Lula Does the Hula (7 page)

Mr Tufton sighed dramatically. ‘Fabulous, Grace. You’re an inspiration.’ He turned abruptly, stalked over to the table where he’d been sitting earlier and threw himself down, stretching back with his hands clasped behind his head.

We stood at our easels expectantly. He said nothing.

‘You two,’ he said at last, gesturing to Grace and Delilah, ‘have inspired me. We’ve been asked to enter several pieces
for an exhibition at the Port Albert Regatta. People will see our work! What an opportunity!’

We all stared at him, waiting. He lay there frozen for a while, then, ‘I must think,’ he announced. After another beat he shouted, ‘Do what you like!’ And promptly fell asleep.

Grace and Delilah were unfazed. They got out some paper, clipped it to their easels and were soon scratching away. I hunted for a chair to sit on while I decided what to do. But I was feeling even more uninspired than usual. Tufty had reminded me about the regatta. I’d forgotten to ask Dad whether he’d be nervous about singing there. If he were nervous, would the pressure of this show push him off the wagon? What if he felt he just had to have a drink? And another and another . . . No. I gave myself a mental headshake. My father had come a long way, and I had to give him the benefit of the doubt.

At least there was no doubt that I would not be having an embarrassing painting in the exhibition. Tufty would save all wall space for Grace and Delilah. And the next good news for the day . . .
Looked like there were no boys for painting class!
Fantastic.

So. Back to painting. What was I doing again? Oh, yeah. Coming up with ideas. Exasperated, I flung my arms up into a big stretch, but rapped my knuckles on a shelf. A blocked canvas dropped off it and landed on my foot.
This is the kind of stuff that happens to me. Good thing they’re not heavy. I picked it up and saw it was blank.

‘Hmm,’ I said. Grace and Delilah were absorbed in their work. I tiptoed over to the art-supply drawers and pulled out a load of oil paints. Not being sneaky, you understand, just didn’t want to wake our inspired yet exhausted teacher.

Delilah peeked round her easel. ‘Tatty! What are you doing? He’ll go nuts!’

‘I’ve always wanted to try oils,’ I whispered back. ‘Now’s my chance!’

‘Tufty says no oils till you can do the acrylics! And you’re the worst of us all!’ Delilah was looking stressed.

‘I hate acrylics. Tufty’ll never know,’ I said.

‘I have nothing to do with this!’ hissed Delilah. ‘Nothing at all!’

‘Oh, Delilah,’ drawled Grace. ‘Tallulah is an oil painter. Can’t you see? Her poor soul has been starved with all the acrylics.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘
Starved
.’ And squeezed out a load of blue paint. ‘So beautiful,’ I murmured to myself. I’d just found the perfect brush and dipped it in when the door slammed open.

‘Sorry!’ came a familiar voice from outside. ‘Is this the painting studio?’

Mr Tufton jolted awake. ‘Quiet!’ he yelled, and shifted around before falling fast asleep again.

I hurried to the door. ‘Don’t tell me you do painting!’ I said quietly.

‘Watch that brush,’ replied Arnold Trenchard. ‘Oil is a devil to get out.’

I looked at my friend in consternation. ‘You do painting?’

His hazel eyes sparkled, and I sensed the other girls in the studio appraising his tall lean physique as he slouched in the doorway.

‘Well?’ I demanded.

‘I do.’

‘Frik!’

‘Nice, Tatty Lula.’ Arns ran a hand through his tufty auburn hair and raised a dark eyebrow at me. ‘Thanks for the welcome. What’s with the grumpy teacher?’

‘Dunno. You coming in?’

And so it ended up being the best art lesson ever. Arns and me muttering away to each other, stifling giggles, while I swathed blissfully with the oil paint.

‘Hey,’ I said at one point. ‘What’s going on at Frey’s? You should know, seeing as how your mama is Sergeant Trenchard, best police officer this hamlet has ever seen.’

Arnold shrugged. ‘I’ve already told Alex everything I know. That homeless guy cornered some dog-walker, scared the bejeezus out of them, and demanded they get the police up there. He had something he wanted to say.’

‘Ooh,’ I said. ‘No wonder Alex is interested.’

‘Alex is interested because she wants to show her big cousin Jaaack’ – he drawled my boyfriend’s name and dropped me a sultry wink; I blushed – ‘that she’s just as hot at being a journo as he is.’

I grinned in reply. Arns was right. He had that uncanny way of knowing people without even knowing them at all, if you know what I mean. Maybe something he got from his mum.

‘But there’s another reason the police were up there,’ continued Arns.

‘Yeah?’ I mixed more white into the blue and pasted it over what I’d done. Not bad.

‘Yeah. Apparently, someone’s gone missing. A girl. You must know? Since Friday night.’

‘No!’ Delilah’s voice right at my shoulder made me jump. Her eyes were wide as she stared at Arns. ‘Who? How come this whole village doesn’t know about it?’

‘Her parents thought she was away for the weekend, apparently, with a girlfriend. But she didn’t turn up for breakfast this morning, so they rang the friend and she said no, Emily had planned to go to Port Albert with Gavin Healey, that she was just the cover.’

I heard Grace move out from behind her easel. We all looked at each other across the studio. ‘Seriously?’ said Grace. ‘You’re not having us on?’

‘Gavin Healey,’ breathed Delilah. ‘Do you think he’s done something terrible to her?’

‘No,’ I said sharply, feeling as if I’d never be able to take a full breath again. My heart was hammering and my hands felt cold and clammy. ‘I’m sure he’s not like that.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Grace.

I told them what I knew, without any mention of Alex. I’m sure I didn’t make much sense because all I could think was that Alex needed to know this – now! – but what would she do when she found out, if she didn’t know already? What kind of person
was
Gavin Healey? A murderer? Rapist? Abductor? No . . .! I trailed to a finish, my mind a total jumble.

Arns looked at me intently. ‘I’m sure an announcement will be made in school tomorrow,’ he said. ‘For people to come forward with information.’

We were quiet for a long time, everyone getting on with what they were doing. It was a lot to take in, someone going missing. Especially in a tiny town like Hambledon.

In the distance, we heard the final school bell go, and Grace moved round to our easels with casual ease.

‘I knew it,’ she said, looking at my canvas. ‘You better put that away to dry, and clean your brushes. A good artist knows when to stop.’

‘Hn,’ I said, and stepped back from the easel. She was right. The painting was finished. ‘Cheers, Grace.’

‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, and she and Delilah headed out.

‘What are you doing now, Lula?’ asked Arns.

‘Going to see Jack at the editing suite. He’s back from the city.’ I couldn’t help it. A huge grin flooded my face and I could feel my eyes doing something all sparkly. Arnold winked at me and I blushed. Again. ‘He should be finished the Coven’s Quarter follow-up. And about ready to load it on to the ftp site for Channel 4,’ I added hurriedly.

‘You’re going to watch it now?’

‘No, silly, with all you lot at his digs later. Remember? Pizza, prime-time viewing?’

‘Yeah, yeah. Just checking.’

‘You going to get Mona?’

Arns smiled happily. ‘I am.’

‘You guys are cute,’ I said, grinning back at him.

‘We are,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you.’

‘Yes,’ I said proudly. ‘I am truly amazing.’ I considered him for a moment. ‘So . . . lucky you doing art and Latin with us girls . . . next you’ll be rowing.’ We slung our bags over our shoulders and walked out into bright sunshine, leaving Tufty snoring gently behind us.

Arns shrugged. ‘Yeah . . .’ he said, and held the gate for me. ‘About that . . .’

I laughed. Even though Arnold was not the spindly
misfit we’d thought him to be, I could
not
see him hauling oars with seven muscle-bound smelly phlegmsters.

After a bit of friendly pushing and shoving that actually saw me fall down two steps – mortification! – Arns moseyed off to find Mona at the PSG dorm buildings and I tried to call Alex. No reply. Frik. I texted her:

Then I took a deep breath and headed for the journalism department on the Hambledon University campus . . . with a thudding heart and jelly knees that I’m ashamed to say had nothing to do with Gavin Healey and everything to do with Jack de Souza.

The university campus is quite separate from the rest of town, so it was odd to be in school uniform trudging its trendy streets. I felt a little out of place, even though I’d been coming here to see Mum all my born days. Maybe because I’d never got to know a student before, and now that I did, now that the most gorgeous of them all was my boyfriend,
now
I felt weird about being a schoolgirl when I came up here.

Shaking the feeling off, I pushed through the glass double doors of the journalism department and looked around. It wasn’t busy and no one looked at me strangely. And when
I asked a guy where the film-editing suite was, and he told me where to go without batting an eyelid, I wondered why I’d felt uncomfortable. There was a big red light on outside the door, but I pushed it open anyway and stepped into the darkness. Two figures sitting in front of a bank of TV and computer screens, with panels of buttons and keyboards at their fingertips, turned round.

I recognised Jack’s profile straight away and my stomach lurched in a way that left my insides all shaky.

‘Hey, gorgeous,’ he said quietly. ‘Perfect timing. It’s just loading now.’

‘Cool,’ I said. I looked around and found a chair near the door. ‘I’ll just wait here.’

‘Could be a long wait.’ The voice next to Jack was harsh and abrupt. I remembered it straight away. Jazz. She swung round in her seat to stare at me. ‘This site is a little busy just now. It’s slowed right up.’

‘No rush,’ I said, and leaned forward, my hand outstretched. ‘I’m Tatty.’

‘Yes,’ she said. And though I couldn’t see her eyes looking me up and down in the dark shadows of the suite, I knew her meaning. Jack was head down, tapping away at a keyboard. ‘Thing is,’ said Jazz, ‘maybe it’s better if you wait outside. Could be a little boring in here with us journos.’

A surge of anger crashed through me. ‘Thing is,’ I said, echoing Jazz’s tone, ‘I don’t find Jack boring at all.’

Even in the gloom I could see Jazz stiffen with surprise. Good. She thought just because she had a couple of years on me that she was a couple of years smarter? Yeah, right. Bring it on, sister.

I looked over to Jack, expecting him to laugh with me, or say something to put Jazz in her place, but he was still tapping away. He clearly hadn’t heard our exchange at all. I felt a prickle of unease nudge at me, but I batted it away. Even though Jazz was tiny and beautiful and looked a little like Keira Knightly, I was the one Jack had kissed in the moonlight. It was me he wanted to be with, not Jazz.

Right?

‘I can’t believe I’ve just filed my second national news story in the space of a month,’ said Jack, pulling me close as he waved goodbye to Jazz, zooming off campus in her black Golf GTI.

‘You’re pretty amazing,’ I replied, punching him lightly on the arm.

He grinned, shoving his hair behind his ear, still looking at the disappearing GTI.

‘You sure you didn’t want to take that lift with Jazz back to your place?’ I glanced at Jack uncertainly. He was wearing a charcoal-coloured T-shirt that fitted closely, very old and faded jeans that hugged him in all the right places and when he looked down at me, and smiled, my heart jumped so hard I nearly stopped breathing. He has the most kissable lips in the world, and the most intense chocolate-brown eyes. I’d like his long black eyelashes for myself, but not his nose, which is a little craggy and just perfect for him.

He turned into me, his arms linked loosely at my lower back. ‘A lift with Jazz? Now why would I do that?’

‘It’s pretty uncool to be seen walking around with a schoolgirl, right?’

Jack took me by the hand and we started walking to North Road. ‘Oh no you don’t, Tallulah Bird. We’re not going anywhere
near
that issue.’

‘What issue?’

‘You know, that I’m a student; you’re a schoolgirl. I just want sex, drugs and loud parties; you need to do homework and turn the lights out at nine. No way.’

‘Well . . .’ I slowed down and glanced at his face. ‘Is any of that true?’

‘Yes!’ he proclaimed. ‘But not all of it. And, anyway, who cares? I like you and . . . you like me, right?’

I grinned. ‘Right.’

‘I just feel a little disorientated,’ admitted Jack. ‘I’ve been stuck in the city forever, then in that stuffy building all of today and it just feels strange being in the real world again.’

‘I bet,’ I said.

‘Like,’ said Jack, ‘did Jazz really just say, “
Jack
, do you want a lift back?”?’