‘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 – ‘daaahaangerous!’
‘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!’
‘Didn’t mean to give you a fright.’ He picked up one of my hands, clenched on the table, and raised it gently to his lips. My entire body broke out into such mad prickles I thought my hair might actually be lifting off my scalp.
‘Hellohiohthereyouarehaha!’ I gabbled.
‘Finethanks’n’you?’ he replied automatically, his eyes flickering over the rest of the restaurant. The Booth was very secluded, though his seat had a bit of a view of the other tables. Mine had virtually none.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I said, and took my hand back.
Ben looked at me properly then, and I flushed as I smiled at him, meeting his gaze. He looked like he was about to give me a compliment when a very skinny, very gorgeous waitress headed over to our table.
Please go somewhere else, I willed, but no. Beeline for us. She handed the menus over and asked us what we’d like to drink with a very lingering look at Ben. I know she thought her lustful stare was returned, but Ben was just gazing blankly, trying to decide between orange or apple juice.
‘Still mineral water for me, please,’ I said when she deigned to look in my direction.
Once the drinks order was out of the way, Ben turned to his menu straight away, so I examined mine also. It would have to be that Caesar salad again. With croutons.
Ben coughed. ‘Well, I know what I’m having!’
‘Yes?’ I smiled.
Through the enormous picture window at my elbow, I caught sight of a shadow slowing on the pavement outside. I glanced up above the line where the frosting stopped and met the blank eyes of Jack de Souza for an instant before he walked past.
I knew it! It had been him following me all over the place! Bludgeon’s info had been wrong. The realisation had my heart yammering away, my palms sweaty. I was relieved it had only been him, but I felt angry and betrayed too. What was he up to? Writing me up as a case study for a teen mag? The problem page, no doubt. My blood boiled.
Ben had replied and his eyebrows were raised at me now.
‘Sorry, Ben.’ I felt so brave saying his name. How weird? ‘What did you say?’
‘Said it’s got to be the rare fillet. You?’
The image of a recently blooded tongue moving into my mouth nearly made me gag. I swallowed hard, but my voice still came out like a croak: ‘Uh, probably the Caesar salad.’
‘C’mon. Be daring. That’s such a girly thing to order and you don’t strike me as that girly.’
‘Oh?’
Ben leaned over the table, and I shifted forward slightly too. ‘You seem to have . . .’ He paused and I found it difficult to breathe. Our faces were only inches apart, and I could see a tiny nick on his cheek where he’d cut himself shaving. I wanted to touch it. With my lips. Get a grip, Tallulah! I drew a shallow breath, and Ben smiled slowly, staring at my mouth now. Oh, glory be. Was this going to be it?
But Ben was speaking again. ‘You seem to have more to you than meets the eye.’
I smiled politely. The cliché was a disappointment, even though Ben’s proximity was not. I wondered what he’d do if I kissed him. My smile grew into a grin and I tried to bite it back, but Ben said, ‘You don’t think so?’
‘Er, what do you mean?’
‘You don’t think there’s more to yourself than meets the eye?’
I cleared my throat, confused. ‘Oh, right. Of course there is – that’s true of anyone I reckon.’
The moment had gone. I straightened up a little and fiddled with the beads at my neckline, then checked that my hair was still behaving. Catching myself fidgeting, I stopped. Ben was watching me. He nodded. ‘I know people,’ he said, and nodded again.
‘So there’s more to you already,’ I said. ‘The scientist who’s also interested in people.’ I beamed.
‘Absolutely,’ said Ben, and he leaned towards me again.
I held my breath. He pushed the small vase of flowers out of the way and reached for my hands.
COUGH! ‘Decided what you want to eat, then?’
Oh, frik. That bliddy skinny waitress was back.
‘Caesar salad, please,’ I said abruptly.
‘Fillet steak, please, Susan,’ said Ben, and he explained how he’d lik
e it grilled. She laughed sweetly and said she’d put a word in for him with the chef. His meal would be as good as if she’d cooked it herself.
‘I’ll have to try that sometime,’ said Ben in a low voice as she bent to retrieve our menus, predictably exposing cleavage that had recently seen a tube of self-tan.
Heat flushed my face and as soon as she’d departed I said tartly, ‘Do you want to try her home cooking tonight? I can tell the maître d’ that I’ve got a headache.’
‘Feisty!’ said Ben, and he leaned back, his arms behind his head, showing off a very decent chest. ‘Forget that, Tallulah. I just didn’t want to embarrass her.’
‘If you’re interested in people, you’ll be glad to learn that leading them on is not a good placatory gambit.’
Frik! What was that with the vocab? Did Pen just creep into my head? I could have bitten my tongue off. (Or maybe not. I was no stranger to tongue pain after that episode with Arns.)
‘Intelligent too,’ crowed Ben, and he brought his arms down suddenly, propping his elbows on the table. ‘You are fabulous.’
I was not fabulous. I was gobsmacked.
And suddenly I didn’t know what on earth to make of Ben Latter. He was very good-looking, very well groomed, very assured. He should be perfect, but Arns’s little wayward comments about my hot date, and that quick look from Jack de Souza through the window, had unsettled me maybe.
Oh, frik. Did I have issues? I did. I had issues. Maybe I was really an ice maiden and now that I was so close to physical contact with a boy I was grasping at straws to find a way out.
No. Not true.
‘Thank you,’ I said sweetly, though it grated. ‘So, tell me how all your research is going. Are you ready to present your findings on Monday?’
‘Wha–? Oh, yes. Yes, I am.’ He coughed.
‘Are you nervous about it?’
‘Me? Oh no. I’m used to public speaking. You know, being house captain and all that. Got to do a lot of chat to large audiences.’
I couldn’t let it go. I’d have to tease him. ‘Oooh, house captain,’ I said, but then I stopped in my tracks.
I could NOT believe it.
Guess who was standing across the crowded restaurant!
No, numpty, not Jack de Souza.
My father, that’s who! Here on his hot date! A petite woman with a short chic glossy bob stood alongside him, smiling up at his face as he bent to kiss her with a laugh and a grin.
Kisses for Lula Page 17