Wise Follies (38 page)

‘Yes,’ Laren confirms.

I stare into my mug of coffee. I can hardly believe the answer that has come to me, but it seems entirely true. ‘This may seem very stupid, Laren,’ I glance at her cautiously. ‘But I think “my favourite” wasn’t even a man yet. He was a boy. A boy called Aaron.’

‘Oh yes, Aaron,’ Laren says, slightly disappointed I think. Maybe I should have answered her with an anecdote. Given her some outlandish reminiscence of a wild affair with Brad Pitt. ‘You used to speak about him at school,’ she adds, speaking softly now. ‘He and his family emigrated to Australia, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, they did, when I was twelve,’ I say, amazed that my eyes have started to mist. I reach into my bag for a hankie. ‘This is ridiculous, Laren,’ I say, bashfully. ‘I’m being far too sentimental.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Laren pats my shoulder comfortingly. ‘He was special. A soulmate.’

‘He’s married with a family now,’ I sigh. ‘Funnily enough, he’s living in Alice Springs. I got his address some years ago and we wrote some letters to each other. It was nice, but it wasn’t the same.’

‘We can have more than one soulmate you know, Alice,’ Laren says consolingly. She seems so gentle now. So different from the woman who strode about so outrageously on that stage. ‘One day you’ll find another Aaron,’ she says. ‘Someone who shares his qualities.’

As she says this I realize the only person I’ve met who reminds me even slightly of Aaron is Liam. This realization is so unexpected that I clench my hankie tightly in my hand until it becomes a damp, tight ball. He has the same playfulness, the same humour, the same way of noticing things. But he’s too young for me and he’s marrying Elsie and…and he wears leather patches on his jacket. Yes, he’s obviously not for me.

‘Remember that woman in your village who said you’d marry the man next door?’ Laren suddenly asks disconcertingly. As she says this I take a deep breath and look at her. It’s obviously time to tell her about Eamon.

‘I’m not marrying the man next door, Laren,’ I say. ‘Actually, I’m marrying a man called Eamon in seven days’ time.’

‘Gosh!’ Laren exclaims, looking at me with startled eyes. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘I dunno, we sort of got sidetracked,’ I mumble. ‘We’re having a posh reception at Cassidy’s Hotel. Here, I’ve brought an invitation with me.’ I hand it to her. She stares at it for some time.

‘Lovely design,’ she says eventually.

‘Yes, Eamon knew the printer.’

‘I’d love to come, Alice,’ she smiles, placing the invitation slowly on the table.

‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ I say. ‘Bring Malcolm with you.’

Laren looks at the floor. ‘Actually, Alice, Malcolm’s moved out. We’re getting divorced.’

‘Oh no, I’m so sorry!’ I exclaim.

‘There’s no need to be, Alice,’ Laren says softly. ‘We were driving each other up the wall. We should never have got married really. In fact, looking back I’m not quite sure why we did.’

‘I see you still have the terrapins,’ I say, feeling a sudden desperate urge to change the topic of conversation.

‘Yes, he’s going to collect them one of these days. Funnily enough, I’ve grown fonder of them since he’s left.’ She lights a Gauloise and inhales it thoughtfully.

‘Do you regret marrying him?’

She frowns. ‘I think it’s pretty pointless regretting things,’ she says slowly. ‘Maybe there are some things we need to do, even if it’s only to learn they’re not for us. And anyway, he helped me to see that there’s such a thing as a wise folly.’

‘What do you mean?’

She leans on an elbow and looks at me earnestly. ‘There are some things that can seem foolish and wise at the same time. The sensible, moderate part of you shrinks from them, and yet another part of you knows they are exactly what you need. It’s a risk. You don’t know how it will work out. But you know you’ll always regret it if you don’t try.’

I lift my mug of coffee and sip it cautiously.

‘I spent so much of my life trying to make things safe, Alice,’ she continues. ‘That’s why I married Malcolm really. We met in Edinburgh. He was in a band. He was very protective and I was grateful. I was terrified of the uncertainty of life. I wanted to find a little corner where I could hide.’

‘Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt,’ I smile.

‘In fact, I wrote songs about how I was feeling and Malcolm liked them. He persuaded me to join his band. So I had to come out in the big wide world and sing at concerts. It was rather perverse really. Doing the very thing I dreaded. You know how insecure I was at school.’

‘Oh, poor Laren,’ I say.

‘But it got easier,’ Laren continues. ‘Sometimes you have to practise being brave. After a while I began to create another persona, Laren Brassière. I called her that because I’d always wanted a bigger bust. She was everything I wasn’t. Her songs became more feisty. She really didn’t give a shit. Hiding behind her I didn’t care if people liked me or not. In fact I encouraged them to find me outrageous. It was strangely liberating, but now I’ve had to let that go too.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it was beginning to become a trap. I was still hiding really. Not being myself. It’s so easy to slip into roles and then people, and eventually you yourself, believe they’re you.’

She plays with her lighter. ‘I used to think life was like a jigsaw, Alice. I thought you spent your time looking for the pieces to put together and when you had them all, things made sense. But the thing is, when you get to the sky bit – the real mysteries – the colours tend to look the same. You just have to keep exploring, I suppose. Experimenting. Because in the end it’s not about shapes or patterns but what fits in your heart.’ She looks at me earnestly. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

‘Yes,’ I nod sadly. ‘I think I’m just beginning to.’

‘And so now I’m going to have to become Laren MacDermott all over again,’ she sighs cheerfully. ‘Not the old Laren, of course, but the one that seems right for now. Do you think I can do it?’

‘Absolutely,’ I smile.

‘I’m going to give up singing for a while. People think that’s crazy. They seem to think if you’re good at something you’re kind of stuck with it forever – that you have to keep doing it. Being the person it demands. But I’ve other dreams I want to follow. A friend of mine has set up a hostel in Paris for battered women. I’m going to help her run it. That is my wise folly.’

‘What?’ This news certainly surprises me.

‘It’s not a new thing, Alice,’ she explains. ‘I’ve done a lot of benefit concerts for women’s hostels, both here and abroad. I have this wish to protect women somehow. Maybe it’s because I so often feel lost and bewildered myself.’

‘Do you?’ I look at her, surprised. ‘You seem so confident now, Laren. So assertive.’

‘Do I?’ she smiles. ‘It’s good to know I’m a good actress.’ She picks up my invitation from the table and starts to flick it in her hands. Part of the gold edging is coming off on her fingers. ‘I suppose I do feel those things sometimes, Alice,’ she says dreamily. ‘More often than when I was a schoolgirl anyway. But I still get that feeling sometimes.’

‘What feeling?’

‘You know, that everybody, simply everybody, has their lives worked out apart from me. It’s ridiculous, of course. I know they haven’t. But part of me still believes it.’

‘I know the feeling exactly,’ I sigh. ‘In fact, I was even rather scared of meeting you today because of it.’

‘Oh, Alice, we’re a pair, aren’t we?’ Laren giggles. ‘I don’t think we’ve changed as much as we might think. I wrote a song about us you know. About how we used to stare at neon tetras in my aquarium.’

‘I know you did. I heard it,’ I smile. ‘It was nice.’

‘Let’s have some wine,’ Laren announces suddenly.

‘Would you mind if I didn’t, Laren?’ I say slowly, putting a hand protectively on my stomach before I’ve realized I’m doing it. ‘I – I don’t feel like it just now.’ As I say this I decide not to mention that I might be pregnant. I can tell her in good time if it’s true.

‘OK, but I think I’ll have a glass myself,’ she says, padding barefooted into the kitchen. When she returns she sits on her cushion again. ‘I’ve something to tell you, Alice,’ she says, leaning forwards on her cushion conspiratorially. ‘One of the reasons I’m going to Paris is because of a man called Gustave.’

‘Mmmm – sounds intriguing,’ I reply.

‘Yes, and before you get envious I should mention he’s seventy and a retired professor. He’s got wrinkles and a beer belly and hardly any hair. He makes the most awful puns and doesn’t even speak English properly. But he’s my Wonderful Man, Alice. Isn’t that amazing!’

‘How did you meet?’ I ask, flabbergasted. Gustave sounds as unlike Leonard Whiting as a man could get.

‘It was in a bookshop in the Latin Quarter. I looked at him and he looked at me and that was it. Just like in the films. We had a coffee together and that’s how it started. Isn’t it funny, Alice – the things that are most important are often the hardest to articulate. In fact, sitting here I cannot tell you why I love him. But I do.’

‘Oh, Laren, how – how spendid!’ I say. Though I never dreamt Laren would fall in love with a man like Gustave, she has and I feel pleased for her. Genuinely delighted and relieved that one of us at least has stayed true to our earlier yearnings.

‘Oh, Alice, I hope you and Eamon will be very happy,’ she’s saying now, suddenly hugging me fiercely, protectively, as if somehow fearful.

‘We’re going to the Algarve on our honeymoon,’ I find myself mumbling. ‘The Algarve’s supposed to be nice, isn’t it? Have you ever been there?’

She doesn’t reply and after that we get on with the interview. I refer to the questions in my notebook and Laren answers them as best she can. Her answers are not the whole story, of course. Language is only what can be named. That’s one of the reasons life can seem so mysterious sometimes I suppose…all the things we haven’t words for.

‘Thanks so much, Laren,’ I say, as we finish the interview. ‘That was great. We’ll have to get a nice photo of you now. Would you mind if a photographer came round here?’

‘No, not at all,’ Laren replies.

I start to collect my belongings. Then, as I get up to leave Laren looks at me strangely. ‘Alice, if you ever need a place to stay in Paris you could stay with me and Gustave,’ she says. ‘He has a beautiful house near the Champs-Élysées.’

‘I doubt if I’ll be needing a pied à terre in Paris for a while,’ I smile resignedly. ‘But if I do, I’d love to stay with you both.’

‘Isn’t there an art college in Paris you wanted to go to?’ Laren continues.

‘Yes, there is,’ I say. Remembering it now is like recalling a lost dream. One of quite a number I seem to have accumulated. As Laren and I say goodbye and promise to ring each other soon I suddenly feel desperately sad, but I mustn’t cry. If I started crying I’m not sure that I could stop, and I have no wish to flood her apartment.

On the way home I look for the kingfisher again and think of Cyril. Poor old Cyril, how he would have loved to fly beside the river, to test his wings. Perching on a branch of some tall tree would have seemed so wonderful after the confines of his cage. But that one time he did escape his cage he just flew back to it. He just didn’t have the courage to face his own freedom.

We seem to have even more in common than I’d thought.

Chapter
31

I have made a
startling discovery. My mother did not throw out the romantic novel that so fascinated me when I was eight. The book she brought with her to the B&B with the bouncing bedsprings. The one called
Moonlight
with Tarquin Galbraith and Posy looking like they wanted to eat each other on the cover. I found it just now when I was packing. It was in a box of oddments from my parents’ house.