Lula Does the Hula
Read Lula Does the Hula Online
Authors: Samantha Mackintosh
Hello and aloha, gorgeousnesses!
There are hints in this book of my murky past. Like the time my friends and I went caravanning in the summer holidays. Carrie’s dad dropped us and the caravan off, and as soon as his exhaust fumes had wafted away we’d struck up a friendship with the boys in a nearby tent.
They were gorgeous and fun and all you could wish for in next-door holiday mates.
Except they never had teabags.
Not a problem until they WALK IN UNANNOUNCED when, you know, a person could be GETTING DRESSED! All, like, ‘Have you girls got any teab– Oh, hel-lo!’
‘Erk!’ I shrieked. ‘Out! Out!’ But it was too late. All that boy talked about for the rest of the holiday was ‘Sam’s Specialities’.
I did my best to pretend it never happened.
But not so long ago, a million miles and a million days since that campsite, I walk into a live-music gig, and what do I hear across the crowded room?
‘SAM! SPECIALITIES!’
Yep, the boy from the tent. Oh HOW? Why? Whyeee?
I hope this kind of thing doesn’t happen to you, but if, like me, you’re a bit of a Lula and constantly suffering total humiliations, keep your head held high, your best friends close and your spiky hairbrush-slash-pepper spray at the ready . . .
Big hugs,
Read the first Lula adventure/rom-com/tale of total humiliation
‘A hilarious, hectic, full-on diary saga’
Julia Eccleshare, lovereading4kids.co.uk
‘Laugh-out-loud funny’
Bookseller
‘Girls will wish they are Lula’
thebookbag.co.uk
‘Extremely exciting’
chicklish.co.uk
‘So much fun’
goodreads.com
Find Lula’s blog at
www.lulabooks.co.uk
Who’s kissing, who’s missing and who’s making
complications for our favourite girl next door?
does the
Hula
Samantha Mackintosh
Lula Does the Hula
First published 2011
by Egmont UK Limited
239 Kensington High Street
London W8 6SA
Text copyright © 2011 Samantha Mackintosh
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 4052 5653 7
eISBN 978 1 7803 1058 9
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
For my mother
Monday 5 a.m. Some witchy instinct has woken me up
My boyfriend is dead. Apparently.
I kissed him goodbye two weeks ago and will never ever see him again. He did not die of natural causes. Oh, no.
Everyone says it’s my fault. Most of the village of Hambledon where I live think I’m terribly jinxed – that’s the reason all the boys I go out with end up in A&E sooner rather than later. And no one has seen my one true love since we first kissed.
Ohhhh, that kiss . . .
Um. Where was I? Oh, yes. So my boyfriend is dead.
But I know better.
In the pitch black of early, early morning, the start of summer just a breath away, I grinned happily to myself and stretched. It was the perfect start to the day, that velvet dark, the gorgeous luxury of a cosy bed I didn’t have to get out of just yet, the feeling that something wonderful was going to happen. I didn’t give a flying fig about the dead-boyfriend rumours.
Total silence.
Thank heavens I lived out here in the annexe rather than the main house where my littlest sister Blue yodelled
at the break of dawn more often than not.
Still, I guess I was getting a wake-up call, regardless. I smiled in anticipation.
The phone shrilled right on time. I grabbed the handset, but before I could speak a warm voice was in my ear.
‘Hey, sleepyhead.’
I grinned and clicked on the bedside light, squeezing my eyes shut against the glare. ‘Hey, yourself. What’s happening in London town?’
Before he could reply I was squealing like Miss Piggy on Prozac as something shifted under the sheets next to me.
