house they’d bought with the proceeds of a short-lived singing career and where they’d decided to stay until their last days, when Lara could then decide what to do with it.
Tonight as every night since Lara’s thirtieth birthday party, Pat would try not to cry herself to sleep. It wouldn’t be easy, especially as she’d also try to hide it from Barry. She didn’t want him worrying, since he was already looking worse for wear. Lines were etched around his eyes deeper than usual, and color was drained from his cheeks. He’d already had a heart scare once before. He didn’t need this added stress.
No, nothing had felt easy or perfect since the night of Lara’s thirtieth birthday party, and Pat was fearful of the future, hoping against hope that their little girl wasn’t about to leave them.
Yomi