Kisses for Lula (28 page)

BONG! BONG! BONG!

I growled and sat back down at the computer.

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
Are you insane? Hold your horses! What’s the rush?

C
ARRIE
:
Why are you keeping me waiting?

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
I’m really busy here right now! You have NO idea what’s going on.

C
ARRIE
:
You’re the one with no idea!

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
What’s that supposed to mean?

C
ARRIE
:
What does that questionnaire ask you about?

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
Hang on.

I pressed the pages flat where they’d been bent to fit into my bag. It was at least twenty pages long. Hoo boy. This was going to take a while.

Hang on, wasn’t that the journalist –?
I carried on reading.

1. When did you first learn of your parent’s alcohol dependency?

Pardon? What was all this about?

2. Do
you
have an addiction problem?

I wondered if Maltesers counted.

3. Do you feel your father’s high profile has pushed you/him into narcotic-dependent behaviour?

What?

4. Do you feel your pastimes are attempts to escape the family environment, all being reclusive activities: intense friendships, dressmaking, motor mechanics?

5. If your home environment were a stable one, do you feel you’d be more outgoing and confident, interested in your friends’ activities: singing, media, study groups, etc.?

6. Do you feel you relate to people differently because you have grown up witnessing a lack of strength in the paternal figure?

The hairs all over my body were standing on end. I felt a hot prickle on the back of my neck and my mouth was dry. I looked at the header of the questionnaire again and slowly typed a reply to Carrie:

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
Did you know I was into motor mechanics?

C
ARRIE
:
Ha ha! Big and beefy or small and hairy?

She had no idea. One of my closest friends had no idea that I liked to fix cars. The only way a complete stranger could have any inkling about Oscar was if they had been spying on me.

I spun out of my chair and yelled to Bludgeon, ‘That stalker! Was it Felix Kennedy?’

The toilet flushed and Bludgeon appeared in the doorway, looking bleary.

‘That’s the name I was given,’ he said carefully.

Mr K shifted in his chair and I saw his brow furrow. He looked from the counter to me and back to the counter. I followed his gaze, got up and reached across the kitchen counter for the identikit I’d forgotten about.

I held the edges of the paper with the tips of my fingers as if it were something foul. Tears smarted the second I saw the beautiful eyes, the kissable lips, the perfect hair.

‘But . . .’ said Bludgeon slowly, ‘I’ll tell you for free that there’s no such person as Felix Kennedy.’

‘Yep,’ I said bitterly.

‘You know him?’

‘Not well,’ I said. ‘Not well enough, at any rate.’

Bludgeon reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wad of £50 notes. ‘Tatty, that guy is bad news. ’Ere’s what ’e gave me to keep quiet. I’m not gonna keep it, cos I ain’t kept my word to ’im, never intended to, y’know? Think you should ’ave it. Saves you suin’ for mental scarrin’ wif the stalkin’ an all.’ He shoved it towards me as I shook my head. ‘Don’t be a numpty. That’s a lot o’ fancy dinners an’ tarty shoes.’ He nodded at Mr Kadinski. ‘See you later, Mr K. Gotta go.’

And he gave me a peck on the cheek and slammed out of the annexe.

BONG!

C
ARRIE
:
I’m dying here.

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
Me too.

C
ARRIE
:
Oh no. Is it what I thought? Ben Latter has been researching you and your dad for his science presentation on Monday?

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
I’m so embarrassed. I thought he liked me for
me
. He even
said
that.

C
ARRIE
:
Bastard. Listen, don’t worry about it. We’re on the first train out of here after Alex has said byedeebyes to her dad tomorrow. He’s working so we can only leave at about 6.30 p.m. – we’ll be in Hambledon about 8 p.m. Was supposed to be a birthday surprise, but we think you need to know there’s something to look forward to.

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
Thanks. I think I’m going to need to wallow, though. Things are not good on the Bird front. Text me when you get in, and I’ll update you on my mental wellbeing.

C
ARRIE
:
Hey now! Remember you were born at 11 p.m. There’s still tomorrow! Technically you’re still 15 till 11 p.m., right?

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
Small comfort, Carrie. I’ve got no boy options left.

C
ARRIE
:
I’m sure Alex will have more hot relatives.

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
DON’T!

C
ARRIE
:
Sorry. Too soon for humour. Listen, forget about the faker. You’ve got to move on.

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
I never thought I’d despise Ben Latter. I’ve loved him for
years
.

C
ARRIE
:
Forget him! No time for mourning! Call Bingley Clarendon for a pizza – he’ll make you feel better, yes? No! Wait! He’s seeing some PSG girl, Alex says. Hey! Billy Diggle for a DVD! Yes! Try Billy!

T
ATTY
B
IRD
:
Laters, Carrie.

I signed out and rubbed the back of my neck. It was rigid with stress, and another thought was niggling away at me, tautening tendons I never knew I had. If the stalker was right about my pastimes, was he right about Dad being a real live alcoholic?

I thought about the last year. All the drinking. How ill he’d been these last few days. I tried to remember some of the conversations I’d heard, and at last I turned to Mr K.

‘I’m going to get you some PJs from the house,’ I announced. ‘You go and have a bath. I’ll run it.’

I escaped into the tiny bathroom, ran a hot bath and set out clean towels, a new toothbrush I hadn’t used yet and some toothpaste.

‘Back in a minute,’ I said to Mr K. He looked like a cadaver again, but was clearly alive, chomping on a fingernail with a brow so furrowed he suddenly seemed a hundred years old. A thought of the goons who’d tried to hurt him came to mind and anxiety rose so quickly I felt dizzy. I swallowed it back and legged it over to the main house.

*

The kitchen door was open and the house oddly quiet. Pen was sitting at the table staring into a cup of very black coffee.

‘Where’s Mum?’ I asked.

‘Settling wrinklies,’ replied Pen.

‘Where on earth are they all going to sleep?’

‘Tallulah, we have probably the biggest house in Hambledon. Now that the
most
enormous just burned down.’

‘Yeah, but most of this place is uninhabitable.’

‘By your exacting standards.’

‘By my
normal human being
standards.’

‘You’re a neat freak.’ Pen took a sip of coffee and winced.

‘You’re too young to cope with that kind of caffeine intake, Pen,’ I admonished, bending over her cup and sniffing. ‘Frik! How many spoons did you put in there?’

‘It’s filter coffee. I got the machine out the box at last and it’s really, really lovely. You can thank me later.’

I looked at a stainless steel and black machine skulking in the corner of the kitchen. It bubbled rudely at my stare and a red light began flashing aggressively.

‘Great-aunt Phoebe was not thinking straight when she gave that to Mum and Dad for Christmas. I mean – filter coffee? In this household? Ha! Did you read the instructions?’ I asked.

Pen swung back in her chair, threw an arm over the back of it and assumed an arrogant pose. ‘It’s coffee,’ she said, with slitty eyes. ‘How hard can it be?’

‘Not very, but mayhap too much for a Pen with very little brain?’ She spluttered as I continued, ‘I hope you didn’t serve this up to any of the pensioners. They’ll be buzzed for weeks.’

‘They’re fine and they all loved it!’

A burst of song from a crowd of creaky voices lifted the roof with, ‘New York, Neee-heeew YOOORK!’

‘I hope there are medical staff at hand,’ I muttered, and left the little horror chortling at the sink where she was draining her brew and searching for the coffee-machine instructions.

I didn’t see Mum or Dad in the crowd, so I headed for the stairs, peering into Pen’s room on the way up. Three beds in there. I didn’t see the parentals till I got to the top of the first floor. They were hugging tightly in the hall outside their room, and then Dad kissed Mum like he was rehearsing for the final scene of
Casablanca
.

‘Firstly,’ I said loudly, ‘ew!’ They jumped and turned to squint at me in the gloom. ‘Secondly, we need to talk.’

Dad was motionless, but Mum nodded. ‘Dad was right,’ she said. ‘We should have had a proper sit-down last week. Let’s go to the kitchen while the old folks are still partying in the lounge.’

I went down first. ‘Where’s everyone sleeping?’ I asked.

‘Eight arthritics on the ground floor, nine ables on the first in Pen’s old room, six in the attic and two in the turret,’ said Dad.

‘You put old people in the turret? Are you out of your mind?’

‘More on that in the kitchen,’ said Mum grimly.

When we got to the heart of the home, Pen was very busy with a lot of black tar-like stuff that was mainly dribbling down the side of the bin.

‘Oh geez, Pen,’ said Dad. ‘That machine should have been left for quieter days.’

‘I see you’re back to your usual self,’ she replied snippily, and I squeaked when I saw she had dripped a lot of the coffee grounds on some jeans of mine. I’d spent hours sewing beads across the pockets of those! She held up a hand to me: ‘Don’t, Lula. A bit of soap powder, a cool handwash and they’ll be right as rain.’

‘But who’ll be heading up the handwash team?’ I shrilled. ‘Me, Pen, that’s who, ME!’

‘Girls,’ said Mum. ‘Sit down.’

Pen and I glared at each other, she dropped the coffee jug into the sink and we both sulked into chairs on opposite sides of the table.

‘Can I talk before you lay into me, T?’ asked Dad. I looked him over. Despite the frantic night we’d all had – him
especially – his hands shook only slightly and he still smelled of Gio For Men instead of sewers. His eyes were red, but not watery, and he’d said more in the last ten minutes than he had in the last ten days.

‘Yes, of course,’ I said mildly. ‘Let’s hear all about your alcohol dependency. Or your extramarital affair.’

‘A cross-examination! You sound like me,’ said Pen admiringly. ‘There’s potential. Except that you’re delusional.’

I stuck my tongue out at her and Mum said, ‘Affair?’ and burst out laughing. She got up to put on the kettle.

‘Hey!’ said Dad. ‘I’ve still got all my hair!’

‘I hate to break it to you,’ I hissed in a barely audible whisper, leaning right across the table so that even Pen would be unable to hear, ‘but
some
women find
balding
men attractive. They mistakenly associate it with maturity. Now, what does
Freya
find attractive? Let’s talk about
Freya
, Dad!’

‘Tea, anyone?’ asked Mum, turning towards the table as she reached for the teabags. She stopped in mid-stretch. ‘What’s going on? Spenser? Lula?’

Dad grabbed my hand. ‘No affair,’ he said, leaning towards me and speaking firmly in a clear voice.

‘What about your hot date tonight?’ I said in a small voice, tears welling in my eyes.

‘I may not look it, but I am hot,’ said Mum.

‘You are,’ said Dad emphatically.

Pen and I burst out laughing, not unkindly, and the tears spilled on to my cheeks.

Mum looked from Dad to me, and asked, ‘Why would you think your dad wasn’t meeting me at the steakhouse?’

‘Dad said he
shouldn’t
be going on the hot date . . .’ I said uncertainly. ‘And I . . . I saw him with someone . . .’

‘I said I shouldn’t go because I still felt so sick! And that was Freya with me, my AA counsellor. I bumped into her as she was leaving.’

Okaaaay. My cheeks flared hot, hot, hot, and I felt myself reduce down to the size of a petit pois. Oh, frik.

So.

One sentence and it all becomes clear.

Dad grinned and patted my hand reassuringly. ‘Freya wanted to meet Mum after our final session, but we couldn’t find her in the restaurant.’

‘Um, what’s going on?’ demanded Pen. ‘What counsellor?’

‘Three months ago,’ said Dad, looking at Mum, ‘your mother started on at me about how very little writing I’ve been doing. And I argued with her about that, but she got to documenting my movements, in that librarian way she has –’

‘All numerically classified,’ said Mum grimly. ‘Bathroom visits, sleep time, telly time, eating time, what he ate –’

‘What I drank, when I drank, when I remembered things and when I forgot them.’

‘Dad realised he was drinking, um –’

‘Too much alcohol,’ I finished. ‘Not exactly a breaking news item, but that doesn’t make you an alcoholic, does it?’ I asked Dad.

‘Hell
ooo
? His name is Spenser and he is SO an alcoholic,’ cried Pen, shaking her head at my stupidity.