Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (32 page)

‘My feelings just . . . altered, that’s all. I can’t really explain it. He didn’t do anything wrong.’ I thrust another Dorito in my mouth and wish they’d
change the subject.

‘You’ve met someone else, haven’t you?’ Cate asks, and although I can tell she’s half-teasing I can feel my face blench.

Emily notices. ‘
Have
you, Lauren?’

‘Of course not. I think I’d have mentioned it before now, don’t you?’ I smile unsteadily, standing to go to the kitchen. Cate picks up the remote control and starts
flicking through channels as I head out, but I become aware as I reach the sink that Emily has followed me. She pushes the door gently closed.

‘How are you feeling?’ I whisper.

She shrugs. ‘Not too bad. Well, sick as anything. But OK. And I’ve made a decision about the baby.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m going to keep it.’ I realise I’m holding my breath. ‘It took a couple of days to get used to the idea. But now . . . I can’t imagine anything else. I
feel ready – to be a mother I mean. I really do.’ She says the words as if she can barely believe them herself.

‘That’s wonderful. I bet Joe will be delighted,’ I manage.

She looks down at her hands. ‘Do you think I’m doing the right thing?’

The answer sticks in my throat. ‘I think you’re going to be a wonderful mum, Emily. I’m really happy for you. How’ve you coped with work?’

‘I feigned a foot injury and asked to be put on duty in the climbing shop,’ she says. ‘I’m going to have to think of a better excuse soon though, because that one
won’t last long.’

‘Oh, Lauren,’ Cate shouts through, ‘any more of that fizzy stuff I brought?’

Emily flashes me a glance. ‘I’m determined to keep it under wraps for now, though – so please don’t tell anyone. If I can get away with it, I want to wait until the
twelve-week mark before I tell a soul. It’s only about seven as far as I can work out.’

‘Of course,’ I promise as she heads back into the living room, while I remove the bottle of Prosecco from the fridge.

Then, as if I’ve been grabbed from behind, I’m engulfed by an electric flashback of Joe’s lips on mine. Adrenalin races through me as I slam shut the fridge door and my
doorbell rings.

I find Stella on my step. She’s wearing a tea-length dress with white and bright pink spots. It strikes me as the kind of dress you’d put on to cheer yourself up, or perhaps
I’ve just noticed how forced her smile is.

‘Are you sure I’m not gate-crashing?’

‘Don’t be silly, you’re more than welcome,’ I tell her, showing her in.

‘I just needed to get out of the house for a bit.’

As we head into the living room to join the others, Emily looks up. ‘How are you, Stella?’ she asks warmly.

Stella lowers herself tightly on to the sofa, placing the bottle of wine she’s brought with her on the coffee table. ‘Fine, thanks,’ she replies miserably. Then she leans
forward and puts her head in her hands.

‘Stella, what is it?’ Cate asks.

‘I can’t go on pretending things are fine between me and Mike,’ she says, lifting up her face. ‘It’s not
natural
. He’s been seeing another woman, for
God’s sake!’

‘Who?’ asks Cate.

‘Lulu,’ Stella says sombrely. ‘Oh, he denies it – keeps reassuring me there’s nothing in it, but I don’t believe a word of it. I spent last night tossing and
turning, asking myself if I could make this work. If I loved him so much, could I try and . . . I don’t know, be a bit more
European
about the whole thing. A bit more modern. Turn a
blind eye.’

Cate and Emily exchange glances.

‘Then I realised what I was doing: trying to avoid cancelling the wedding.’ She sighs, her face stilled in sadness. ‘Yet, can I commit the rest of my life to a man just so I
don’t lose the money we’ve forked out on five bridesmaids’ dresses and a hog roast? The answer is, I can’t. I
can’t
go ahead with it.’

I sit forward on the sofa and give her what Paddington Bear would call a hard stare. ‘Stella. Do not cancel the wedding,’ I say firmly.

She sinks back, resigned, and looks up at me with crimson-rimmed eyes. This is suddenly feeling horribly serious. ‘But he’s sleeping with someone else, Lauren. It’s that
simple. No matter how much I love him, I need to let him go.’

I dig my nails into my hands. ‘Before you do that, Stella, I have to tell you something.’

All three of them glare at me. And it strikes me that not every secret is better left unbroken.

It’s gone 11.30 before Cate and I pack Stella and Emily into a taxi and wave goodbye.

‘Interesting night,’ Cate says. ‘Poor old Stella. Fancy thinking Lulu and Mike were having it away with one another. You did the right thing, by the way.’

‘Yes, I think I probably did, didn’t I?’

‘Unquestionably. And, thanks for letting me stay tonight. It means a lot.’

‘No problem at all. Nice to have a girls’ night before . . .’

‘Australia,’ she finishes for me. ‘Listen, I want you to know how glad I am that everything’s worked out for you on that score. Australia is where you’re meant to
be. Besides, I want to visit you in Sydney far more than I ever fancied Singapore.’

‘Are you going to be all right, Cate?’

Her jaw twitches and she looks away, hiding the emotion in her eyes. ‘That’s not your worry, Lauren. My problems are my problems – and Oz is your future.’

‘You wouldn’t think of joining me, would you?’ I already know the answer without her saying it.

She shakes her head. ‘And do what with Daffodils & Stars? I’m not saying I couldn’t
ever
go anywhere because of it. And hell, yes, the other side of the world has
never looked more attractive than it does right now. But I’d need more than three weeks to find someone I trusted enough to run this place for me, for Grandma Issy’s sake as well as
mine. And that’s before we even get into the issue of a work permit.’

‘Have you heard from your mum or dad lately?’

‘Dad’s been in touch and we had a chat on the phone. It was terrible, to be honest. He’s not like Mum – he’s not angry at me, just heartbroken. It’s far
worse.’

‘Nothing from your mum then?’

‘I tried to get in touch again today, but she says she doesn’t want to speak to me at the moment. And I’ll be honest – I’m not sure I can face her
either.’

She then spots her phone on the coffee table, picks it up and scowls angrily at the screen.

‘Robby’s texted me.’

‘At this time of night?’

‘He sent it over an hour ago but I hadn’t realised while the girls were here. He says he wants to talk.’

‘I take it you’re going to tell him to sling his hook?’

‘I can’t, Lauren. Whether I like it or not, he’s not someone I can afford to ignore.’ She takes a deep breath and, with trembling fingers, clicks on his number before
walking through into the kitchen to make the call.

I switch on the TV and stare at a vacuous action film, trying to imagine what he’s saying to her. Unlike her conversation with Will, there are no raised voices. It occurs to me that she
wouldn’t shout at Robby quite simply because she’s terrified of him, or at least what he’s capable of.

She’s gone less than five minutes, and when she returns and sinks into the sofa, her cheeks are wet from tears.

‘What is it?’

‘He’s got all the other photos,’ she says, her voice thick and helpless, like a wounded animal. ‘He’s not even trying to hide the fact that it was him. He finally
admitted it. I actually think he’s proud of it.’

‘So what did he say? And what did you say?’

She stares into space, mascara streaking down her cheeks. ‘They’re so much worse,’ she says quietly, not even hearing me.

‘What are?’

‘The other photos,’ she croaks. ‘He’s got them all.’

‘What . . . what’s in them?’ I ask quietly.

She doesn’t turn to look at me when she replies. ‘I can’t even bring myself to say it. I’m doing stuff in them, put it that way.’

‘Legal stuff?’ I ask tentatively.

Her head snaps round to me. ‘Of course legal stuff! Just the last thing you’d want anyone to see.
Ever
. They were all his bloody idea.’ She shudders. ‘I feel
like killing myself, Lauren. I just feel like ending it now.’

I leap over and throw my arms around her. ‘Please don’t say that. Please,’ I whisper.

‘This is never going to end, Lauren. I can’t give him what he wants. I don’t
have
it.’

I pull back slightly. ‘What does he want?’

The words tremble out of her mouth. ‘He says he’s been offered a job in France but moving there is too expensive. But if I was prepared to help him out . . .’

‘What does he want, Cate?’ I repeat firmly.

‘Five thousand pounds in cash,’ she whispers. ‘For every last photo to disappear, along with him.’

For a second, I’m speechless. Then: ‘He’s
blackmailing
you!’

‘Give it whatever name you want, he’s calling the shots.’

‘Cate, I’m serious, this cannot go on. You need to go to the police. What he’s doing is definitely criminal. He’s got to be stopped.’

‘How are they ever going to know about that phone call?’ Powerlessness seems to anaesthetise her vocal cords. ‘I didn’t record it. He’d just deny all knowledge of
it. Besides, how can I go to the police? Even without the issue of Will’s brother, this is all shameful enough. I just need these photos to disappear. I need them to go. I need
him
to go.’

‘So what are you going to do? You can’t seriously be considering paying that money.’

She turns to me, looking deadly serious. ‘If I had the means, of course I would. But I haven’t anything like that amount of money and I have no access to it. I hit my credit limit
long ago when I refurbished Daffodils & Stars. I tried to get a loan for a new van last year and there’s no longer a bank in the world that will touch me. But the answer to your question
is yes. Definitely. If I had that money and could make all of this go away, I would pay Robby off, this very minute.’

The decision that I’m going to help Cate – I mean
really
help her – isn’t one I make the second she leaves my cottage the following morning.
But as I log on to my bank account, I realise that I’m the only person on earth with the power to make her problems disappear.

My train of thought might be madness.

But I’ve never felt a stronger need to prove to myself that I am a good person, a good friend – after all I’ve done to the contrary in the last couple of weeks.

So by Monday morning, I know exactly what I’ve got to do: give Cate my travelling money to get rid of those pictures, get rid of Robby and let her live her life. There’s just no
alternative.

The practical implications of this are impossible to compute: I’ll be out of a job in a few days’ time. Not only that – I’ll be unable to escape.

I haven’t heard from Joe since I put the phone down on him last Tuesday. That was six days ago. But I’ve thought about nothing else since – nothing except him, Emily, their
baby . . . and the burning fragments of that night in the Honeymoon Suite of the Moonlight Hotel.

I am sitting in the staff room at lunchtime, staring into space as another one of my regular, vivid images flashes into my head – of my hand sliding up the back of Joe’s shirt
– when my phone beeps. I rip it out of my handbag and see that he’s texted me. I open up the message with my heart thrashing against my chest like a caged bird.

I remember that the clasp on that bracelet was loose after I got tangled up with Esteban; I can’t believe I dropped it there though. I chew the side of my mouth and start to compose a
text, as the staff-room door opens and Edwin enters. The look he throws me is icier than a Mr Whippy van in January, before he backs out of the door again.

Joyce looks up from a book called
Her Libidinous Billionaire Cowboy
. ‘What’s up with Edwin? He’s got a lip on him like my front step this morning.’

‘Maybe he’s just sad about leaving,’ I say weakly.

‘Well, I’m not surprised. I’m sure Singapore’s got a lot going for it but when you live somewhere like this, sometimes you need reminding that the grass isn’t
greener. Not that I think you’re doing the wrong thing, obviously.’

‘Hmm,’ I reply, having neither the energy nor inclination to explain that I’m not going anywhere fast except the Job Centre.

I click on Joe’s message and press reply.
Hi. I’ll come and collect it from the hotel straight after work – no need for you to be there if you just want to
give it to a staff member.

He responds less than a minute after I’ve pressed Send.
OK. I’ll give Gianni a ring and ask him to meet you at the gate. I’ll forward his number if you could
text him when you’re on your way?

I try to think clearly over the muffled buzz in my ears. I tell myself that going back to the scene of my indiscretion is at least better than Joe turning up at the cottage tonight. Because I
honestly don’t think I can face him again. Ever. For a multitude of reasons, including the one I’m trying to stop bursting into my head: that I want him so badly my entire body aches
with it.

The rest of the day at work ticks by torturously. And that evening, despite the fact that I know he won’t be there, as my car crunches up the drive of the Moonlight Hotel, I can feel
myself grow tense.

A high, midsummer sun casts a saffron light on to the pale walls of the building. Like the last time I was here, I’m momentarily winded when I see it, memories unfolding in my head as I
draw closer.

I step out of the car, as I realise that someone is approaching. When I’d heard Gianni’s name mentioned previously, for some reason I expected a sharp-looking Italian guy in his
mid-thirties. In fact, he looks to be almost sixty, but good on it, with intelligent eyes and a flat, toned torso. When he reaches me, I notice that his shirt smells freshly ironed.