Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (28 page)

But I already know. And even if I didn’t, the sign for the Moonlight Hotel looms up on the horizon.

‘I see. Well,’ I huff, folding my arms across my chest, ‘I did say I didn’t want to see it. I don’t know what makes you think I’m not a woman of my
word.’

But he carries on driving until we pull up into a floodlit car park, the familiar lines of the building that is inextricably linked to my past rising above us. He turns off the engine, pulls on
the handbrake and looks at me, the soft natural floodlight from the moon casting shadows across his face.

‘If you really can’t be persuaded, I’ll take you home,’ he says quietly. ‘Obviously, it’s up to you. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say . .
.’

‘Say what?’

His jaw clenches. ‘That I’m fairly desperate for your approval here,’ he confesses, through a laugh. The sentence makes my heart surge. And for a split second as his smile
dissolves and he just looks at me, I am lost, utterly, in those eyes.

‘Fine,’ I snap. ‘Let’s go and see what a mess you’ve made of the place.’

Mist swirls around the building, like in a gothic storybook. Spiderwebs cling to the trees and dew sparkles on the ground. Joe unlocks the colossal double doors at the front of
the hotel and, with my breath hovering in my throat, I drift towards him, as if in a dream sequence.

I glance over my shoulder at the gardens that lead down to the lake, lawns I’d cartwheel across as a little girl. This was my own private playground, where I was happiest and most secure.
The lock clicks.

‘Here goes,’ Joe whispers, as he pushes open the doors.

As I set eyes on the new lobby of the Moonlight Hotel, I know that this is a moment I shall remember for ever. Stepping inside, my senses are heightened, my power of speech removed.

The old tiled floor has been refurbished, polished to a sheen, and upon it sits the plushest of furniture, in soft greens and greys, against a single, striking stretch of geometric wallpaper.
Above us, the missing pieces of the dusty chandelier have been restored; combined with the subtle uplighters along the wall, it casts a warm light over everything.

There are original features everywhere; the history of the building sings out. But they sit amongst a labyrinth of modern, stylish elements, a visual lullaby of silvers and greens. And in
amongst this is the zebra picture. Which looks as mad and brilliant as Joe promised it would.

The whole thing is stunning. And after all my whinging, I want to tell him that, so urgently, I feel as if the words are going to burst out of my mouth.

‘Joe, it’s—’

‘Don’t say anything,’ he interrupts, pressing a finger to his lips. ‘Not yet.’

He reaches out and takes me by the hand, to lead me to the next room.

‘This isn’t finished yet,’ he confides, and releases my hand to open the door and walk ahead. I wish I felt relieved, but I don’t. I want his hand back in mine.

‘This is going to be the dining room. It leads from the kitchens over there and we’ve picked some beautiful furniture for it which is arriving next week.’

Although the room isn’t finished, I can see enough to know that it will be incredible. There’s a stretch of intricately-patterned paper on some walls, plain sultry colours on others.
It’s a heavenly pairing of traditional and modern design – and nothing jars. It works so beautifully, I hardly know where to start.

‘Joe, it’s gorgeous.’

He allows a flicker of pleasure to pass his lips. ‘Wait until I’ve shown you it all before you give me your verdict.’

I pretend to zip up my mouth. ‘OK.’

If I was dazzled by the lobby, that’s nothing compared to the room I was dreading and desperate to see, in equal measure: the ballroom. It’s not finished yet either, but it’s
close.

Joe has turned a decaying room full of tired furniture and fraying carpets into something magical. The stucco walls are being restored, the floor returned to its original glory. It’s the
most traditional of all the rooms but there are touches that make it very clear this is a Wilborne hotel.

I step across the oak floor and take it all in as my head fills with memories. ‘I used to practise all my ballet routines here when I was a little girl,’ I whisper.

‘Well, it’s a room made for dancing,’ he replies. And for a moment I wonder if he’s asking.

I continue towards the window to prevent him seeing me blush. ‘I love the fact that you’ve restored so much,’ I say. ‘It’s completely different from how it was when
I was little, but there are touches . . . they’re wonderful. It’s going to be incredible.’

He shrugs. ‘I’ve always liked the idea of finding pockets of history and bringing them back to life, so that’s what I’ve tried to do.’

‘Is it only this room that needs to be completed?’

‘No, some bedrooms have barely been touched yet. One’s done though and most are nearly there. Come on, I’ll show you.’

He invites me to head up the sweeping, curved staircase. And the biggest thing that strikes me, as Joe walks me through each of the rooms, is how unfeasibly modest he is. Most people would be
shouting their achievements from the rooftops, but there’s a complete lack of hyperbole.

We start with a couple of the bedrooms at the back of the hotel; one is nowhere near complete, but has a bathroom suite fitted and all the old carpets and fittings torn out.

‘Can I see the one that’s finished?’

His eyes flick to mine. ‘The Honeymoon Suite.’

I blush deeper. ‘You old romantic,’ I say, forcing a joke.

‘Actually, I needed to get one bedroom done quickly so we could put it on our website. I have to get some weddings booked to make back some of the insane amount I’ve spent on this
place.’

‘More than pocket-money then?’

‘You could say that. Depressingly, a lot of what we’ve spent isn’t even on the stuff you can see.’

‘What do you mean?’ I don’t understand.

He hesitates. ‘This information isn’t for public consumption because it could result in some negative press, but the reason we had to leap into this refurbishment so quickly –
and close the hotel down in the run-up to peak season – was because of a potentially nasty case of dry rot.’

My eyes widen. ‘What?’

‘No other buyer would touch the place after they’d had it surveyed. But once I’d seen the potential of the place, I wanted to make it work – if we could. So we got our
specialists in and they gave us a quote . . .and once I’d recovered from the shock and persuaded my dad it’d all be worth it, we took the plunge.’

‘What would have happened if the dry rot had been left?’ I ask.

‘Well, untreated, it would have been disastrous. Dry rot can make floors and ceilings collapse – it’s a nightmare. But I’m confident we caught it in time, so don’t
worry, you’re quite safe,’ he grins.

‘You saved the Moonlight Hotel,’ I say numbly.

‘Well, I hope it’ll be worth it,’ he replies, pushing open a door. ‘Because I’m broke, for the moment at least. If this place doesn’t take off, I’ll be
on the streets selling the
Big Issue
by the end of the year.’

‘Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to happen,’ I say, as we step inside.

The Honeymoon Suite is exquisite, there’s no other way to describe it – with a vast four-poster bed, smooth, cool sheets, an elegant dressing table and a carpet so plush your feet
sink into it.

‘Ah, Lauren,’ Joe says. ‘I’ve just realised I didn’t switch a couple of things off in the restaurant, and if I don’t go now and do it, I’ll
forget.’

‘Shall I come with you?’

‘You wait here and give this place a thorough inspection. Do your worst. I’ll await your verdict when I come back.’ And then he smiles the kind of smile that I know will stay
with me for days on end and backs out of the door.

I glide through the room, examining every element, afraid to touch anything but desperate to do so at the same time. For so long, I wanted to find fault in what Joe was doing with this place.
But seeing first-hand the love and attention that’s been lavished on it makes that the last thing I want now. It’d be impossible anyway.

Every piece of furniture is bathed in honeyed light and I slide off my shoes and climb on top of the bed, closing my eyes and letting the softness envelop me. Time seems to tiptoe away as I lie
there, drifting in and out of happiness.

Then my eyes flicker open and I sit up and slip off the bed, padding to the doors that lead on to the balcony. I hadn’t expected it to open – none of them ever used to – but it
does. The floor is cold against the soles of my feet as I prop my elbows on the thick stone rail and gaze across the gardens, towards the shimmering water.

If I imagine hard enough, I can almost see us there – my dad and me, running across that lawn as he chases me then picks me up, flinging me over his shoulder while I laugh so hard
I’m crying.

I’m crying.

I realise I’m crying.

‘You found the balcony then.’

I spin round, shocked, and sniff back tears self-consciously. Joe frowns and walks towards me. ‘What is it?’

And then he does something I really don’t want him to do, or at least I know he shouldn’t do. Only, as his arms close around me and he pulls me towards him, I know these things are
only designed to comfort me. And the thing is, they do. They make my thoughts dissolve until all I can think about is the thudding of his heart against my ears.

He pulls back, but only slightly. Not enough. And he looks at me and whispers, ‘Is everything all right?’

The truth is, everything isn’t all right. I feel delirious and out of control and as if nothing and nobody can stop me from wanting him to stay just where he is. In the event, he
doesn’t move. He just looks at me and I look at him until the pleasure and pain of the gaze is unbearable.

As we embrace in the silence, I know exactly what I must do. I must leave.

But I don’t.

After one frozen moment, I become aware that we’re moving closer together. The expression in his eyes is heavy with desire.
I must leave.

But I don’t.

Not when his mouth is so close to mine that when I breathe in I can almost taste him, the mint he ate in the car and the scent on his throat.

Not when his lips touch mine, the lightest of touches, brushing so gently at first that I wonder if I might have imagined it.

I don’t make a conscious decision to kiss him back; it’s pure instinct drawing me into the heat of his mouth, desire pumping through me as my lips soften against his. I slide my
hands up his neck and pull him closer, and he responds by wrapping his arms tightly around me.

It isn’t just desire that I’m feeling. It’s pure, white-hot exhilaration. The rights and wrongs of this don’t even enter my head. There’s no room for them. Not when
instinct on every level is making me submit to this unprecedented kiss, a kiss that leads to both of us tumbling on to the bed.

We are soon devouring each other, my hands running across his back, heat pulsating through me at the feel of him. I wonder how a touch that’s so bad can feel so good.

And it’s that thought which makes me falter, for the first time.

So bad.

So very bad.

I pull away and sit up, trying to catch my breath. ‘I can’t believe that just happened,’ I gasp, the back of my hand against my mouth.

When he doesn’t respond, I look round.

‘Why?’ he says defiantly.

I look at him, incredulous. ‘Because of Emily! God Almighty . . . I’ve never done the dirty on anyone before. It’s not the type of person I am. I just
can’t—’

‘Lauren, stop,’ he interrupts. ‘My relationship with Emily is—’

‘Emily is crazy about you.’ He’s about to object, but I’m too fast. ‘You might not realise it, but it’s true,’ I say, scrambling for my shoes and
thrusting them on my feet. ‘I need to go,’ I tell him urgently, as I stand and dart for the door.

‘Lauren, please,’ he calls out, but I don’t stop. I hurtle down the stairs ten to the dozen, realising he’s right behind me. When we reach the door I start fumbling with
the lock.

‘Here, you need a key,’ he says, pulling a fob from his back pocket and starting to unlock it. I cannot be out of there quickly enough.

‘You can’t just go running into the night, Lauren,’ he says, opening the door. ‘At least let me give you a lift home.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, because if I remain in front of him for a moment longer I’m just not sure I’ll be able to bear it. ‘I can walk.’

‘It is
miles
to your house.’

At that, I am forced to admit that getting home from here on foot is a near-impossible task. So I have to endure waiting while Joe switches everything off, locks up and jumps into his Range
Rover. As he drives me home, we sit in excruciating silence. There just isn’t anything to say, and I’m too appalled with myself to bear to hear my own voice.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ I say when we finally reach my house. I go to open the door, but he grabs my hand.

‘Lauren—’

‘Save it, Joe. Please,’ I reply, and walk up my path engulfed by a wave of guilt and shame. And the knowledge that, contrary to everything I’ve ever assumed, I am possibly the
worst friend in the entire world.

I text Joyce the next morning to ask for a lift into school, given that my car is out of action. She spends the entire journey discussing Zoella, with whom she has developed an
obsession after her niece introduced her to the delights of YouTube. When I get to school, I phone Brian, a mechanic friend of my mum’s who runs a garage in Windermere. He agrees to go and
look at the car and ring as soon as he knows the (presumably expensive) score.

But it’s at lunchtime when the thing for which I’ve been longing, for more than two years happens: Edwin asks me out. Although it would be more accurate to say he
begs
me. I
can almost see him salivating as we stand next to each other in the lunch queue, waiting to be served.

It’s stew and congealed rice pudding today, as if I hadn’t lost my appetite enough already.

The problem, apart from the rice pudding, is that despite Edwin chomping so hard at the bit he’s on the verge of dislodging a filling, I can’t even focus on the fact that he actually
wants me now.