Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (8 page)

‘Well, my mum says I need to think of something to call my brother other than “bellend”,’ Ben explains. ‘So all those things should be brilliant, shouldn’t
they?’

‘That is
definitely
a swear word, Ben – and you mustn’t use it.’

‘Brilliant?’ Jacob asks.

‘No! Look, why don’t you all run along. Your playtime will be finished soon.’

When I turn back, Edwin is striding across the playground to check on a suspiciously quiet group of Year One children building a den. I watch as they all stop what they’re doing to have a
conversation with him – enraptured as ever by his words – before he heads back.

‘Is everything all right?’ I ask, realising he looks upset about something.

He stiffens his lip and nods. ‘I’m just going to miss them.’

My brain struggles to process the words. ‘What do you mean?’

He flashes me a look. ‘You can keep a secret, can’t you, Lauren?’

One of my defining qualities, I like to think, is my utter refusal to break a confidence. I honestly never have. The only downside is that lots of people feel the need to burden me with
absolutely bloody every secret they’ve got. Including, it now seems, Edwin. And I’m getting a sudden horrible feeling that I might not want to know this one.

‘Of course,’ I hear myself say.

‘Well, don’t tell anyone at school yet . . . it’s not official. But I’m leaving.’

My mouth suddenly feels too dry to speak, swallow, breathe or do any of the things it was designed for.

‘Don’t look so shocked Lauren. It’s not for ages.’

I attempt to compose myself. ‘Sorry,’ I manage, trying to think of which of my 200 questions I should plump for first. ‘When are you going?’

‘The end of term,’ he says.

Horror rises in my throat. ‘But that’s only four months away.’

‘Exactly – ages.’

The playground starts spinning and my limbs feel as though they’re made of marshmallow.

‘Which school are you moving to?’ I whisper, remembering that I’d heard that a primary in Hawkshead was looking for a deputy head. ‘Are you staying in the
Lakes?’

‘Not exactly.’

I am engulfed in a sensation that my worst fears are being realised . . .

He’s moving to Manchester!

‘I’m moving to Singapore!’ he announces. For a second I convince myself I can’t possibly have heard him right.

‘Miss! My nose is bleeding!’ interrupts Jordan Carter. ‘They’re not allowed to play tennis with a football, are they?’

But I can barely answer. ‘I . . . I . . .’

I don’t get to finish my sentence anyway. Instead, I look up to see the offending football hurtling directly at my head. The thump – square between my eyes – is surprisingly,
shockingly painful. But even accounting for that, the yelp I let out is less like a Jane Austen character swooning gracefully, and more like the noise a rubber duck would make if you stood on it in
the bath.

And although I can hear a whistle and see thick drops of blood seeping into my favourite Oasis blouse, all I can do is pray that I’m so concussed that I imagined the entire conversation
which preceded this event.

Edwin steps forward and takes me by the arm, leading me to the sick bay, before darting back to the playground. There I sit, sharing the edge of the bed with Shafilia Masood, who is awaiting the
arrival of her mum after she vomited up the Spotted Dick on today’s menu.

‘Looks like both of us are in the wars, doesn’t it, Shafilia?’ She nods mournfully, her poor bewildered eyes overcome with shock and confusion. I know exactly how she
feels.

Almost a week later, Cate arrives to pick me up for salsa twenty-five minutes before she’s due – which is a record as she’s never early for anything.

Under normal circumstances it wouldn’t be a problem, but I’m midway through applying some fake tan when the bell rings. I poke my head out of the window and see her at the door.

‘How come you’re so early?’ I shout down.

‘I’ll explain when you let me in,’ she replies. ‘Come on, Lauren, it’s raining!’

I throw on a dressing gown and race down the stairs to open the door. ‘I needed to tell you what’s just happened,’ she blusters, heading into the living room and perching on
the edge of the sofa. ‘Robby turned up at the shop.’ It’s clear from the way she says it that her ex-boyfriend wasn’t just popping in to buy a bunch of freesias. ‘He
wants to get back with me.’

I crumple my nose. ‘That’s hardly news.’

‘I know, but he was different this time. He’s . . .
pissed off
with me.’

‘You can’t be pissed off with someone for failing to be madly in love with you.’

‘Well, he is, believe me.’

I frown. ‘What did he say? He hasn’t threatened you or anything?’

‘Oh, nothing like that. He just kept huffing and puffing, as if I was not grasping the logic of the situation. He always was possessive. Oh, I don’t know . . . I don’t know why
this bothered me so much, but it did. I wish he’d get out of my life, instead of having to see him all the time.’

‘This is the one downside to not living in a big city: you never entirely shake off your ex-boyfriends.’

‘Every time I see him, I get that same feeling you get when you wake up to a cold, leftover takeaway,’ she muses. ‘You know you must’ve thought it was tasty at some
point, but it’s impossible to work out why you fancied it now. Anyway, how are you feeling about Edwin’s news?’

In the days since Edwin dropped his bombshell I have sunk deeper into a hole of depression. ‘I know I was already planning to go to Australia. And I know I’d always said I needed to
get away from him. But . . . I thought I had forever to wean myself off him. Then, when he dumped Fiona I suppose a part of me hoped something might happen between the two of us.’

She puts her arm around me. ‘This could be for the best. If Edwin is mad enough not to have snapped you up the second Fiona was out of the picture, frankly, you don’t
want
him hanging around. As long as he’s here, you’d never have the headspace to start thinking in romantic terms about anyone else.’

She is talking sense, but sometimes sense is the last thing you want.

‘He might be coming along tonight,’ I say, offering a nugget of hope.

She perks up. ‘Ooh, really? Better get your lippy on then.’

I throw on my clothes and Cate and I jump into her van, before tootling along the road towards Windermere until we reach Emily’s little slate-walled house, in a side road tucked away from
the shops and cafés of the village. She waves at us from the window and skips out of the door in a tulip dress that sits slightly above the knee, ballet flats and a clutch of silver bangles
that tinkle against her slim wrists.

‘Have you caught a bit of sun, Lauren?’ she asks.

‘No, I just applied a bit of fake . . . Oh God!’

‘What is it?’ Cate asks.

‘I forgot to finish applying my St Tropez. I only did my face, chest and one arm.’

‘Just remember to do it when you get in tonight,’ Emily sniggers. ‘Your arms will match by the morning.’

The road to Bowness takes us past the driveway to the Moonlight Hotel, which is now blocked by a No Entry sign. The hotel closed this weekend, sooner than anyone could ever have imagined, to
begin a massive refurbishment programme that will leave it, if Cate’s top source (aka Sally, one of the waitresses) is correct, ‘unrecognisable’.

Sally was in Cate’s shop at the weekend, and revealed everything the staff were told in their big meeting: The hotel is going to be turned upside down and will remain closed until the
start of the summer season in July. And their jobs are far from safe. Although nobody’s been handed their P45 yet, all are now answerable to the management team, headed by Joe and his
right-hand man Gianni, under whom they’re expected to take part in a massive re-training exercise, as well as get the new hotel up and running. And after all that, only a few will be
guaranteed future employment. All of which serves to underline my instinctive belief that Joe Wilborne – Mr Travel Havens – is a Grade A arsehole.

‘I wonder if your man is going to show his face around here after last week?’ I ask Emily. She prickles at the comment, which I hadn’t intended.

‘I’m sure Marion will get over not being able to use the Moonlight Hotel for a few months. She’s found somewhere else now,’ she replies.

‘It’s not just Marion who’s got the hump,’ Cate replies. ‘The staff are up in arms.’ It’s hardly necessary to add that I’m with them 100 per
cent.

‘They’re keeping their jobs,’ Emily says defensively. ‘Nobody’s being laid off for the foreseeable.’

‘That’s hardly much security, is it?’ I argue. ‘Especially not if they’ve got families to support. Plus, the fact that the hotel is closing for weeks on end means
there’ll be no tips.’

‘I can’t imagine they had too many tips anyway,’ Emily replies. ‘You need customers for tips – and there have been few enough of those recently.’

‘I’m surprised he didn’t wait until the winter season to close,’ Cate remarks. ‘It seems odd, doesn’t it?’

‘He clearly hasn’t got the first clue about what he’s doing – not with a hotel like this, anyway,’ I grumble.

When we arrive in Bowness, Cate parks next to the Angel Inn and we make our way down the hill towards Casa Lagos, the little Spanish restaurant that will provide a temporary home for our
Tuesday-night salsa. I am reluctantly forced to admit that it’s an acceptable alternative, with more atmosphere than that massive high-ceilinged room at the Moonlight Hotel. The rustic,
saffron-coloured walls, terracotta tiles and soft table-lights make the room feel intimate, the kind of room where this sort of dancing seems at home.

Presumably the owners are quite happy about the prospect of a room full of people buying drinks on a Tuesday night, which is comparatively dead. Not that I’m going to admit any of this out
loud. Besides, I have other things on my mind now. Namely, Edwin.

I’m on edge as soon as I walk in, wondering if he’ll be here. I reminded him of the change of venue at lunch and he responded with enthusiasm, saying he really hoped he could make
it. And I can’t help secretly pleading with God, Cupid, or whatever higher power has the capacity to get him here to do just that.

There are a few new faces tonight in Lulu’s group, as well as the usual crowd. Which includes, to my astonishment, Joe. I deliberately shuffle to the opposite side of the room during the
warm-up, but when the main lesson starts and Lulu sets us up with our first partners, by some hideous twist of fate, he ends up right in front of me.

‘Hello,’ I say stiffly.

‘Hi,’ he replies, his face breaking into that smile, the one I thought was sexy and self-deprecating when I first met him, but now just looks arrogant and smug.

‘You’re brave,’ I mutter. ‘After Marion’s reaction to your bombshell last week, you’re lucky she didn’t chuck you out of the club.’

‘On what grounds would she chuck me out?’ No matter how coolly he responds, he’s clearly mildly rattled.

I shrug. ‘On the grounds that she wanted to pickle your spleen in aspic this time last week. And I believe she wasn’t the only one.’

He lets go of my hands and looks at me. It makes me uncomfortable. ‘I’m quite the villain, aren’t I?’

‘People are just worried about what you’re doing to that hotel – you know, that beautiful, historic building which has been part of the very fabric of Lakeland for centuries
upon centuries.’

‘Since 1895 actually.’

‘And their jobs – the hundreds of people this is affecting.’

‘Twenty-three members of staff. None of whom have lost their jobs.’

‘
For now
,’ I add pointedly.

His jaw twitches, before he is forced to concede: ‘For now.’ Then he draws a long breath. ‘Well, I can live with being the bad guy. They get all the best lines
anyway.’

I am about to respond with a stinging, quick-fire riposte, but Marion starts clapping and I’m just left to slink back, sizzling with dislike for him.

‘I think it’s definitely time we moved a few of you beginners up to the improvers’ class,’ she announces. ‘Joe and Lauren – I’m fairly sure you two are
ready for some of the more advanced turns. Can you come and help us do a little demo of some back steps and crossover?’

We exchange the kind of look you see before pistols are drawn. Then he reaches for my hand, as my heart flutters resentfully.

I tell myself to just blur my eyes, pretend I don’t want to run a million miles away, and concentrate on what my feet are doing while Lulu counts our steps. ‘One two three, tap, five
six seven, back steps and open!’ I’m making a half-decent job of it too, when the door flies open and I look up and catch the briefest glimpse of someone wearing a tailored jacket.

He disappears behind a pillar as I strain to get a look, my stomach lurching as I realise that I recognise the jacket. HE’S COME! Edwin’s here and all is right with the world
again!

The problem with happiness flooding your body is that it has a terrible effect on your co-ordination. My legs start to wobble, and I don’t mean in a way that’s good or sexy or cute.
And instead of completing a fairly basic turn I absolutely know is within my capabilities, this time it’s as if someone’s trying to practise tying a slip knot in my ankles. Despite my
best efforts to steady myself, I end up with my face momentarily stuck to Joe’s T-shirt, quietly dying at the thought that Edwin might have witnessed this. Joe pushes me away, his lips
twisted in amusement, as Marion thrusts her hands on her hips.

‘I’m sure that’s not
really
the best you can do, Lauren,’ she says.

‘Just . . . lost my concentration,’ I mumble, wondering when and how I signed up to being critiqued, particularly when Edwin is here to witness it.

I look up again, my cheeks sizzling – and realise with a crunch of disappointment that it’s actually Frank, the ex-theology lecturer, mid-way through battling with his combover,
which couldn’t be more of a contrast with Edwin’s gorgeous hair.

‘OK.’ Marion purses her lips. ‘We’ll move you up to improvers’ anyway, I think.’