Could she be someone from school? Could she be… Laren MacDermott?
The thought seems so preposterous that I’m tempted to stop the car in a lay-by. Maybe I drank more this evening than I’d thought. Of course Laren Brassière couldn’t be Laren MacDermott, my meek, mild-mannered friend from school. The girl who cried every time Eric McGrath made the back of her bra ping open by pulling at it through her sweater. It’s just that she speaks like her, and they both scratch their elbows and have the same face and first name.
By the time I’ve parked outside the cottage I have pretty much accepted that Laren MacDermott is now Laren Brassière. I am still finding it very hard, however, to find any explanation for her mysterious metamor-phosis. As I walk up the pathway and Mira lurches after me, I recall that Laren never spoke about becoming a singer. The last time we met she was about to do a beautician’s course in Edinburgh. We were in Bewley’s Cafe on Grafton Street and shared a plate of chips. She did send me a postcard from Scotland. She didn’t write much on it. It was just a quick scribble to say she’d found a flat. She didn’t give me the address so I wrote to her care of her parents. She never replied. I was a bit disappointed, I suppose, but not that surprised. People do tend to drift apart after school.
As soon as we get into the cottage I fill a large glass with water and insist that Mira drinks it. She got through a considerable number of vodkas this evening. ‘You don’t want a hangover, do you?’ I fuss protectively.
‘Laren was wonderful, wasn’t she?’ says Mira, cradling her glass of water reverentially.
‘She certainly was unusual,’ I reply tactfully. I’ve decided not to tell Mira that Laren and I are acquainted. She’d almost certainly want me to invite her round to dinner. She’d probably arrive in a bodystocking or something.
‘I wish I’d spoken to her,’ Mira continues wistfully.
‘Well, I’m very glad I didn’t,’ I think, remembering that I’d wanted to ask Laren how she became what she is. If I had she might have asked the same thing of me – and I really don’t know what I would have told her.
I feel frightened suddenly. ‘Life is a narrow bridge,’ Aaron told me that once. It was a quote he’d heard somewhere. ‘Life is a narrow bridge and the important thing is not to be afraid.’ But I am. I wish I wasn’t. And even more so now that Mira has started to laugh beside me.
Loudly, and for no apparent reason.
Chapter 7
Laren MacDermott, that is Laren Brassière, is the reason why I like neon tetras. They are small tropical fish with streaks of blue that flash iridescently, especially in certain kinds of light. She had an aquarium full of them in her bedroom. Laren was a ‘day girl’ at secondary school, but I was a ‘boarder’. I wasn’t allowed to leave the school grounds until fifth form, and when I did it was often to go to her house. I stared and stared at her small fish. In some way they seemed to represent hope and how it can flash at you suddenly, iridescently, at the most unexpected moments.
I loved Laren’s home. It seemed to me the home of someone who should be carefree and happy, even though she wasn’t. She thought her bum was too big, her nose too long and her hair too lanky. She didn’t even like her teeth, which were perfect, and was very keen on Leonard Cohen’s more lugubrious songs. When I visited her mum used to give us mugs of tea and biscuits. It made me feel like I was back on civvy street. Ever since I’d been thrust into boarding school at twelve I’d felt as though I was in the army – a reluctant soldier sent to some perplexing front. I felt a certain identification with the joke that went ‘her parents couldn’t afford to send her to boarding school so they locked her in the attic for a while.’ I would have far preferred to be in the attic actually. At least it would have been ‘home’. While Laren
The thought seems so preposterous that I’m tempted to stop the car in a lay-by. Maybe I drank more this evening than I’d thought. Of course Laren Brassière couldn’t be Laren MacDermott, my meek, mild-mannered friend from school. The girl who cried every time Eric McGrath made the back of her bra ping open by pulling at it through her sweater. It’s just that she speaks like her, and they both scratch their elbows and have the same face and first name.
By the time I’ve parked outside the cottage I have pretty much accepted that Laren MacDermott is now Laren Brassière. I am still finding it very hard, however, to find any explanation for her mysterious metamor-phosis. As I walk up the pathway and Mira lurches after me, I recall that Laren never spoke about becoming a singer. The last time we met she was about to do a beautician’s course in Edinburgh. We were in Bewley’s Cafe on Grafton Street and shared a plate of chips. She did send me a postcard from Scotland. She didn’t write much on it. It was just a quick scribble to say she’d found a flat. She didn’t give me the address so I wrote to her care of her parents. She never replied. I was a bit disappointed, I suppose, but not that surprised. People do tend to drift apart after school.
As soon as we get into the cottage I fill a large glass with water and insist that Mira drinks it. She got through a considerable number of vodkas this evening. ‘You don’t want a hangover, do you?’ I fuss protectively.
‘Laren was wonderful, wasn’t she?’ says Mira, cradling her glass of water reverentially.
‘She certainly was unusual,’ I reply tactfully. I’ve decided not to tell Mira that Laren and I are acquainted. She’d almost certainly want me to invite her round to dinner. She’d probably arrive in a bodystocking or something.
‘I wish I’d spoken to her,’ Mira continues wistfully.
‘Well, I’m very glad I didn’t,’ I think, remembering that I’d wanted to ask Laren how she became what she is. If I had she might have asked the same thing of me – and I really don’t know what I would have told her.
I feel frightened suddenly. ‘Life is a narrow bridge,’ Aaron told me that once. It was a quote he’d heard somewhere. ‘Life is a narrow bridge and the important thing is not to be afraid.’ But I am. I wish I wasn’t. And even more so now that Mira has started to laugh beside me.
Loudly, and for no apparent reason.
Chapter 7
Laren MacDermott, that is Laren Brassière, is the reason why I like neon tetras. They are small tropical fish with streaks of blue that flash iridescently, especially in certain kinds of light. She had an aquarium full of them in her bedroom. Laren was a ‘day girl’ at secondary school, but I was a ‘boarder’. I wasn’t allowed to leave the school grounds until fifth form, and when I did it was often to go to her house. I stared and stared at her small fish. In some way they seemed to represent hope and how it can flash at you suddenly, iridescently, at the most unexpected moments.
I loved Laren’s home. It seemed to me the home of someone who should be carefree and happy, even though she wasn’t. She thought her bum was too big, her nose too long and her hair too lanky. She didn’t even like her teeth, which were perfect, and was very keen on Leonard Cohen’s more lugubrious songs. When I visited her mum used to give us mugs of tea and biscuits. It made me feel like I was back on civvy street. Ever since I’d been thrust into boarding school at twelve I’d felt as though I was in the army – a reluctant soldier sent to some perplexing front. I felt a certain identification with the joke that went ‘her parents couldn’t afford to send her to boarding school so they locked her in the attic for a while.’ I would have far preferred to be in the attic actually. At least it would have been ‘home’. While Laren
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