Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (3 page)

There and then, after controlling the urge to cry for the rest of the evening, I decided I would follow in Steph’s libidinous footsteps for an Edwin-free year of sun, freedom and possibly
sex, although I have forgotten how to do that, or at least I would have without my
Game of Thrones
box set.

I have saved up £4,764.37, and estimate I have only another few months before I’m ready to depart. Which means torturing myself with Edwin’s heavenly face for all that time,
but at least there is light at the end of the tunnel. And I might as well enjoy the view in the meantime.

I clamber out of bed and pad across my tiny, creaky bedroom to look out of the window across the misty landscape and towards the whitewashed walls and seventeenth-century timbers of the Mortal
Man pub. I can’t deny I’ll miss a view like this, whatever the Gold Coast has going for it. I open the window and breathe in the air, brushing away crystal droplets of overnight rain
that have gathered on the windowsill.

Kissing Gate Cottage, which I’ve rented for the last five years, has two bedrooms, a tiny, old-fashioned kitchen, a bathroom and a living room. It’s small but I love every nook and
cranny of it, its slate walls and ancient beams and the fact that it always smells of the seasons: new grass and sunshine in spring, burning wood and spice in winter, admittedly with a little help
from Ambi Pur.

It sits in a row of identical slate cottages in Troutbeck, which is quiet and scenic but close to the bustle of Bowness and Ambleside, both of which are short on the bright lights and action of
a metropolis but have everything you could ever really need. There are pubs of every description, from the posh kind that serve thrice-cooked chips to the rugged kind full of muddy boots and wet
dogs. There are boutiques that sell more than the obligatory hiking gear, old-fashioned cinemas – the kind where they have an interval and ice-cream sellers – and an exceptionally good
chocolate shop in Ambleside, which probably just gives the place the edge for me.

Once I’m dressed and ready, I pick up my phone and spot a text from Emily that says,
Did you enjoy last night? I loved it . . . though not sure if that’s down to the dancing or
gorgeous Joe! x
I wish I could muster the same enthusiasm.

I hop into my aging Mini to make the twelve-minute drive to work, St Luke’s and St Patrick’s C of E primary school. Three other vehicles are in the staff car park when I pull in. One
of them belongs to Edwin, who always makes it in at least fifteen minutes before me and will be in the staff room reading the paper already. I examine my appearance in the mirror, which is more
unforgiving than in my dimly-lit bedroom, to see if it’s suitable for his eyes this morning. The answer, immediately, is no.

The zit on my chin is not the most offensive I’ve ever had. That honour was saved for the one that graced my face when I graduated from university in Lancaster, which was like a second
nose – and was captured for all eternity in the picture still on my mother’s mantelpiece. But it’s offensive enough. I noticed some kind of protrusion when I was putting on my
foundation this morning, but in the thirty-five minutes since that moment it seems to have swelled up as if it’s been sitting under the heat lamps in an industrial-scale cannabis farm.

I pull out a tissue and do the only thing open to me: give it a little squeeze. Then another one. Then, just when I’m getting really into it . . .

Knock, knock!

I leap up and bang my head on the ceiling of the car.

Edwin Blaire’s beautiful face is staring at me. And at my zit. I open the door and smile awkwardly. ‘Edwin! Good morning,’ I say, swinging my legs over and shuffling out of the
driver’s seat.

‘Gorgeous, isn’t it. How are you today, Lauren?’

‘I’m really good, thanks,’ I tell him, surreptitiously holding my hand up to my face. When I remove it I notice a dab of blood on my finger. Perfect.

Edwin, physically speaking, is like nobody I have ever fancied before. When I was a teenager I went for obvious types – Ryan Gosling in
The Notebook
, or Keanu in
The
Matrix
. The fact that Edwin is not some overblown dream-boat is part of his appeal. That’s not to say he isn’t gorgeous, because he is, but his frame is tall and slim, where I once
sought out boy-band muscles. His eyes shine with kindness the more you get to know him, and the angular jawline and wide mouth grow more sensual with each snatched gaze.

His hair is glossy, his skin luminous and he always manages to dress in a way that’s as original as it is impeccable. I remember thinking when he first started here, about a year after me,
that the children might find the fact that he always wears a tie a little intimidating, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. He is universally adored by the children – and the other
staff, for that matter. Honestly, the rest of us don’t stand a chance; Edwin is without question the most popular teacher in school. He is a complete natural: strict enough to command their
respect, but so much fun that you know every one of them wishes he was their uncle.

‘Your salsa class turned into a good night then?’ he asks.

‘Do I look that rough?’

He laughs his lovely laugh, the one that makes birds and butterflies and little pink hearts fly up around my head. ‘You never look rough,’ he reassures me and continues to make eye
contact just long enough for my stomach to swoop a little. ‘How did it go?’

‘Oh . . . it was fun. Though I was mainly paired off with Cate, which wasn’t quite what I had in mind.’

‘I’ll have to come along one week and rescue you,’ he says, as my cruciate ligaments threaten to give way.

‘I wish you would,’ I blurt out, then feel my neck redden. Fortunately, he changes the subject.

‘Am I right in saying we’ve got a staff meeting later on? I had something in my diary but have managed to leave it at home.’

One of Edwin’s gorgeous quirks is that, despite being only thirty-four and basically a genius – he has a degree from the London School of Economics – he manages to resist the
frantic, twenty-first century scramble of technology that dictates all our lives these days. He’s got a mobile, obviously, but prefers to organise himself with nothing more than a Mont Blanc
fountain pen, Moleskine notebook and old-fashioned leather diary. He’s not even on Facebook, which is quite inconvenient given how much I’d enjoy secretly poring over his pictures.

‘We have, Edwin, yes. Three o’clock. Straight after the school bell.’

‘Good job I’ve got you around,’ he smiles, as I am hit by a ten-ton truck of longing, which has the strange effect of making me feel the need to move the conversation on.
‘How’s Fiona?’ I ask as we stroll through the car park toward the main entrance.

Our school was established in 1861 and parts of the old building still exist, although they have been renovated internally – in about as sympathetic a fashion as was possible in the 1980s.
Edwin is about to push open the door, but stops.

‘Oh, Fiona’s . . . fine. At least . . . I think so,’ he says, as I register a meaningful look in his eyes.

‘You
think so?’

‘Hmm.’ He looks down, mildly embarrassed. ‘I haven’t seen her since the weekend.’

He pushes open the door and invites me to enter first as my heart starts thudding faster. ‘Has she been away?’

‘Er, no,’ he replies dully.

‘Oh,’ I say, suppressing an urge to shout:
‘Speak, man, speak!’

He stops and turns to me, looking down again at his feet. ‘The truth is . . . I’ve moved out,’ he confesses. ‘And I can’t deny it, I feel terrible about
it.’

I realise my jaw is somewhere near my knees. ‘You dumped her?’

He nods silently.

‘Why? What happened?’ I ask.

He glances around to check no-one’s listening. ‘When I proposed, I meant it. At that point, I didn’t have a shadow of a doubt that I wanted to marry her. We would have done it
last year, had Fiona not had so much on with work – it was her idea to leave it a couple of years. Anyway, in recent months, she started making wedding preparations and we went to see this
venue in Ullswater.’ I look up and realise he’s started sweating. ‘It was all moving along so fast and . . . suddenly . . .’ he stops to draw breath before saying, ‘I
knew I was making a mistake. I had to put a stop to it. I had absolutely no choice.’

I don’t know how to process this information. ‘You’re not getting married any more?’ I croak.

He shakes his head. ‘We’d been growing apart for a long time.’ He looks at me, clearly worried I’ll despise him, in some twisted act of sisterhood. ‘Not that it had
been
awful
. It hadn’t. Fiona’s a lovely person. A perfect girlfriend.’

I nod, feeling very hot. ‘She is,’ I agree, unable to deny it. ‘She is unquestionably a lovely person. I can’t speak for the girlfriend bit, obviously.’

‘Well, she was wonderful,’ he shrugs. ‘Which is why I think I convinced myself I was in love with her . . . when I wasn’t.’

‘Weren’t you?’

‘No.’ He looks into my eyes and my heart skips a beat. ‘And you can’t be with someone for the rest of your life when you’re not in love. Can you?’

He’s clearly looking for reassurance. You’d think I’d be bursting to give it to him. But I’m so shocked, I’m finding it difficult to say a single thing.

‘Only
you
know if you’ve done the right thing, Edwin. But, you
should
be certain before you actually get married to someone,’ I murmur, unable to meet his
eyes. Then, before I can think about it, I place my hand on his arm as a gesture of solidarity. He looks momentarily surprised, then after a heartbeat, places his hand on mine.

I suddenly feel as if I’m dancing on poor Fiona’s grave – and I’m not the only one. We both snatch our hands away. ‘So you haven’t heard from her? You
don’t know how she is?’

He deflates. ‘OK, I confess: I was fibbing when I said that. She’s devastated. She keeps sending me texts saying she’s going to euthanise the goldfish in revenge.’

‘That seems very out of character.’

‘I think I’ve driven her over the edge,’ he says.

‘Poor Fiona,’ I offer.

‘Poor Fiona,’ he agrees.

Then we stand, silently, wondering what to say next. ‘Um . . . I’d better get into class,’ I splutter, and he nods as we scurry to the front door, a blaze of nervous energy
firing up between us.

The faintest hint of sunshine pushes through the clouds that weekend, apparently representing enough of a heatwave to convince Cate and Emily that the prime location at the
Mortal Man on Saturday afternoon is outside.

I find Emily at a table in the beer garden, her teeth chattering and nose a peculiar tinge of blue. ‘Isn’t it lovely to see some sunshine? I feel like summer’s only around the
corner,’ she says, huddling into her jacket.

‘Yes, if this keeps up we might be able to remove our long johns in a few weeks,’ I reply, taking a seat as Cate walks towards us with a tray, carrying three glasses, a bottle of
white and a couple of bags of nuts.

To give my friends’ sanity due credit, while the Mortal Man is a lovely cask-ale and high-beam type of pub, the greatest of all its virtues is the view: in summer, this little spot is a
sun trap, surrounded by the craggy landscape of Troutbeck. It’s the closest you’ll get to heaven on earth without Tom Hardy and a tub of Häagen-Dazs.

Cate pours the glasses and raises hers.

‘What are we toasting?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘Three soon-to-be-brilliant salsa dancers?’

We chink glasses as she hands over a bag of nuts.

‘Not for me,’ I reply. ‘I’m on a diet. I’ve even started using MyFitnessPal.’

Emily frowns. ‘I’ve never known you to diet. You don’t
need
to diet.’

‘You’ve never known me to diet
successfully
,’ I correct her. ‘I assure you I’ve got plenty of wobbly bits I need to get rid of.’

A look of glorious insight suddenly appears on Cate’s face. ‘Aha! This is because Edwin’s single now, isn’t it?’

I wonder about denying it, but that would prevent me from discussing the whole thing for the next hour, which I’m not prepared to relinquish. ‘I still can’t get over it,’
I say. ‘Fiona was perfect. I never thought
anyone
would split up with her.’

‘Well the love of your life has,’ Cate points out.

I suddenly feel slightly woozy, and Emily throws me a look. ‘Deep breaths, Lauren.’

‘Logically this might not mean much,’ I tell them. ‘Logically, if he’d been interested in me two years ago when we met, then he’d have dumped The . . . Fiona
then.’ I am appalled with myself for almost letting the word ‘Bitch’ slip out in the light of recent events, ironically or not. ‘I’ve been tossing and turning for
three nights wondering if . . . if . . . oh, it’s ridiculous.’

‘No, it’s not,’ Emily says. ‘You and Edwin have been friends for two whole years. You’ve got loads in common. You spark off each other when you’re together. I
could totally see you as a couple. The fact that he hasn’t thought about you in those terms until now just shows that he’s a decent, honourable, one-woman type of guy. Now that Fiona is
out of the way, it’s time to step up your game.’

‘You think I should ask him out?’

Cate considers this for a second. ‘Under normal circumstances I’d say definitely. But Edwin’s old-fashioned – in a good way, obviously,’ she adds hastily, seeing my
expression. ‘I think it’d be better if
he
asked
you
out. You just need to plant the seed of the idea in his head.’

‘How am I going to do that?’

‘You’ll think of something,’ she winks. ‘And if not,
I’ll
think of something. Ooh, I’ve got a really good feeling about this. I bet all three of us
will be hooked up by the end of the summer.’

‘Still dreaming about Will then?’ I ask.

‘He is so unbelievably HOT,’ she sighs, which I take as a yes. ‘I’ve never been out with anyone from Mountain Rescue before. I wonder if he’d take me up in his
chopper?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Emily will have the same problem if she ends up with . . .’