Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (11 page)

I also keep experiencing intense jolts of disappointment when I consider the prospect of not going to Australia. Which is nothing compared with the prospect of not going anywhere with Edwin, but
I can’t deny the empty crunch in my stomach at the thought of relinquishing the waterfalls and surf breaks of Great Ocean Drive, the lush vineyards of the Barossa Valley.

I suppose I just never imagined this scenario, even in my wildest dreams. Six months ago I imagined nothing but Edwin and Fiona snuggling up into cosy matrimony. So despite the fact that the
salsa trip smashes my budget into tiny pieces, I actually can’t wait to get there and give my inner turmoil a holiday. Like Cate said, this is the first trip we’ve all been on for ages,
and it feels like a fitting thing to do before I fly off to . . .
wherever
.

We arrive at Liverpool Airport at an ungodly hour in the morning on Friday – hence the cheapo flight – as the sun is starting to rise in a beautiful clear sky. This is obviously not
ideal because it is an unwritten law that any good holiday should begin by leaving behind the shittiest weather possible.

‘How’s the school break been for you, Emily?’ I ask, as we find a parking space.

She throws me a look. ‘Chaos, but fantastic. I took five eight-year-olds ghyll scrambling yesterday. Brilliant fun, although I was very glad to deliver them back to their parents
afterwards . . .’

Em’s always been as certain that she never wants to be a mum as Cate and I are that we do, which sometimes seems a bit strange given how great she is with kids.

‘Right, Em,’ Cate declares after we’ve pulled up in the car park and she’s dragged out her luggage. ‘Lauren and I have had a long discussion and we are going to do
everything in our power to get you and Joe together on this holiday. It’s our duty. Our mission. And we have chosen to accept it.’

‘He hasn’t really made a move,’ Emily replies dismissively. ‘Maybe he isn’t interested.’

‘Of course he’s interested,’ Cate replies, then she leans in and scrutinises Em’s face so closely you’d think she was searching for blackheads. ‘You
haven’t met someone else, have you?’

‘How on earth did you leap to that conclusion?’ Emily asks, looking alarmed, but Cate is now too busy waving to the group outside the terminal building to respond. There’s only
a few of us who took up the offer of the salsa holiday; all of us, probably crucially, are single and without families. But we’re joining several other groups over in Spain so hopefully
it’ll all be good fun.

As we head towards them, it strikes me how very British our tiny gang looks. This is despite Marion’s attempts to salsa-fy matters by making us all wear bright red T-shirts that say
Caution: Hot Surface! Lakeland Salsa Club (tel 015395 6393 for details)
. We are, collectively, the direct opposite of what salsa dancers should probably be. There are no fireballs of
burning, Latin energy. With the exception of Esteban, Will and Joe, who’ve all got passable tans, most of us are on the pasty side. Marion’s perm is wilting after the strain of lifting
her bag on to the trolley. Frank is eating a tuna sandwich produced from his rucksack, and even gorgeous Jilly is looking a bit flustered.

‘I’ve obviously only come for the T-shirt,’ Joe says, appearing next to me.

‘Flattering, aren’t they?’ I reply, forgetting to hate him for a second.

He laughs. I decide to shuffle away before he gets the impression I’m prepared to tolerate him. The holiday starts in the terminal, before we get on the plane. I go to the bar and return
to find that Marion has decided to launch into an impromptu group dance outside Boots.

It’s excruciatingly embarrassing, until a security guard comes and asks us all to desist. ‘These terrorism laws have gone mad!’ Marion protests, until he explains that he just
wanted to stop the children in Starbucks from crying.

Once we’re on the plane, Joe and Emily sit together, and Cate and Will in front of them. Despite the fact that this is a budget airline – and the best they can do is a flaccid cheese
sandwich and warm white wine – Cate and Will look so euphoric to be in each other’s presence they could be in First Class on a British Airways flight.

Esteban, having been separated from Jilly during the rush for the gate, ends up sitting next to me. I’m not at all unhappy with this development – he’s good fun, a nice bloke
and it’s fascinating hearing about his life back in Lima.

But two problems become apparent the second we take our seats.

Firstly, his biceps – which are so big that by rights they should each have had their own allocated seat – leave me with as much personal space as a family of hippos playing
Sardines.

Worse, despite Esteban being seventeen stone and built like a brick privy, it emerges that he is terrified of flying – to the point of hysteria.

‘I thought I was over this,’ he whimpers, as sweat bubbles on his brow. The engine hasn’t even started yet. ‘But this . . . this is terrible . . . horrendous . . .
INSANE.’ At that he begins hyperventilating.

‘Esteban, don’t worry. Take deep breaths,’ I reassure him, as he grabs my hand and nearly breaks three fingers.

When the plane’s wheels lift off the ground, the noise he lets out of his mouth is not even human; it’s like the sound those creatures in
Avatar
make when they’ve been
harpooned. And nothing I can say or do seems to help.

‘Hold me, Lauren!’ he implores, as Joe and Emily spin round to see what’s going on. I smile unconvincingly as Esteban throws his massive arms around my neck and trembles with
terror.

‘Um . . . how did you get to the UK? You must have flown here?’ I mumble, my cheek squashed into his armpit, his hairs tickling my nose.

‘Sleeping tablets.’

‘Didn’t you bring some this time?’

His eyes ping open. ‘Good idea,’ he breathes, rifling round in his bum bag, before producing a tablet the size of a nuclear warhead and washing it down with a bottle of sparkling
spring water.

It doesn’t just make him sleep. It sends him catatonic.

He slumps into his seat, and half of mine, with a lobotomised look in his eyes as I try and interest him in reading the in-flight magazine, just to check he hasn’t slipped into an actual
coma.

Still, he settles eventually – at which point I close my own eyes, put on my headphones and flick through the music, until ‘You Send Me’ by Sam Cooke comes on. I then allow
myself to drift into the most blissful dream, in which Edwin and I are sitting in the sunshine on the terrace of the Raffles Hotel, sipping Singapore Slings with a cool breeze in my hair.

Edwin reaches over and touches my chin and is about to kiss me. His lips sink into mine as I experience a rush of warmth through my body – followed by a rush of cold
on
my body.
My eyelids fly open as Esteban flails about, his sparkling water all over me, as it becomes apparent that he has realised we are about to land . . . and is no longer catatonic.

More’s the pity.

Despite the overblown title, the Grande Princess Royale Mar resort is a clean but uninspiring two and a half star hotel on the outskirts of Torremolinos. On the plus side, it
overlooks the Bajondillo beach, with a sweeping view of the mountains and sea. It’s early afternoon before we check in to the ‘family suite’ Emily, Cate and I are sharing. This
arrangement was organised by Marion, who was either oblivious to the fact that Cate and Will are an item, or wanted to make sure that the only exercise in which they indulged was dancing.

The room consists of one queen-sized bed and a bunk apparently pilfered from the set of
Orange Is the New Black
. We toss a coin and I end up on the top. A brief try-out reveals a noisy
squeak that gives the impression it’s been left in the rain for sixteen years.

The rest of the afternoon is left free for the three of us to soak up some rays by the pool. In the evening, we head downstairs on to the terrace as a disco is in full throttle, belting out a
medley of ear-splitting Europop songs as two dozen overtired children and their beleaguered parents hop about waving their arms.

‘Not much salsa dancing going on, Marion,’ Will says mischievously. ‘Unless we’re meant to do it to “Gangnam Style”?’

‘The dancing programme starts tomorrow, when there’ll be a full day of it, so don’t worry,’ she replies.

Will flashes Cate a glance and, unable to stop himself, leaps up, grabs Marion by the hand and challenges her to a Gangnam-style salsa. To be absolutely fair to Marion, while the resulting dance
isn’t her best performance, it’s as impressive as could be expected when surrounded by a dozen four year olds squealing ‘EHHH . . . Sexeh laydeh!’

‘Your new man is a nutcase,’ I tell Cate.

‘I know,’ she laughs. ‘A breath of fresh air from Robby.’

‘Poor Robby,’ I snort.

‘There’s no
poor Robby
about it,’ Cate huffs.

‘Oh I didn’t mean—’

‘No, I know you didn’t. But let me show you why I no longer feel sorry for him.’ She takes out her phone, clicks on to her messages and starts scrolling down. ‘Look what
he sent me about twenty minutes ago.’

I take a sip of sangria and peek at the phone, expecting either some schmaltzy message proclaiming undying love, or a text alerting her to the fact that he left socks at her flat last time he
was there.

But there are no socks on this picture message.

In fact, there are no items of clothing whatsoever. There is just Robby, reclining on a sofa, one arm behind his back – and
completely
naked.

I realise I’m supposed to respond, but a piece of fruit from my sangria is wedged in the back of my throat and prevents me from doing anything other than spluttering several
expletives.

‘Shhh!’ she says, glancing round. I look at the phone again. Then look away. Then look again. Then, convinced that my eyes are about to start bleeding, Cate says, ‘Oh come on,
it’s not that incredible – at least his bits are covered.’ This is technically true, although by ‘covered’ she is referring simply to the strategically-placed bottle
of bleach on the table in the foreground.

‘What’s with the Domestos?’ I whisper.

She shrugs. ‘He was obsessed with cleaning so that was probably just the first thing we had to hand. And it was about the right size to cover him up.’

I park the issue of the unlikely proportions of the contents of Robby’s trousers and ask a more pressing question: ‘Did you take this picture?’

‘Yeah, but ages ago. Sexting was Robby’s favourite hobby,’ she says, then catches my eye. ‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s not
that
unusual these
days.’

‘I wouldn’t know. The last time I had sex was before Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone.’

‘Well, this is what dating is like these days, believe me,’ she tells me, pursing her lips. ‘Loads of men go for it. Not that I’ve had loads of men, I hasten to
add.’

I shake my head while contemplating this issue, which I’d never given a second thought to until now. ‘Wow. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day . . . and get a shot of
your boobs for posterity?” It hasn’t quite got the same ring to it. Why is he sending it to you now?’ I ask.

‘Exactly!’ she replies.

‘Have you asked him?’

‘I texted him right back. He
claims
he pressed the button by mistake,’ she says dubiously. ‘Which is bollocks – and does nothing to change my view of him as a
Class A creep.’

Then, as the track changes to ‘Oops Upside Your Head’, she says, ‘Come on, let’s go and dance,’ grabbing me by the hand before I get the chance to query whether her
enthusiasm for this music is the result of a sharp blow to the temple.

Sometimes though, with a playlist as gloriously naff as this, all you can do is roll with it. So we do roll with it, all the way to Crapsville, taking a detour via ‘The Birdie song’,
the ‘Macarena’ and a whole host of other audible delights with names such as ‘Cim bombom!’ and ‘Chichi Wah!’ By the time we get on to ‘Barbie Girl’
and Will dances up to Cate, I decide to head back to my sangria.

I put the straw to my lips, take a small sip and relax into the chair.

‘“Barbie Girl” not your thing then?’ I look up to find Joe sinking into the seat next to me.

I sit up uncomfortably straight and mumble, ‘I’ve done the “Macarena” twice. I consider my work here to be done.’

‘Me too. Besides, I can’t shimmy as well as Will can.’

I don’t know what his aftershave is, but the smell of him agitates me beyond words.

‘So how’s your room?’ he asks, clearly not noticing that I can do without the small talk.

‘Not quite up to the glorious standards of the heyday of the Moonlight Hotel,’ I say pointedly.

He doesn’t answer for a moment. Then: ‘The Moonlight Hotel isn’t up to the glorious standards of its heyday either, I suspect – and hasn’t been in a long time. The
place I bought is no reflection of what it was like years ago. Which is why it needs a bit of . . . vision.’

‘So that’s what you’re calling it.’ I slosh the straw in my drink up and down.

‘It is. At least, I hope so.’

I remove the straw and take a large mouthful of the drink before looking away frostily.

‘Will mentioned you have a family connection to the hotel,’ he continues.

‘Yes. My dad was GM for twelve years. So the Moonlight Hotel means a lot to me. And I don’t like the idea of it being changed beyond recognition, I can’t deny it.’

He singularly fails to leap in and reassure me.

Defiance starts to build in my chest and I feel the need to say more, to explain why what he’s doing is so wrong. ‘Look at this,’ I continue, reaching into my purse and
removing the photo I carry around of me and my dad.

I don’t know why this one is so precious to me, why I keep it on me all the time; there are hundreds of other photos of us and this one’s actually slightly blurry. But we’re
sitting in the place I loved more than anywhere: the gazebo at the bottom of the gardens of the Moonlight Hotel, right on the banks of Windermere.

I’m throwing one of my regular tea parties, with Dad as the only guest, forced to endure endless cups of non-existent beverages and to say ‘Mmm . . .’ while pretending to bite
into cakes made of polyurethane.