Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (4 page)

‘Joe,’ Emily reminds me. ‘But he’s not Mountain Rescue. He’s an
entrepreneur
.’

‘Oh right,’ I reply. ‘The Alan Sugar kind or the drug-dealing kind?’

‘I didn’t ask,’ she smirks. Then a thought occurs to her. ‘Do you think he’s out of my league?’

Cate tuts. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Emily. Anyway, have you been practising your dance moves, Lauren?’

‘Oh – do I really have to go to salsa again?’ I ask, having conveniently forgotten about the whole thing.

The others look at me as if I’ve grown that extra nose again. ‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’ Emily says, looking genuinely shocked.

‘It was
all right
, but my shins are black and blue after five minutes with Mike, and now that you two are paired off . . .’

‘I’d say that was a little premature, Lauren,’ Emily chides me. ‘We both fancy a couple of blokes, but that doesn’t mean we’re
paired off
. Besides,
we’re not there for the men. We’re there for the fun. Aren’t we, Cate?’ She nudges our friend.

‘What – eh? Yes, sorry,’ she says. ‘I was distracted.’

‘By what?’ Emily asks.

Cate narrows her eyes towards the car park. ‘I could’ve sworn I saw . . .’

We spin round and follow her gaze when Robby, Cate’s ex-boyfriend, appears and starts sauntering towards the pub door. ‘Oh God, it
is
him,’ she says, ducking her head
down, as if this will save her from anything.

Emily chews her lip. ‘Maybe he won’t spot us.’ At which point he starts waving.

Cate looks up, starts twiddling with the piercings at the top of her right ear and musters up a ‘what a lovely coincidence’ smile that is so unconvincing you’d think
she’d just found fossilised squirrel faeces in the bottom of her glass. ‘Shit. What do I do?’ she hisses through clenched teeth.

‘You just have a polite conversation and hold your breath until he’s gone,’ I tell her.

Robby is suddenly hovering above us. It’s hard not to feel sorry for Cate’s ex-boyfriend, and not just because she left him heartbroken when she dumped him. He’s always had
that feel-sorry-for-me way about him, which I think was part of the reason she eventually came to find him so strangely unattractive.

And it is strange, because Robby is unfeasibly good-looking, with the lithe, hard body of an underwear model, and a high blond Tin Tin quiff that is so daft it can only be cool.

Half-Parisian, Robby moved to London when he was eight, and then relocated up here to the Lakes last year for work. He’s a bar-tender at the Damson Garden, an insanely luxurious boutique
hotel where he’s served cocktails to A-list film stars, Olympic sportsmen and the odd a chart-topping musician.

At twenty-seven, he’s five years younger than Cate, and although he has everything going for him, he retains a strangely melancholic disposition, as if he’s permanently mourning
something that hasn’t yet happened. Only, in this case, it has happened. Cate dumped him. And apparently ruined his life.

‘How are things, ladies?’ he asks, with a face that says,
I’m trying my best to keep a stiff upper lip,
DESPITE WHAT THIS FUCKING COW DID TO
ME
.

‘Good, thanks,’ Emily and I reply. Then there’s a split-second silence in which everyone is thinking about asking him the same question, yet you can practically hear the cogs
in our brains trying to stop us from doing so.

‘And how are
you
, Robby?’ Cate asks, clearly not able to stop herself.

He glares at her. ‘I’ll have to be honest, things are not so goo—’

‘Would you like a nut?’ I ask, thrusting the glazed almonds under his nose. He looks perplexed by this question. ‘They’re delicious,’ I continue, before he can say
anything. ‘Lots of calories, mind you. Not that I’m suggesting you’d need to watch your weight. So have you served anyone famous recently? Tom Cruise been in? Or Katie Holmes? Oh,
no – that could be awkward . . . ’

A wrinkle appears above Robby’s nose. ‘Not really. I’ve had things on my mind other than work though. Personal things.’ He flashes another look at Cate, who is pretending
to admire the view. He sits down next to her. When she turns round, she nearly leaps out of her chair. ‘Things aren’t going my way at the moment. I had my phone stolen
yesterday.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Robby,’ Cate says, and he seems to leap on her sympathy and grasp it with both hands.

‘I miss you,’ he whispers.

Emily looks at her watch. ‘Ooohh . . . is it really nearly three o’clock?’

Cate throws us a glance that screams,
Do not go or I will never speak to you again.
Emily and I sit tight.

‘Cate,’ he repeats. ‘I’d just like to talk about a few things. That’s all. I – I know I’m not everything you want . . .’

‘It’s not that,’ she squirms. ‘You’re lovely, Robby.’

‘Then why aren’t we together?’ he fires back. ‘Because I think
you’re
lovely too. I’ve said it enough, haven’t I?’

Cate’s face grows red. ‘There’s no point in going through it all again,’ she says weakly. ‘I think you’re a wonderful man. But you and I . . . I’m
sorry, we’re just not meant to be.’

His handsome jaw tenses. ‘Okay,’ he says flatly. ‘I’m sorry I bothered you. See you around, ladies. Or . . . not.’

And at that he gets up and walks away.

Cate draws a long breath. ‘God, I feel awful. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. Most women would kill to have a man like that chasing after them.’

Emily shrugs. ‘If you don’t fancy him, you don’t fancy him.’

Cate’s eyes widen. ‘You’ve seen him – he’s gorgeous – but sometimes way too intense. You know how it is when you fall for someone: you either feel it or you
don’t. Think about how you feel about Edwin, Lauren. There’s absolutely no shadow of a doubt in your mind about how madly in love you are with him. It’s indefinable – the
chemistry, the alchemy. And what you feel for Edwin, I certainly don’t for Robby. Do you know what I mean?’

I take a sip of my drink. Because I know exactly what she means. My feelings for Edwin are rock solid. If only the same could be said of his for me.

Our second salsa night is a revelation. It isn’t just the sheer liberation of moving without the hateful shoes, which I abandoned in favour of my Converse, after Marion
agreed they were acceptable.

It’s that a decent number of participants turn up. We’re still some way from forty or fifty but, following a piece in the local paper last week and Will and Joe asking a couple of
friends, we’re now up to sixteen.

This rush sends Marion into a quivering panic, which is abated slightly when the cavalry arrives in the form of her friend, who introduces herself rather formally as Lulu Mitford. Lulu is
younger than Marion; she’s in her late thirties, with a slim, fine-boned face and long eyelashes. Although she works for English Heritage, she’s been dancing ballroom and Latin since
she was a teenager, hence the fact that Marion has roped her along so she can split us into two groups: absolute beginners and those able to undertake more than the basic steps without risking a
trip to A&E.

‘How did you persuade your friends to come?’ I ask Joe, as he takes my hand. His face breaks into a warm, easy smile and his eyes no longer seem as brooding tonight. Although perhaps
all the hype from Emily about how lovely he was with her last week has simply made him seem a bit more approachable.

‘They’re mainly Will’s mates from Mountain Rescue,’ he explains. ‘He says nobody was keen at first, then he told them the place was full of single women. After
that, it was surprisingly simple.’

Lulu starts the music and asks us to begin with the same basic steps we learned last week. Joe, I’m relieved to see, is at about the same ability level as me: passable. Our footwork is a
long way from fancy, particularly when Lulu introduces a new move – a turn outwards one way, then the other. There’s the usual clashing of knees, for which we’re both
responsible.

‘I might be wrong, but you don’t sound as if you were born and bred in Cumbria,’ I tell him.

‘I’m a Londoner originally. I spent my childhood in Hampstead, but have lived all over the place since.’ I mentally pocket this nugget of biography to fill in Emily later.
‘I always knew I’d end up in the Lakes though, at least for a time. My dad fancied himself as a bit of an adventurer and so we’d come at least twice a year, to scramble up Scafell
Pike or Great Gable. So when an opportunity arose a few months ago, I did that unforgivable thing the locals must hate tourists doing: I moved here.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Well, I am a true, bona-fide local and I can say for the record that I’m totally at ease with the idea of welcoming people who’ve fallen in love with the
place.’

‘Really?’ he asks dubiously.

‘Yep. Until they all turn up, that is.’

He laughs and takes my hand again, but Lulu steps in. ‘Time for a switch around,’ she tells us. ‘Move along now.’

According to Lulu, it’s not the done thing to dance with the same person all evening, so over the next forty-five minutes, we shuffle promiscuously from partner to partner. The idea is to
experience dancing with a range of abilities, rather than this being an elaborate prelude to a swingers’ party. Marion also insists that it’s the best way for us all to get to know each
other – and I can’t deny that collective cringing proves to be a remarkably effective bonding tool.

The only one who isn’t convinced by the new system is Stella. I end up next to her while Lulu demonstrates a turn with one of the newcomers – a toned, olive-skinned guy with an
accent I can’t place. They make the steps look very remedial. ‘Don’t get me wrong – I get why we’re doing it this way,’ says Stella, as Will steps up and takes
her by the hands and I’m joined by a sprightly man who must be in his seventies but looks good on it. ‘I’m just worried that Mike is going to dislocate someone’s
kneecaps.’ We both look over and wince as he attempts to unravel himself from Cate’s ankles.

My partner, it turns out, is a former theology lecturer called Frank. He is three inches shorter than me, with a sweet smile and haphazard beard that resembles the bristles in a stiff boot
cleaner. As we follow Lulu’s lead, stepping and turning to the music, it’s obvious he’s significantly better at this than me. I start moving my hips a little more, in a bid to
make more of an effort.

‘How long have you and Mike been together?’ I ask Stella when the music stops.

‘Three and a half years,’ she replies.

‘He seems lovely.’

‘Oh, he’s a gem,’ she says, wrinkling her nose affectionately. ‘And I get on like a house on fire with his family. Or at least I did until the Monday before
last.’

‘Oh?’

‘I thought I’d give Mike a nice surprise and recreate that scene in
Pretty Woman
. You know, where she sits on the table, naked except for his tie.’

‘Ah,’ I reply, unsure how else to respond.

‘So I’m there: table set, candles on the sideboard, seabass in the oven. Only, after I heard a key in the door and whipped off my dressing gown, I discovered that it was actually his
mum letting herself in to feed the cat. She’d thought we were still away for the weekend.’

‘Oh good God . . .’

‘I know. There I was with his M&S tie dangling between my knockers and in walks his mother with a bowl of Sheba. It was terrible.’

Tonight’s newcomers make for an interesting mix. As well as the Mountain Rescue volunteers, there’s Frank, the ex-theology lecturer, Esteban – who, it turns out, is
twenty-five, a restaurant manager and from Peru – as well as a couple of nurses and a gorgeous blonde Ambleside College student called Jilly: Esteban can’t take his eyes off her.
There’s also one couple from the Midlands who are staying at the hotel for a week’s holiday and are salsa fanatics.

But our small band of new dancers are mainly locals, covering a vast age range that starts somewhere in the early twenties and ends with Frank.

All of which makes the whole thing so much more of an
event
than last week, that for a slim moment, I start to wonder if I might be enjoying myself. Although not as much as Cate.

She spent the first five minutes chatting with a couple of the waitresses – there is literally no one on earth she couldn’t engage in small talk – before making a beeline for
Will and being virtually inseparable since. Despite Marion and Lulu’s efforts to get us all to swap partners, they’ve mysteriously ended up together at least five times.

‘Before we begin, I need to say something to you.’ Mike is standing in front of me, offering me his hands before the dance begins.

‘What is it?’ I ask, taking hold of them.

He mumbles sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’

‘For what?’

The music starts and he steps forward . . . right onto my toe. ‘Oh I see,’ I gasp, hopping about, convinced that he’s managed to chip my nail polish through a rubber toe-cap
and pair of cotton socks. As Mike starts apologising again, Lulu appears.

Last week, Marion wasn’t overly forgiving of Mike’s ineptitude, addressing him like a disobedient child, as opposed to a moderately successful thirty-five-year-old IT manager. But
Lulu appears to have taken a shine to him.

‘You mustn’t worry about it,’ she says patiently. ‘For some, this comes easily, for others it takes a bit of practice, but I’ve got no doubt you’ll get there
in the end.’

‘I’m glad you’re convinced,’ Mike smiles at her.

‘You just need to relax a bit,’ she replies, moving his arms into the correct position as he reddens slightly. ‘Though not too much – your arms need to be nice and tight.
Remember, the man leads –
you’re
the one in charge.’

‘I suppose it had to happen one day,’ he shrugs. ‘Right, fancy trying one of these turns?’ he asks me.

‘Go for your life,’ I say uncertainly.

Mike lifts up his arm, which is the cue for me to perform the full 360-degree turn we learned earlier, in three quick, sharp steps. This is far harder than it sounds, although that might partly
be because Mike loses his step and stumbles in my direction, leaving us a clash of arms and legs and red faces. The poor guy looks distraught.