in mid-conversation and for no apparent reason. What’s more, the bra under her see-through nightie isn’t even clean.
‘Let’s go,’ I say urgently to Mira, suddenly deeply fearful. She doesn’t seem to hear me. Her eyes are shining. The last time I saw them shining like that she was with Frank, the married man she had a passionate affair with. The man I don’t think she’s got over, even though she insists she has.
‘Let’s go,’ I say again. For I suddenly know that Mira feels herself close to the ‘tune’ Laren sang about earlier, and I’m not at all sure it’s one I’d like hearing.
‘Mellow out, Alice,’ Mira says, suddenly slipping into California-speak.
‘So, are you going to talk to her then?’ I demand. ‘You said you wanted to.’
‘I dunno,’ Mira replies, a little shyly. ‘Maybe later.’
I scrutinize Laren once more…trying to identify her strange attraction. Maybe it’s because she has somehow sidestepped the proprieties most of us have been saddled with for years. Seen in a certain light, that could be a cause of gratitude. This emotion has certainly spilt over on to Mira. She’s talking with a cluster of fellow fans. They’re agreeing that the evening was ‘different’. They’re discussing the aggressive sound-system and Laren’s clothes. Then they move on to other topics, because that’s what adults do. They’re drinking rather freely and, as they talk, small expletives and scowls occur. Slight grimaces twitch upon their lips and when their laughter comes – about men and marriage maybe – it is way too loud.
I have a sudden yearning to get into conversation with Laren myself. I want to ask her how she came to be like she is – and if it’s preventable. The thing is Laren looks like she wants a conversation as much as I need to know more about smiling. She’s scowling. Scowling into her drink and lighting up cigarettes offered to her by her equally weary drummer. She absent-mindedly scratches her elbow every so often. Someone I knew used to scratch their elbow like that – who was it? Now that I’m closer to Laren she seems strangely familiar. Have I seen her somewhere before? Glimpsed her on a poster in Virgin Megastore perhaps? From snatches of conversation I gather she and her band are waiting for their equipment to be loaded into their van. They are not waiting around because they want to. I should have known that. Then a skinny fellow wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and tattoo comes over to them, says something, and they drain their glasses.
‘Fuck the terrapins – I’m not putting up with them.’ That’s what Laren says to a man with long blond hair as she rises from her bar stool. I’ve heard that voice before. I know I have. It’s nothing like the nasal whine she sings with. As she turns to grab her packet of Gauloises from the counter I look at her. Really look. Burrowing beneath the layers of lurid make-up and spiky, dyed black hair. Like a grainy picture – obscured by its own white spaces – another face flickers for a second in front of me. And then it’s gone and, as the sharp, streetwise features of Laren Brassière condense, I feel even more bewildered. I am now sure I know Laren from somewhere, but I simply can’t place her.
The bar is closing. ‘Look, I’ll drive home,’ I tell Mira. ‘I’ve drunk far less than you.’
‘OK,’ Mira agrees swiftly. She sways a bit as she hands me the keys and keeps exclaiming ‘Oops!’ and giggling as we push our way through the crowds. As soon as she gets into the car she slumps inebriatedly into the passenger seat. Then, as I turn the ignition key, she starts to doze.
As I drive Mira’s car along the dual carriageway I am still puzzling about Laren. Where on earth did we meet before? Do we go to the same hairdresser? No – no it’s more than that. She’s someone from the past, I know she is. The face I glimpsed through all that make-up seemed a grown-up version of the one I knew.
‘Let’s go,’ I say urgently to Mira, suddenly deeply fearful. She doesn’t seem to hear me. Her eyes are shining. The last time I saw them shining like that she was with Frank, the married man she had a passionate affair with. The man I don’t think she’s got over, even though she insists she has.
‘Let’s go,’ I say again. For I suddenly know that Mira feels herself close to the ‘tune’ Laren sang about earlier, and I’m not at all sure it’s one I’d like hearing.
‘Mellow out, Alice,’ Mira says, suddenly slipping into California-speak.
‘So, are you going to talk to her then?’ I demand. ‘You said you wanted to.’
‘I dunno,’ Mira replies, a little shyly. ‘Maybe later.’
I scrutinize Laren once more…trying to identify her strange attraction. Maybe it’s because she has somehow sidestepped the proprieties most of us have been saddled with for years. Seen in a certain light, that could be a cause of gratitude. This emotion has certainly spilt over on to Mira. She’s talking with a cluster of fellow fans. They’re agreeing that the evening was ‘different’. They’re discussing the aggressive sound-system and Laren’s clothes. Then they move on to other topics, because that’s what adults do. They’re drinking rather freely and, as they talk, small expletives and scowls occur. Slight grimaces twitch upon their lips and when their laughter comes – about men and marriage maybe – it is way too loud.
I have a sudden yearning to get into conversation with Laren myself. I want to ask her how she came to be like she is – and if it’s preventable. The thing is Laren looks like she wants a conversation as much as I need to know more about smiling. She’s scowling. Scowling into her drink and lighting up cigarettes offered to her by her equally weary drummer. She absent-mindedly scratches her elbow every so often. Someone I knew used to scratch their elbow like that – who was it? Now that I’m closer to Laren she seems strangely familiar. Have I seen her somewhere before? Glimpsed her on a poster in Virgin Megastore perhaps? From snatches of conversation I gather she and her band are waiting for their equipment to be loaded into their van. They are not waiting around because they want to. I should have known that. Then a skinny fellow wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and tattoo comes over to them, says something, and they drain their glasses.
‘Fuck the terrapins – I’m not putting up with them.’ That’s what Laren says to a man with long blond hair as she rises from her bar stool. I’ve heard that voice before. I know I have. It’s nothing like the nasal whine she sings with. As she turns to grab her packet of Gauloises from the counter I look at her. Really look. Burrowing beneath the layers of lurid make-up and spiky, dyed black hair. Like a grainy picture – obscured by its own white spaces – another face flickers for a second in front of me. And then it’s gone and, as the sharp, streetwise features of Laren Brassière condense, I feel even more bewildered. I am now sure I know Laren from somewhere, but I simply can’t place her.
The bar is closing. ‘Look, I’ll drive home,’ I tell Mira. ‘I’ve drunk far less than you.’
‘OK,’ Mira agrees swiftly. She sways a bit as she hands me the keys and keeps exclaiming ‘Oops!’ and giggling as we push our way through the crowds. As soon as she gets into the car she slumps inebriatedly into the passenger seat. Then, as I turn the ignition key, she starts to doze.
As I drive Mira’s car along the dual carriageway I am still puzzling about Laren. Where on earth did we meet before? Do we go to the same hairdresser? No – no it’s more than that. She’s someone from the past, I know she is. The face I glimpsed through all that make-up seemed a grown-up version of the one I knew.
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