Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (2 page)

This evening, soft light floods through the windows overlooking the lake and Langdale Pikes; the stucco ceiling and intricately patterned wallpaper are still just about intact. I don’t
know why they got rid of the old tables and chairs. Disappointingly, they’ve been replaced by the cheap, plastic kind you’d find in a British Legion club. Despite this, and the
threadbare carpet and slightly crumbling walls, it’s every bit the room I once knew and loved.

My dad worked at the Moonlight Hotel for more than two decades, having started here in his early twenties, shortly after he’d emigrated to the UK from Australia. For the last twelve of
those years he was General Manager – and although he’d never class himself as a workaholic, you’re not in a job for that long without passion and pride infusing everything you
do.

‘Hi, Marion,’ replies Cate, with some trepidation. ‘When are the others getting here?’

The woman responds with a protracted wince, as if someone’s trodden on her bunions. ‘It’s not quite the turn-out I was expecting. But it’s early yet,’ she says,
looking at her watch. I can’t knock her optimism. Cate flashes a glance at Emily and me, which prompts a flicker of panic in Marion. ‘You won’t leave, will you?’

Cate claps her hands together. ‘Course not. Right, where do I learn to have hips like Shakira?’

I realise I must have been holding some obscure preconception about what a salsa teacher might look like. I can’t define this, except to say that it’s in every way the opposite of
Marion, who is the least Latin-looking woman on the planet, with her unruly blonde ringlets and short legs whose chubby, baby-faced knees peek out of a long jersey skirt, slit to mid-thigh. She
offers us one of the dozens of complimentary margaritas lined up on a table. I take one – and come to the unavoidable conclusion that it’s actually Robinson’s Barley Squash.

‘
Please
tell me you’re beginners too . . .’ The woman addressing us is about three inches shorter than me, with scarlet lips, perfect flicky eyeliner and the sort of
hour-glass figure that in the 1950s would have attracted wolf-whistles. ‘Our only experience of salsa dancing is watching
Strictly
.’

‘And that was painful enough,’ adds her boyfriend. He looks six or seven years older and wears a sheepish smile to accompany the small spare tyre protruding over his cleanly pressed
jeans. After a few introductions, we learn that the couple – Stella and Mike – are getting married in July. Preparations were going brilliantly until he dropped into conversation that,
in the light of his two left feet, he
didn’t think a first dance was necessary
.

‘I had two words to say to that,’ Stella tells us. ‘“AS IF”. So here we are.’

‘I’ve got four months in which to become a Latin lothario,’ Mike grins.

Stella looks sceptical. ‘Love, if we just get your legs moving without you doing yourself an injury, I’ll be happy with that.’

‘All right, ladies – gent,’ Marion nods. ‘How about we start with some basic moves? Let’s get you all paired up.’

She turns on the music again and lowers the volume to a level at which the windows are no longer vibrating. We stand in allotted pairs: Stella and Mike. Marion and Emily. Cate and me.

‘No offence, Lauren,’ she mutters, as she grabs my hand. ‘But when I said I wanted to dance with someone dark-eyed and gorgeous, you weren’t what I had in
mind.’

‘It could be worse – you could be in poor Emily’s position,’ I point out as our friend is forced to stand at the front of the ‘class’ and take part in
Marion’s demonstration. For Cate’s sake I pretend to be disappointed that the room isn’t a sweaty, bustling hotbed of male lust. But in truth I couldn’t be more relieved,
even if Marion isn’t very satisfied with the situation.

‘It’s extremely difficult with only one man here,’ she laments. ‘In salsa it’s the man’s job to lead so I’m teaching you this the wrong way round. Which
one of you wants to be the man?’

‘It’s been that long since I waxed my legs, I’d better volunteer,’ Cate replies.

What becomes most apparent in the first half-hour of the lesson is just how difficult it is to master steps which are technically meant to be easy. They even
look
easy. But easy is the
last thing they are, at least to me.

Even when we’re trying to get to grips with the basics and follow Marion’s instructions – to loosen the knees, move from the hips, keep the body central – Cate and I are
a clash of ankles and giggling hysteria. This situation worsens significantly when Marion foolishly decides we’re ready to move on to a turn.

We are instructed to ensure we’re putting pressure on our feet each time we make a step, the idea being to get us wiggling the bottom half of our torsos and looking almost like dancers. I
suspect we all look more like a pair of demented geriatrics on a waiting list for hip replacements.

Once we start taking this seriously, however, things start slotting into place. Although Marion seems to be under the impression she’s tutoring
The Kids From Fame
, and
doesn’t find our haplessness at all amusing, she does get Cate and me moving in a vaguely salsa-ish way. Or maybe it’s just that we don’t look bad compared with poor Mike, who is
not over-burdened with natural co-ordination.

As Marion turns her attention to showing him – again – how to master the basic mambo, Cate grabs me by the hand. ‘What did Marion say this step was called? A
kerfufla?’

‘Enchufla,’ I correct her.

‘Bless you,’ she replies. ‘Whatever it is, I’m determined to crack it.’

Cate is nothing if not enthusiastic. She’s always been like this. I’ve known her since we were little girls – we went to primary school together – and she was always the
first to stick her hand up in the air and volunteer for just about everything. That was the case whether we were being asked to give out library books or, on one notable occasion, audition for a
part in a TV advert for a breakfast cereal (she didn’t get it; the producers said she had ‘slightly too much personality’). Tonight, what we jointly lack in technical ability, my
friend seems determined to make up with speed, joie de vivre and – it turns out – her innate ability to draw unwanted attention to us. To be absolutely fair, it’s not Cate who
manages to get one of the threads from the ailing carpet wrapped around her high heel – it’s me.

‘Cate!’ I shriek, but she takes this as encouragement, grabs me by the waist and carries on dancing while the thread pulls against my ankle. Cate only becomes aware of my predicament
when, in desperation, I reach out to try and stop myself from falling, a move that has the converse effect of making me lose my balance and stumble to my knees, taking my friend with me.

I attempt to scramble to my feet, aware that Cate is speechless with laughter and Marion has her arms crossed in disapproval. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, pulling down my skirt as I sit up and
start picking at the threads around my ankle in an attempt to release them.

‘Oh, don’t worry – at least no one’s here to see us,’ she sighs, as I glance up at two of the best-looking men I’ve seen in my life standing at the door.

In the excruciating moments that follow, I take in and process a succession of facts. The guys in front of us have that athletic, healthy look about them – tanned,
muscular and with the air of being as at home in the great outdoors I would be in front of an episode of
EastEnders
. They are both wearing hiking boots, and one of them has on the
instantly-recognisable bright red jacket of a Mountain Rescue volunteer.

I’ve noticed a certain trait in this kind of bloke over the years: they insist on
helping
people. It’s not even a result of all the first aid courses they have to do. This
is something in their genes that means they’re physically unable to restrain themselves when there’s anyone in need of assistance, whether it’s a lone hiker cragfast on Skiddaw, a
group of walkers attempting to decode their Ordnance Survey maps, or two women in strappy heels scrambling around to untangle themselves from a fraying carpet.

I respond to their attempts to help us up with the level of mortification the situation deserves – red faced, mumbling that none of this is necessary – while Cate holds out her hand
as if she’s Deborah Kerr in the
King and I
and rises elegantly on to her toes, with a demure smile.

As I brush myself down, I try not to look at the guy in front of me, although I’ve already caught a glimpse of clean-shaved skin, unusually symmetrical features and dark, brooding eyes
that somehow look older than his face.

‘You’ve got something on your cheek,’ he says. I lower my eyes and follow the trail of a disconnected eyelash, before peeling it off and shoving it in my pocket.

‘Gents! Come in and join us! Are you beginners too?’ Marion asks, seizing the opportunity.

The guy with the brooding eyes backs away. ‘Actually, we’re here for a business meeting. I have a feeling we have the wrong place though.’ At that, his phone pings and he opens
a text, before turning to his friend in the red jacket, who is almost as tall as him, with blond hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose. ‘At least, we
did
have a
meeting.’

‘They’ve cancelled on you again?’ asks the blond guy.

‘Apparently so.’

Marion zones in on her chance like a heat-seeking missile. ‘Don’t suppose either of you fancy a go at salsa, do you?’

‘Er, no, I don’t think so,’ the guy with dark hair says instantly.

But his friend is smiling: a broad, unashamed, distinctly flirty smile – aimed directly at Cate. ‘Oh, come on,’ he says. ‘We’re not doing anything else now, are
we?’

To be fair to the two newcomers, they throw themselves into the situation. And the result, against all the odds, is quite an enjoyable evening.

I am more than happy to step aside and let Cate dance with the blond one, who’s called Will, and Emily dance with the dark one, who’s called Joe, while I stick with Marion.
Meanwhile, Stella tries her very best to encourage Mike, despite the fact that every time I look over, his feet appear to be defying the laws of nature and going in opposite directions.

The lesson itself is over before we know it, at which point it’s time for the ‘social’.

Which isn’t admittedly as ‘social’ as it could be given that there are still less than ten of us in the room. But after sticking to a fairly regimental set of steps under
Marion’s guidance, it’s an opportunity to let our hair down and do a little more actual
dancing
, at least as I know it.

The kind where you get to loosen up, move with the music, enjoy yourself – although technically speaking, our salsa steps would never win Len Goodman’s approval. Once the music is
cranked up, it’s easy to get into the swing of things, even if I am stuck with Marion while Cate and Will spin around the room laughing, and Joe gazes into Emily’s eyes as he takes her
hand and leads her, like we were shown earlier.

As the sky gets blacker and the moon shimmers outside, Marion looks at her watch and begins her appeal to drum up support for next week. ‘I realise it wasn’t as packed as we’d
anticipated,’ she says. ‘But it’s early days, isn’t it?’

Cate places a reassuring hand on Marion’s arm. ‘It’s been a great night. And once word gets round, you’ll be packed out.’ She turns to Will. ‘But do us a
favour boys: next week, can you bring a few friends?’

I feel mildly groggy when I wake the following morning, which I could put down to antioxidant deficiency due to the absence of kale in my diet (which I read about online
yesterday) but probably has more to do with drinking three margaritas on a Tuesday night, even if they didn’t taste overly alcoholic.

Still, it is Wednesday. It is not raining. And I have a staff meeting this afternoon at which Edwin Blaire will be present. So life is good, in a bittersweet kind of way.

Which is how it has been in the two years since I’ve known Edwin, two tortured but sublime years in which he entered my life like a luminous blaze of fireworks . . . which I am soon to
extinguish with a big bucket of water. Australian water, to be precise.

I am saving up to join my cousin Steph, who is currently on the Gold Coast doing little but sleeping with handsome but dubious men and topping up her tan, for a gap year.

I know I’m technically far too old for a gap year. But I’ve always wanted to travel Down Under. It’s in my blood. Dad was born and raised just outside Melbourne, and when I was
a teenager I was obsessed with the idea of living there one day.

As a result, my laptop is clogged up with bookmarks of travel articles for parts of the country I’m determined to see, including the town where my dad lived until he was twenty, when he
and two friends came to the UK on a work visa and never looked back. Although he loved the UK, especially the Lake District, where he ended up after a short stint living in Shepherd’s Bush,
my dad remained unmistakably Aussie. Funny, outdoorsy and with a quiet strength of character that feels like a rarity these days.

Anyway, I’ve spent half my life in one long day dream about what it would be like to live, at least for a while, somewhere you could wake up knowing the sun would be shining, even though
Dad said Melbourne’s weather wasn’t always that predictable.

So, disappearing to the other side of the world makes sense, even without my need to escape from my deep, all-consuming love for a man by travelling 10,000 miles away from him and never seeing
him again. This, I’m afraid, is the only way of liberating myself from the shackles of an overwhelming passion that is – and this is the miserable nub of the matter – completely
unrequited.

Edwin belongs to someone else. Fiona. Otherwise known as The Bitch.

It’s an ironic soubriquet, in case you’re wondering, because Fiona couldn’t be nicer, sweeter, more fun and generally perfect if she’d been made in a cupcake factory and
had a halo.

They are a gorgeous couple and they are never, ever going to split up.

I came to this realisation at our Christmas party before last, when Edwin confided in me that he was planning to propose in Paris on New Year’s Eve, with an antique diamond ring that once
belonged to his great-grandmother (spoiler alert: he went ahead with it – and she said yes).