Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (6 page)

‘It’d be fine if you were, obviously,’ he says.

‘Of course,’ I mutter, feeling my stomach sink further.

The fact that it’d be
fine
with Edwin if I was a lesbian, and therefore not even in the market for getting it on with him, does not sit well with me. Then I wonder, with a brief
stab of hope, whether this simply adds an air of mystique and mystery to me, and means that I’ve hidden my feelings well. I decide to stick with that on the basis that the only alternative
course of action is slitting my wrists.

‘Of course it’d be fine. But I’m not. Just to be clear.’ I smile and make a concerted effort to hold his gaze. To
flirt
with him. In an unequivocal,
definitely-not-a-lesbian kind of way. It takes a second, but he does a double take and holds my gaze too. His back straightens in realisation. He doesn’t move.

And for a quiet moment I am convinced that this unspoken sexual tension between us is finally being unleashed. I want him to know how I feel, or at least wonder about it, without saying a single
thing. The moment is actually kind of perfect. Until my empty stomach decides to step in.

‘Ggggrrr,’
it gurgles.

It sounds as if someone is starting a rusty Harley Davidson from within the confines of my large intestine.

I gasp and put my hand over my stomach. ‘
Bllughhehae!
’ it adds for good measure as I blush to my roots. ‘Sorry about that,’ I mutter. ‘On a diet. Bit
hungry. Better run.’ I go to stand up.

‘Don’t run on my account, Lauren,’ he says. I turn round again. ‘Why don’t you stay and share some cake? Not that I want to ruin your diet or anything.’

He holds out a Tupperware box and I realise I
cannot
pass up a moment like this: when the love of your life suggests you share his cake, calories don’t come into it. You just get
stuck in, for the sake of a higher cause. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’ I ask.

‘Of course not, take some. My mum made it,’ he adds, offering out the plastic box and handing me a wine-coloured napkin.

I don’t know what type of cake it is beyond the fact that it’s pale brown, cut into squares and covered in thick white icing. Even accounting for the fact that I am so ravenous I
could eat a scabby horse with a pair of chopsticks, one thing becomes painfully apparent with my first bite: Edwin’s mum is no Mary Berry.

‘It’s delicious, Edwin, thank you,’ I say, trying not to gag as a chunk of raw, unmixed flour gets lodged in my windpipe. ‘Is she . . . a keen cook?’

‘She
was
. I’m not sure she’s quite as good as she used to be.’

I muster a smile, swallow laboriously and pray that the flour was the worst of it. ‘So . . . how are you, Edwin? You know, after the break-up?’

He sighs. ‘Oh, I’m OK mostly. I’ve done the right thing, but I can’t deny I feel a bit lonely lately. Fiona might not be the woman I want to spend the rest of my life
with, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her. Does that make sense?’

‘Of course it does. Sometimes, we all just need human contact, don’t we?’

He looks at me and my cheeks heat up but mercifully he changes the subject. ‘Maybe I just need a good distraction. Perhaps it’s time for me to take up your offer to borrow that
Breaking Bad
box set . . . as long as you wouldn’t mind?’

‘Of course not!’ I’ve been extolling the virtues of Walter White and co since the day I met Edwin.

‘Fiona never fancied it, but you convinced me.’

‘I’ll bring it in tomorrow,’ I say. Then a tickle in my throat that makes me cough. And cough. So badly that at one point it sounds as though someone’s polishing my
tonsils with a feather duster.

Edwin stares at me with increasing alarm as, red-faced and eyes watering, my reflexes start to do everything they possibly can to eject his mum’s cake in the most violent manner possible.
‘Lauren, are you OK?’ he asks in alarm.

When I fail to answer, he gives me several sharp thumps between my shoulder-blades. I wave my hands about, unable to speak, which finally persuades him to stop and start rubbing my back gently.
I am slightly dazed from the experience, and the sensual feel of his hand against my spine does nothing to bring back my power of speech.

‘Is that better?’ he asks gently as I nod through bloodshot eyes, hook a finger into my throat and catch something on the end of it. Then I pull. And pull, gazing wonkily at my hand
as I unravel a long, grey hair, which finally emerges from my mouth and dangles between my fingertips. He leans in to examine it.

‘Oh God,’ he winces, clearly mortified. ‘That’s one of Mum’s. I’m so sorry,’ he says, removing it from my hand and placing it in a napkin.

‘Don’t worry,’ I mumble, composing myself. Then I realise he’s looking at me peculiarly.

‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ he says. ‘Mum’d be distraught.’

‘Please don’t worry, Edwin – honestly.’

He nods, clearly wanting to change the subject. ‘So. Are these salsa classes you’re doing fun?’

‘Um . . . yes, actually.’

‘I’ve always fancied it, you know. I love a dance. Not that I’m any good.’ Unlike the first time he hinted at this, he looks like he could actually be serious.

‘None of us are any good. You should come along,’ I urge him, rather more desperately than I’d intended. ‘You’d love it.’

He stands up, picks up his Tupperware box and turns to flash me a smile. ‘I just might do that one day, Lauren.’

‘I hope so, Edwin.’

And Mrs Blaire’s hairball aside, I’m starting to think that today couldn’t get any better.

When we arrive at salsa night a few minutes early this week, Marion is pacing up and down with her arms crossed and a face like she’s chewing a pickled wasp.

‘Just when we get the class up and running – and a decent number of people turn up – I get told we’ve got to go,’ she huffs, flipping back a wisp of blonde
fringe.

‘Go where?’ asks Cate.

‘Precisely! The new owner is going to rip this place apart. And for that, the hotel needs to close, probably for months, which means we’ve got nowhere to hold the class. It’s
all here,’ she says, waving a piece of paper about. ‘In a letter left for me at reception tonight from Gianni Battaglia
. . .
whoever he is.’

Cate looks over her shoulder. ‘Project Manager of Wilborne Associates,’ she reads.

‘I’ve been talking to Janice the housekeeper,’ Marion continues. ‘The staff were called into a meeting last night by the current owners. The sale is due to be completed
tomorrow. This place has been losing money for years and it’s now reached a critical point. They didn’t
want
to sell, but they had no choice. And the only buyers are these
Wilborne people, who seem intent on destroying it.’

‘Why would they want to destroy it?’ Emily asks.

‘They spin it as “bringing it into the twenty-first century”. Which we can only assume means no more of these lovely ceilings and walls – and no more hotel for the next
few months at least. It must be drastic if they need that amount of time.’ She leans in. ‘Wilborne Associates run other hotels, by the way – a budget chain called Travel
Havens.’

My mouth gapes open as a wave of defiance sweeps over me. I feel like the miners marching in protest against pit closures in the 1980s. Like Emmeline Pankhurst at the gates of Parliament. I am
burning with a righteous sense of indignation.

‘Hang on, this is a listed building,’ Emily leaps in. ‘There are restrictions on what they can do. They won’t be allowed to tear it apart.’

‘They can’t alter the basic structure but that won’t stop them ripping out everything inside and putting in IKEA wallpaper,’ Marion contends.

‘Someone’s got to do something,’ I splutter. ‘They can’t allow this – the Moonlight Hotel is a piece of Cumbrian history.’

Cate frowns. ‘So when is this all happening?’

‘The new boss is going to be here tomorrow speaking to all the staff about their future,’ Marion says ominously. ‘What about the future of the bloody salsa class?’

In all honesty, the fact that Marion hasn’t got a venue for her class is the last thing on my mind. I’m not even thinking primarily about the fate of the staff, although
that’ll be bad enough if people are out of their jobs. It’s what’s going to happen to the hotel. The thought makes my stomach swirl.

‘I’ll ask around Ambleside to see if I can find somewhere else, if you like,’ Cate suggests. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard.’

‘Maybe this isn’t such a terrible thing,’ Emily ventures. I glare at her. ‘Obviously it’s a nightmare for you having to find another venue, Marion, but this place
is obviously in need of renovation.’

‘Some TLC, Emily, that’s all,’ I correct her. ‘Not for the entire character of the place to be bulldozed and all the staff to be sacked.’

The door opens and Esteban enters, wearing combat shorts and a luminous yellow muscle top that looks as if it belongs in one of Jane Fonda’s 1980s fitness videos. ‘Evening, ladies,
how are things?’

Marion launches into a repeat of her tale of woe, virtually beating Esteban into submission until he agrees wholeheartedly how horrific the entire thing is. The others start to arrive shortly
afterwards. The nurses aren’t here tonight, but there’s one new couple – a geologist called Andi and her husband, who I recognise from the local press as an environmental
campaigner.

Then Lulu puts on some music – a salsa version of a Maroon 5 track – and Marion is forced to turn her attention to something other than winding everyone up. We start with the same
basic moves on the spot that we’ve learned so far, and then move on to rotating back steps with a ‘crossover’.

Lulu gives us a slow-motion demonstration with Esteban, before we all get to have a go ourselves. It feels good to be actually moving, covering some ground instead of being rooted to the
spot.

‘Couldn’t Mike make it tonight?’ I ask Stella, as Lulu thrusts Will in front of her.

‘He’s given up,’ she says, making it clear that this isn’t a decision of which she approves. ‘He insists he’s a hopeless case. Nothing will persuade him to
come. Which means either I’ve got to do my first dance alone, or we don’t
do
a first dance –
or
I find someone else to do it with.’ She looks up. ‘Do
you fancy the job, Will?’

‘Not sure what Mikey would make of that,’ he grins, glancing down the row of dancers to Cate. She waves. His smile widens. And Stella begins dancing in the certain knowledge that her
partner would rather be elsewhere.

As with last week, Lulu insists on us swapping partners and I find myself dancing with one of Will’s Mountain Rescue friends, Luke, a divorced dad of three who’s
significantly better than me with the footwork.

During a short break, I go on chatting to Stella.

‘How are your wedding preparations going?’ I ask, keen to discuss something other than the future of the hotel. ‘Apart from the first dance, obviously.’

‘I hate to tempt fate, but pretty good really,’ she replies. ‘It’s a big wedding but we’re trying to keep things relaxed – you know, with a hog roast, instead
of a formal, sit-down meal. Oh, and I went to see Cate this weekend to book her to do our flowers.’

‘You won’t regret it. She’s awesome.’

‘I know, I’ve seen her portfolio. Hey, are those two an item?’ she whispers as Cate starts laughing at something Will has said, his playful eyes drinking her in.

‘I think it’s only a matter of time,’ I reply as Lulu calls us to attention to watch a new turn and the men shift places until Joe is in front of me.

‘I think a few of you ladies and gents are going to be ready to move into the improvers’ class soon,’ she announces.

My eyes widen. Then I become aware that my new partner is looking at me, with an undisguised smirk.

‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, disconcerted.

‘You,’ Joe replies. Heat blossoms on my neck. ‘You’d think Lulu was trying to sign you up to the Olympic bobsleigh team, rather than move you up a class.’

‘There’s no way I’m up to it,’ I protest.

‘Ah, you’ll be fine. Just wing it,’ he says casually, taking my hands.

‘Do you take that approach to all aspects of your life?’ I ask.

He does the smirk again. It’s got an
aren’t-I-sexy
quality that is only not unbearable because he
is
. Sexy, that is. And nice. Not quite as nice and sexy as Emily,
but the two of them are undoubtedly in the same arena.

‘It’s got me by OK so far.’

Lulu instructs us to repeat the turn as I wonder for a moment how I can twist the conversation to the subject of my friend. ‘So are you single?’ I blurt out.

He looks mildly surprised.

‘I’m not asking for
me
, by the way,’ I add hastily, as if I’m alluding to a fate worse than a slow death at the hands of a psychopath with a crochet hook. He
frowns.

‘I’m not saying you’re hideous or anything,’ I clarify. ‘It’s just that I have someone in my life already.’ I realise this mysterious statement paints a
significantly rosier picture than the reality. ‘Kind of, anyway. The point is,
I
don’t fancy you.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Wow. That’s a relief. But someone else does?’

‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ I say coyly. Then it strikes me that subtlety is of limited use if I want to get things moving between him and Emily. ‘At least, I’m not
saying she
fancies
you – I wouldn’t go that far, but if you were interested, then maybe she might be too.’

‘Spit it out. Who?’

I glance over at Em, who smiles at me hopefully, then looks away. I instinctively know I need to be bold here. ‘Emily.’

He doesn’t reply at first, so I peer into his face as he contemplates the information, refusing to give anything away.

‘So do you like her?’ I ask, nudging the conversation along.

‘She’s lovely.’

‘Why don’t you ask her out? She might even say yes,’ I grin.

‘All right, Cupid. Maybe,’ he replies, as I attempt a twirl but land on his toe again, mumbling apologies.

At that moment, I glance over Joe’s shoulder and spot two of the waitresses huddled in the corner, talking with their arms crossed and brows furrowed. It doesn’t take a genius to
work out that they’re gossiping about the future of the hotel and their jobs. Yet as we begin another turn, I realise that they’re glaring in
my
direction. For a second I
wonder if I’ve imagined it, but the longer it continues the more disconcerted I become.