Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (25 page)

As it happens, the whole thing becomes more and more
fine
the more wine I sip. That helps me stop thinking about how much I liked the sound of the champagne brunches and how little I
liked the sound of Georgie herself. That helps me stop thinking about what a date at Joe’s ‘gorgeous house’ would be like. That helps me stop thinking altogether.

I don’t even care that when I open my bag I also realise I’d failed to dispose of the urine sample I took along to the walk-in centre this afternoon. I didn’t have a spare
receptacle so had to wash out a bottle of Pepsi Max and put it in there. They then refused to test it because of some sort of contamination issues – as if traces of a soft drink could somehow
result in me being misdiagnosed with Ebola.

The point is, as the evening progresses, I start to feel really, really happy. Ecstatic, actually. Why wouldn’t I? OK, Edwin has not galloped up on a white stallion, flung me on the back
and hurtled off into the sunset, ruffles a-billowing.

But he’s spent all afternoon lovingly creating this dinner for me – seafood lasagne, which is
amazing
, by the way. And I decide, suddenly, that I actually
like
the
fact that things haven’t been straightforward between the two of us. That chasing him has been part of the fun.

‘You’ve played terribly hard to get, Edwin,’ I murmur, through a flirty pout, as I put down my knife and fork. We are sitting at one of those little fold-up tables in his
living room. A ventriloquist’s doll is singing ‘Uptown Girl’ in the background.

He looks at me, apparently surprised by this comment. ‘Hard to get?’

‘Don’t be coy, Edwin Blaire. You couldn’t have played harder to get if you were the size of a one-pence piece and stuck down the back of a sofa.’

He smiles, clearly enjoying the moment as he stands up to clear the plates. ‘Well, I haven’t meant to be like that.’

I roll my eyes and smirk seductively. It makes me almost fall off my chair. ‘Yes, I believe you. Millions wouldn’t,’ I add, sounding sultry.

‘Are you all right, Lauren?’

‘Yes – why?’

‘You sound a little hoarse. Would you like a Strepsil?’

I burst out laughing. ‘Oh, you’re so funny, Edwin! Let me help with the washing up,’ I volunteer, standing up.

‘I wouldn’t hear of it,’ he says gallantly, but by now I’m already up and concentrating very hard on putting one foot in front of the other as I head for the kitchen, the
walls swimming in and out. ‘Honestly, Lauren, you really don’t need to.’

I place down the plates next to the sink, then spin round, throwing him a sensual look.

‘Oh, but I insist,’ I pout, grabbing the Marigolds on the drainer and snapping one on. He leaps back slightly. The scamp.

I turn to the sink, allowing him to admire my bum as I fill the bowl up with Fairy Liquid, then am mildly disappointed to see Edwin wandering back into the living room to collect the HP sauce. I
turn back and find myself mesmerised by the bubbles, squashing them together between my rubber gloves then watching in fascination as I swirl the dish-cloth around the plates. My hips sway as I
glance at the TV to see a small dog wearing pixie boots cartwheeling across the stage.

‘Are you quite sure you’re feeling all right?’ asks Edwin, as I put the last plate into the dish-rack. I’m vaguely aware of the concern on his face and feel the need to
do something to encourage him to relax; I’ll never seduce him while he’s this tightly coiled. So I start swaying my hips, all lap-dancer loose as if my pelvis has a life of its own.

‘Shall I take those rubber gloves off you?’ Edwin offers, and I glance down, having entirely forgotten that I was wearing them.

I instantly recall that scene when Marilyn Monroe sang ‘Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend’ – the stunning, curve-hugging ballgown, the long, sexy satin gloves.

OK, I haven’t got the ballgown, but I
have
got the gloves, or the nearest thing. I put one finger on Edwin’s chest and look into his eyes like Tyra Banks looking down a
camera, before teasingly pushing him across the length of the kitchen until he’s pressed against the units.

Then, finger by finger, my eyes soft and sexy, I remove the first rubber glove, then the second, flinging both over my shoulder before I turn my back on Edwin and sway into the living room.

I am momentarily aware of a delay as he scrambles around the electric hob, trying to peel off the gloves which, it appears, have melted on to one of the rings. Once he’s got them off and
sprayed a little Febreze to disperse the stench of burning rubber, he emerges into the living room and looks at me anxiously.

I pat the chair next to me and murmur, ‘Come ’ere, lover boy,’ though I realise a second later that any
Dirty Dancing
references are entirely lost on Edwin.

‘I think you need more wine,’ I decide, grabbing the bottle and topping up his glass. Then I pick it up, put it in his hands and encourage him to sip. Which he does.

His eyes meet mine and our gaze holds for a moment. It suddenly feels like one of those staring contests we used to have when I was a little girl. He breaks the gaze first and, before I can stop
myself, I pump my fist and blurt out:
‘Yess!’

‘Lauren, I’m wondering if I should get you an orange juice?’ Edwin asks. ‘You’re acting a little oddly.’

I edge closer to him and smile. ‘But I’m
feeling
wonderful,’ I murmur.

‘Only . . . you’re quite tipsy considering you haven’t had that much to drink.’

‘I’m not tipsy, Edwin. Just . . . in the mood.’

‘In the mood?’ he gulps.

‘For lurrrve.’

He straightens his back. ‘I see.’

‘Do you, Edwin?’ I whisper.

His jaw tenses and he puts down his wine glass. And then, quite unexpectedly and quite wonderfully, he slips his hand behind my neck and draws my face towards his and kisses me.

It’s stronger, more passionate than the first time. At least, I’m aware that he’s pressing his mouth harder and he’s using proper, full-on tongue; other than that, I must
admit, my mouth feels a bit weird, a bit tingly.

‘Lauren, how would you feel if I did this?’ he says, his eyes glinting as he pulls back and looks at me, between kisses.

‘Did what?’ I frown.

He gestures downwards and I realise he has his hand on my breast and is rubbing it around like Mr Miyagi in
The Karate Kid
, when he’s teaching Daniel Son to wax on, wax off.

He stops anxiously. ‘Is that nice?’

‘It’s absolutely
awesome
,’ I murmur, and before I even know what I’m doing, I am peeling off my top.

I attempt to do this sexily but the material gets stuck on the edge of the clip in my hair and I end up tugging and tugging until I nearly remove my ear, and my hair on the right-hand side feels
as if it’s been backcombed by a hyena.

‘How would you feel if I did this, Edwin?’ I breathe, unclasping my bra and allowing it to slip to the floor.

I can honestly say I’ve never witnessed a reaction like Edwin’s before in my life. His eyes grow to about six times their normal size.

I can’t stop myself from giggling. I’ve done it. I’ve seduced him.
Job done!

‘I’d say that was fine too,’ he manages.

I stand up and take him by the hand, enjoying the feeling of unique brazenness that comes from standing in a man’s living room with your bare boobs on show. I pull him up out of the
sofa.

‘Where are we going?’ he stammers.

‘To bed. Where else?’ I whisper, leading him across the living room. He pauses briefly to turn the television off, explaining that he hates wasting electricity. I grab him by the arm
and pull him in my direction.

Then I spin round and maintain his gaze as I start to wander backwards, a move that would be the ultimate in sexiness had I managed to avoid the handbag I’d left on the living-room
floor.

As it is, I trip over a strap and almost go flying across the room, something that prompts a plethora of swearing before I bend over to pick it up. Unfortunately, instead of sweeping it out of
the way, my Pepsi Max bottle – the one full of urine – rolls out and goes trundling across the room. I watch in horror as it traverses the blue carpet, 200mls of this morning’s
wee sloshing about inside.

‘Oh God!’ I shriek, which also turns out to be a mistake.

Sensing my panic, Edwin leaps over and, under the misapprehension that he’s helping, attempts to grab it at exactly
the same moment that I do.

The resulting scramble can only be compared to a miniature rugby scrum, except that one of us is semi-naked and the ‘ball’ in question is a modest bottle containing human bodily
fluids.

There is
no way
I can allow Edwin to get to it first. So, I elbow him in the guts and grab the bottle, clutching it breathlessly to my naked chest.

‘Are you that thirsty, Lauren?’ asks Edwin, alarm in his eyes.

I nod as the implications of this question hit me. ‘Yes,’ I say feverishly.

He sighs. ‘Go on then,’ he says, waiting for me to drink the contents of the bottle.

Now, I am feeling strange. I am feeling drunk. But I am absolutely not feeling either of the above in sufficient quantities to emulate fourteen days at sea with drinking my own urine as the only
option open to me.

Unfortunately, I
am
feeling both of the above in sufficient quantities to fail to know what to do. So I just wing it. I glance at the open window and, as Edwin goes to turn off the
living-room lamp, I fling the bottle out of it, wincing as a cry of
Ow!
reverberates from the street below.

I stand in Edwin’s living room, naked and cold and uncomfortable, and not really knowing what to do. Then Edwin approaches and kisses me. And that, I’m afraid, is the last of the
evening that I actually remember.

I struggle to describe the feelings that swim through my mind as I wake up in Edwin’s bed.

First is the split-second realisation that I’ve been snoring loudly, as I wake with a grunt, genuinely shocked that the person who made the noise was
me
.

Second is the extreme physical discomfort of being even more desperate for the loo than I was this time yesterday, clear evidence that my UTI has failed to shift, which is little wonder given
how far I drifted from the advice to stick to non-aggravating liquids.

Third is that Edwin is propped up above me on one elbow, grinning.

‘Morning, Sleepyhead,’ he murmurs, leaning down to kiss me. I reward him by clamping shut my lips, saving him from a distinct lack of minty freshness. But Edwin doesn’t care.
He just snuggles into me, nibbling my neck, pressing his body against mine. He is entirely naked.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m dying for the toilet,’ I say apologetically.

‘Oh, let me get you my dressing gown.’

He stands and places his pillow over his groin – and the very fact that I am in bed, naked WITH EDWIN nearly makes my head explode. I’ve dreamed about this for years and yet
I’m suddenly speechless, motionless, thoughtless.

He passes me his dressing gown and I slip it on. It’s maroon velvet, has ‘Christmas gift’ written all over it, and smells faintly of Marmite.

I head to the loo and relieve myself, moaning with queasy relief as my bladder empties, before I check my appearance, realise it’s beyond hope, then pop an antibiotic and plod back into
the kitchen for some water to wash it down with. I look predictably awful. I feel predictably awful. Yet it’s more than just the fact that the tablets I took, when mixed with alcohol, have a
similar effect on human functionality as Rohypnol.

I am disappointed that my
first time
with Edwin wasn’t as memorable as it should have been, in that I can’t actually remember it at all.

Sheepishly, I return to the bedroom and slip under the covers. I can’t deny it feels nice when he squeezes himself into me, but it’s more the fact that I’m grateful that my
strip routine with the rubber gloves – which is one bit I do remember – didn’t make him disown me for life.

That turns out to be the last thing he wants to do. Edwin has never been as enthusiastic or attentive or generally keen as this morning. Whatever the hell it was I did with him last night, it
ought to be bottled and sold as a Viagra substitute.

‘You look beautiful,’ he murmurs, as I allow myself to be kissed by him.

‘I find that impossible to believe,’ I croak.

‘It’s true. Quite honestly, last night . . . the things you did . . . it was so unexpected. I’ve seen you in a new light.’

I freeze. ‘What things?’ I ask, but he just laughs.

‘I don’t know why you look so worried, Lauren. It was incredible. I’m walking on air today.’

‘Are you?’

He nods and kisses me on the forehead and I feel overcome with worry. ‘Edwin. Things are . . . hazy this morning. Did we
do it
?’

‘Very funny, Lauren,’ he laughs, which I can only interpret as a
yes
.

‘It’s just, I’m on these tablets at the moment and I think they reacted with the wine. Some parts of the evening are a bit hazy.’

‘Not for anything serious, I hope,’ he asks, a wrinkle appearing in his brow.

‘No, no. Just . . .’ I wrack my brains to try and conjure up something – anything – that I could feasibly have that isn’t infectious, or mildly embarrassing like a
UTI. ‘Gout.’

‘You’ve got gout?’

‘Just temporarily,’ I splutter, desperate to change the subject. ‘So, the sex . . .’

‘The sex?’

‘Between you and me. Was it . . .’ I try and think of a subtle way of asking this.

‘Good?’

‘No, penetrative.’

‘Well, no, but it was magnificent as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Oh right. Glad to hear it,’ I reply, giving him another kiss and wondering how long I need to stay here before I can make my excuses and leave.

Sunday is spent in a complete stupor, between my bed and the loo. By Monday, despite having largely recovered, I feel mortified every time there’s a possibility of going
anywhere near Edwin. This is problematic, given that our two classes are merged for ‘Spanish Day’. The latter involves Gillian Holt, from the junior school, giving a lengthy talk on
Madrid traditions – something a two-week holiday in 2009 has apparently qualified her for.