Kisses for Lula (23 page)

‘Thank you,’ said Arnold graciously. ‘So, I take it you were getting ready? Isn’t it a bit early?’

‘I’ve got to be there in an hour and a half!’

‘What? He’s not picking you up?’

I paused. ‘Nooo. But he’s got The Booth!’ I clapped my hands together fast.

Arns nodded and picked at his resized sweatshirt. ‘Huh. Will he walk you home?’

I stopped clapping abruptly. ‘We’re not going to kiss in the restaurant, are we? And not just on the pavement. So the only option
is
a walk home.’

‘We-ell, he didn’t last time. Y’know. I had to.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No. That was Jack.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No, that was Spawn of Satan. We speak not of him.’

‘Okay. But Ben of Satan? We can speak of him?’

‘Arns?’ I was startled. ‘Ben’s a nice guy. You’re joking right?’ The kettle grew loud then died back as the water boiled. I poured a careful measure into a mug emblazoned with
MORRIS MINOR CONVENTION
2008 and handed it to Arnold.

‘Yes, yes, just joking,’ said Arns, offhand as he examined the cup. ‘Why don’t you like Jack? I think he’s cool. He said to Mona that he doesn’t know why you th–’

‘If Ben doesn’t walk me home,’ I interrupted, feeling panicky, ‘I’m taking myself off the snog-plot scene completely. It’s got to happen.’ I felt flooded with determination. ‘Come see what the options are,’ I said, heading into the bedroom.

‘Uh . . . see
what
options?’

‘Oh, please. Don’t be afraid.’

Arns heaved himself out of the chair and followed me into my room. Instantly it didn’t feel like a good idea. The room was small and he felt a little close, stooping towards me under the eaves. I stepped back hastily and banged my heel on the drawer hanging out at the bottom of the chest. I said a few things to numb the pain.

‘Colourful,’ said Arnold, looking around for a good place to stand. He moved down the side of the bed closest to the door, while I stayed at the foot.

‘What, the clothes?’ I was confused – every item on the bed was black.

Arns raised his eyebrows.

‘Oh, yes, I’ll wash my mouth out with boric acid, I promise,’ I muttered. ‘Now, in the absence of Pen, which outfit?’

‘
You
are asking
me
?’

‘I’m desperate.’

‘Nice. Thanking you.’ He sighed and shook his head ever so slightly. ‘Hm. That,’ and he motioned with his index finger to a bundle near the pillow where he stood.

‘Poloneck and jeans? Are you out of your mind? That’s what I wore to the library this morning! Just haven’t chucked it in the laundry bin.’

He took a thoughtful sip of hot water. ‘Slattern.’

‘Hey!’ I said. ‘Watch it! You’re supposed to be being helpful!’

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘what I came to tell you is that I never finished explaining about those guys in the underground car park.’

My mobile rang, and I jumped, hitting my head on the eaves. ‘Frreeemph!’

‘You are so highly strung,’ said Arnold calmly.

The phone stopped ringing.

I bent over the chest of drawers, parting my hair to see if there was blood. ‘I think there’s blood.’

Arns came over and peered down. ‘There’s no bloo–’

Rrriiiiiiing riiiiiiiing – riiiiiiiiiiiiiing riiiiiiiing!
the phone began again.

At the first
rrrr
I jumped, startled. Calm Arns did not. There was impact.

Rrriiiiiiing riiiiiiiing – riiiiiiiiiiiiiing riiiiiiiing!

‘WHY?’ I yelled, furious. ‘WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HURT ME?’

‘It’s not
me
!’ said Arns, indignant. ‘Good heavens, Tallulah!’

Rrriiiiiiing riiiiiiiing – riiiiiiiiiiiiiing riiiiiiiing!

‘Don’t say good heavens!’

‘Pardon?’

Rrriiiiiiing riiiiiiiing – riiiiiiiiiiiiiing riiiiiiiing!

‘You sound ancient! Just don’t say it!’

‘Your head. I think there might be blood now.’

Rrriiiiiiing riiiiiiiing – riiiiiiiiiiiiiing riiiiiiiing!

‘Keep away from me!’ I glared at Arns and moved to answer the phone. ‘What?’ I said rudely. ‘Oh, hi . . .’ I turned away from Arns, hunching over slightly. ‘You get any more info?’

‘You got someone there?’ asked Bludgeon on the other end.

‘Yep.’

‘’Kay. Just keep quiet while I talk.’ I rolled my eyes for my own benefit. ‘Turns out the escapee from Fort Norland ’as been picked up in Neston, in the Wirral. ’E was noticed. Not a large town.’

‘Spare me the geography lesson, please,’ I muttered.

‘’Ey! This is free info, like. You wanna gimme lip then we’ll renegotiate, eh?’

I snuck a look at Arns. He’d picked up a small silky black camisole and was holding it at arm’s length. I couldn’t work out what was going on his head. ‘So what are you saying?’ I asked Bludgeon.

‘I’m sayin’ I’m workin’ on oo you reckon’s bin eyeballin’ you. But yer gonna ’ave t’gimme more t’work on ’ere. Y’know?’

‘I thought you said Mr Kadinski’d seen him. Can’t you get more information from him?’

‘’E’s not answ’rin’ ’is phone.’

‘Oh.’

Bludgeon sighed. ‘Jus’ take care is all. Ain’t never ’ad any stiffs on my watch.’

‘Lovely!’

‘I tells it ’ow it is.’

Arns had moved on to a very short skirt. He was holding it against his hips with an expression of disbelief on his face. His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out.

‘And?’ I asked crisply as I hung up.

‘What . . .’ he managed, ‘does this cover? Is this supposed to be a
skirt
?’

I bit my lips, but the grin crept out. ‘The truth now. You were born in 1928, Arnold, weren’t you? And cryogenically frozen so that you could appear in this age to remind kids of today that anything ending above the ankle is slutty and’ – I paused dramatically – ‘daaa
haan
gerous!’

‘I just can’t think how it’d be comfortable. That’s all.’

‘Comfort is not a priority for me tonight, Arns. It’s my birthday tomorrow. I’m about to be sweet sixteen and never been kissed. I can’t be branded like that for the rest of my days. Ben will be kissed whether he likes it or not,’ I said bravely.

Arnold sighed. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’

‘Pardon?’ I asked. ‘What doesn’t feel right?’

‘Something . . .’ he mused.

I waved him off with a flapping hand, and snatched up a soft black bolero cardi, loosely knitted so it was almost lacy. It hugged my chest and the sleeves came down way over my hands, so it gave me a demure feel, even though the black lace effect with my skin underneath was kind of, um, decadent-ish.

‘Better,’ said Arns.

I looked at him from under my eyebrows. ‘Go and sit down in the armchair,’ I advised. ‘Near the kitchen.’

‘Cool.’

I put a pale grey stretchy camisole on first, with tiny silver beads all along the neckline, over the straps and round the back, then the bolero cardi, then fishnet stockings – black of course, dark blue jeans and shiny black patent-leather pumps with grey satin piping and a small bow.

Next came deodorant – lots of; perfume – little of; makeup – less of. I attacked the hair with the straightening irons and was doing so well until Arns called:

‘I’m bored.’

‘And my arms are tired. You could be of use. Hey! I haven’t told you about Sophie Wenger!’

Arns appeared in the doorway. ‘You look nice.’

‘Thanks. She
is
seeing Vincent Harrow and they
were
the ones in Mum’s office. Can you kind of pull the irons through my hair like I’m doing here?’

‘I’m not sure. It looks really scientific.’ He was already moving over. ‘So what’s the next step?’

‘Mum’s asking Security to get the police involved again, so you’ll have to give us the goss from your mother. Main thing is that we get the papers back before Monday. That’s the final appeal date. Nothing at Vince’s house, though, and nothing at Sophie’s, but they
must
have stashed them
somewhere
.’

‘So we have the weekend,’ said Arns absently. It was quiet
while Arns read the instruction manual for the straightening irons, refusing to ‘operate a machine without suitable instruction’. When he was fully instructed, I sipped a glass of water while Arns swept pieces of hair gently through the irons. I started to relax.

‘Who was on the phone earlier?’ he asked after a ten-minute discussion on the merits of semi-skimmed over full-fat milk.

‘Uh, a guy I know.’

‘Bludgeon. What are you talking to him about?’

‘Geez!’

‘I wasn’t eavesdropping. He’s loud. And I have detective parentage. No disguising that accent out here in the provinces either.’

‘He thinks he’s down with the Londoners.’

‘He does try hard,’ conceded Arns. ‘Are you worried about that time you thought someone followed you home? Or are you digging the dirt on Ben?’ His face lit up in a smile.

I looked at Arnold in confusion, examining his reflection carefully in the mirror. ‘Dude. Do you not like Ben?’

‘What’s not to like?’ he said carefully. ‘It’s just that Carrie said –’

Rrriiiiiiing riiiiiiiing – riiiiiiiiiiiiiing riiiiiiiing!

‘Every time!’ said Arns through gritted teeth.

‘I need to get that,’ I said apologetically.

‘
Voilà, madame
,’ said Arns with a flourish, releasing me from the straighteners.

Tripping over his feet, I nearly brained myself on the wall. I whipped up my phone and said, ‘Hello?’ while staring at him accusingly.

‘What’d I do?’ mouthed Arns.

A faint voice came down the line. ‘Tallulah? Tallulah?’

‘Mr Kadinski?’ He sounded far away and then the line went dead.

‘Weird.’ I dropped the phone thoughtfully on the bed. Arns switched off the straighteners at the wall plug and then looked at me with his head on one side. ‘You’re looking
fabulous
,’ he said in a salon-executive accent.

‘Wow, you’d be a great hair stylist!’ I exclaimed, checking my reflection in the mirror. I liked what I saw. Straight and shiny blonde hair tipping elegantly past the shoulders, big blue eyes perfectly shadowed and eyelashes doing the business after a
lot
of subtle layering. Lips good – they did look unkissed, but that couldn’t be helped.
It would all change in a matter of hours
. Body looking slim, athletic, flab of chocolate gut strangely absent in clingy camisole, no hips – that too could not be helped – long lean legs, if the Gap label jeans were anything to go by, and pretty feet.

This was as good as it got. If it didn’t work with Ben . . . My throat went dry and I reckon the pulse hit 220 and stayed there till I made myself think of Jason Ferman’s skin
condition to calm it back down to a resting 58.

I came down the steps and gaped in shock.

‘Delicious with hot water!’ said Arns smugly round a mouthful of my chocolate stash. ‘Why do you hide them here?’

‘They’d better not be finished!’ I wailed. ‘How did you find them?’ I snatched at the bag and stared mournfully at the remaining three.

‘Stay calm, Lula. You ready to go? Might as well walk you to the meat market. And tell you what I came to say, which is that the guy with the aggressive door in the library car park had mayoral number plates on his car. I’m not up on local politics, but it could have been the mayor himself. What do you think? Does he drive himself? What does he look like?’

‘Thanks,’ I said, distracted. ‘I’d love company on the way over. Let me just knock on the kitchen window to let Mum and Dad know I’m off.’

Here I was . . . in The Booth. I stroked the red velvet seats, examined the silver cutlery, sniffed at the red rosebud in the vase. The Booth was enclosed by panelling, with a huge picture window on to the world outside. The glass was frosted up to halfway, so the tiny space was contained, yet flooded with lamplight from outside, intimate, but not claustrophobic.

Perfect.

My hair had behaved too. Smoothing it down, I winced as I pressed against the bump near my parting from Arns’s forehead. Did I have a bruise too? I was wondering about this and whether to examine the menu before Ben arrived when Mum walked past slowly as if she were looking for someone.

‘
Mum?
’ I exclaimed.

‘Oh, hi, Lula!’ She smiled brightly. ‘Where’s Sven? Or is it Ben?’

I sighed. ‘Not here yet. What are you doing here?’

She looked at me mournfully. ‘You forgot too.’

‘Forgot what?’

‘Our anniversary.’

My face flooded with colour. Oh no. Mum and Dad’s wedding anniversary. ‘Mum!’ I stood awkwardly and gave her a clumsy hug. ‘Congratulations. How many years now?’

‘Ha. Twenty.’

‘Wow. This is like a huge anniversary! A big deal.’ My voice faded. ‘You’re not here to celebrate on your own, though.’ I went white. I could feel the blood just draining away. Dad’s hot date. How could he forget his wedding anniversary for a floozy? Stupid question. I’d kill him. I really, really would. Standing up his wife on their twentieth anniversary.

‘Your dad will be here. I just wanted to make sure he hadn’t wandered past me. He’s not been himself, y’know.’

‘I know.’ My voice was grim.

‘He’s getting better, though.’

‘Mm.’ Something occurred to me and my eyes widened. ‘Mum! Did you check the clock? For the surveillance stuff?’

Mum sighed. ‘I got no picture, a muffled pornographic soundtrack of Sophie and Vincent for five minutes and then after the desk collapsed nothing at all.’

My face fell, but Mum clucked reassuringly. ‘Well, I’d better get back to the table, leave you to Ken. Sorry, keep forgetting his name – Sven.’

‘
Ben
,’ I ground out.

‘Yes, have a lovely time, dear,’ and she wandered off after one last look around.

Sitting in The Booth on my lonesome I thought of the last time I was here and suddenly missed Arns and Mona. Double dating was a whole lot less terrifying. I concentrated on the opposite bench, wishing the happy couple would miraculously appear there. They did not. I shut my eyes, took a deep breath and tried again. When I opened my eyes, Ben Latter was staring at me, only the tabletop between us.

‘
Yeep!
’