Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel Page 11

  ‘Really?’ I’m pleased. ‘Oh, well, that’s nice to know.’

  There’s a moment’s hesitation as I realise he’s looking at me, as if he’s trying to place me from somewhere.

  ‘Can you point us in the direction of Breakfast Club, Miss Scott? It’s normally Tom’s mum who brings him in the morning. I’m a novice.’

  As I show them in, I’m partly glad of the distraction, at least temporarily. Because by the time I reach the door of the staff room, my nerves begin to fail me. Excitement and dread are running in equal measures through my veins.

  I’m holding my breath as I open the door . . . only to find Joyce and Maeve alone and mid-conversation about Hotter Than My Daughter, which was on TV last night.

  I flick on the kettle and wait for a break in conversation before saying casually, ‘Edwin’s not his usual early self today.’

  ‘He’s gone to the dentist,’ Maeve tells me. ‘Root-canal something or other.’

  ‘Oh.’ I feel myself deflate. ‘Is he coming in later?’

  ‘Think so.’

  My buoyancy continues to unravel as the day unfolds and is replaced by something I can only describe as unease. It’s lunch-break by the time Edwin appears, and across a crowded dining room. I am carrying a plate of chilli con carne large enough to feed several Mexican families, having been persuaded by Maureen the dinner lady to sample the one dish everyone else refused.

  Edwin looks up and waves, beckoning me to the seat opposite him. I glide over with trepidation rising in my throat. As I approach, the heat between us seems to radiate across the room and is only broken when I have to turn round and tell off a group of Year One pupils for playing football under the table with a strawberry jelly. I sit down, glance at Edwin’s face and I realise his jaw is puffed up.

  ‘I was leaped on by a gang of armed thugs outside and beaten to a pulp,’ he says, trying to smile. I must look alarmed because he says: ‘I’m kidding. My dentist decided to have a fight with one of my molars – and lost.’

  ‘Ouch – that sounds painful. How do you feel?’

  ‘Not too good,’ he replies, pushing some mashed potato round his plate. ‘Even with an enormous set of pliers, she hasn’t managed to get the damn tooth out. I’ve got to go for an extraction operation before I leave for Singapore. In the meantime, I can’t eat anything but this mush and am in a lot of pain. Plus, I look like hell.’

  I meet his gaze over the mash potatoes. ‘You don’t look like hell, Edwin,’ I whisper. ‘Far from it.’

  The hint of a smile appears from behind his swollen lips. The pupils closest to us are by now engrossed in a conversation about loom bands – and I realise it’s now or never. I’ve got to ask him out. Unfortunately, I’m not quick enough.

  ‘How’s the chilli?’ he asks, squeezing a small lump of mashed spud into his mouth.

  I look down at my plate. So far, I haven’t taken a single bite of my meal. So I lift a forkful of it to my mouth, instantly wondering where Maureen got the minced flip-flops from which to make it. The chewy sensation is followed rapidly by an astonishingly spicy kick, one that prompts me to start coughing.

  I look up and see that Edwin is waiting for an answer. I can’t let the kids hear me slag off the school dinners – I might as well invite the letters from the parents to come pouring in now – so I lean into him. ‘It’s not the greatest dish Maureen’s ever—’

  I’m halfway through my sentence, when Edwin is forced to duck out of the way of what are apparently overpowering spice fumes shooting from my mouth. I flush red.

  ‘Sorry,’ he coughs politely and holds a napkin up to his lips. ‘You were saying?’

  I hold my hand over my mouth. ‘It’s fine,’ I mumble.

  The rest of the meal is mildly excruciating and I don’t get to ask my question, because that would involve getting closer and giving him the full force of my dragon breath again.

  I’m also distracted by Ellie Sampson having what we euphemistically call a ‘bathroom incident’, Blossom Jones dropping her pasta salad on the floor, and being asked for input into a debate between two Year Two boys about whether it’s possible that one of them really has a paper round, aged six, when he can’t yet ride a bike without stabilisers.

  I reach my classroom with an overwhelming sense of disappointment in myself, something that must be written on my face, given that the first thing Angela, my teaching assistant, says to me is: ‘Ooh, have you got a headache too?’

  Still, I pull myself together and begin a lesson that involves painting a self-portrait on a paper plate; having tried this, I can tell you that it’s significantly harder than it looks. I’m trying to persuade three of the girls to go easy on the sequins, when Tom Goodwin appears at my side.

  ‘Miss Scott?’

  ‘Yes, Tom?’ I reply, slightly distracted by the sparkly embellishments.

  ‘You’re the best teacher in the world.’ I stop what I’m doing and look at his sweet smile, my heart melting just a little.

  ‘Oh, what prompted that, Tom?’

  He shrugs shyly. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom,’ I reply gently.

  It’s only a little confidence-boost, of course. But it’s enough to make me straighten my back, fill my lungs and promise myself that I am not going to go home tonight without asking Edwin out. I couldn’t live with myself.

  So that afternoon, after I wave goodbye to the children and hand them back to their parents, I pop in my seventh Extra Strong Mint and stride purposefully to Edwin’s classroom before he has a chance to leave.

  ‘Edwin,’ I say, knocking on his door. ‘Have you got a moment?’

  ‘Of course, come in.’ I close the door behind me. ‘Don’t say it: I look like a gerbil,’ he jokes.

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘One of the pupils said I had cheeks like his pet. On the plus side, it’s called Starlord, which I thought had a certain ring to it.’

  ‘I hope you told him off for being cheeky,’ I smirk.

  He laughs. ‘So what can I do for you, Lauren?’

  My pulse thunders in my ears. Every instinct is telling me to come up with an excuse, turn and run. But I don’t. I absolutely don’t.

  ‘I wondered if you’d like to go out with me one night?’ Once the words are out, I’m so shocked that I’ve said them that all I can hear is my heartbeat filling every corner of the room.

  I carry on speaking, just to shut it up. ‘The thing is, I’m interested in Singapore and it’d be good to pick your brain about it,’ I babble. ‘There’s so much for me to think about and . . . I thought it would be good to discuss the whole thing and—’

  ‘Lauren,’ he says, eyes glinting. ‘Of course I’ll go out with you. Singapore or no Singapore. I can think of nothing nicer.’

  Then he smiles, one of his big, wide, I-might-just-die-on-the-spot smiles, which is all the dreamier given that he’s having to manage it through a pair of distinctly pudgy lips.

  It takes me a moment to respond. ‘OK,’ I reply coolly. ‘In fact, amazing!’ Which is not so cool.

  ‘How about next week?’ he suggests. ‘Thursday would be good for me. We could go into Bowness, have a few drinks and take it from there.’ He holds my gaze for a second or two.

  ‘Sounds lovely. Right – well, we’ll make the arrangements early next week then, shall we, but I’ll keep Thursday free.’

  He nods and I leave the room almost tripping over my own feet with happiness.

  Chapter 18

  I consider not bothering with salsa night on Tuesday now I have a date for which to prepare two days later (YES!!!), but Cate refuses to let me off the hook.

  ‘They’ve got an offer on the tapas, Marion’s going to introduce a proper routine tonight – and, more to the point, I need to hear all about how you ended up having a hot date lined up with Edwin this week.’

  I give her and Emily a run-down on the way there that’s briefer than I’d like, before we find a space to park and tramp do
wn the hill to the restaurant.

  ‘Will and I are going out on Thursday too,’ Cate smiles, as we pass the candlelit glow from the window of Porto and continue along the limewashed row of shops.

  ‘Anywhere nice?’ Emily asks.

  ‘Yes, actually,’ she says, trying and failing to look cool. ‘He’s asked me to meet his parents.’

  My eyes widen. ‘Honestly? Oh, that’s lovely, Cate! It was obvious you were getting serious, but this is a big milestone.’

  ‘Well, don’t buy your hat yet, but I hope you’re right. I can’t wait. I’m nervous as hell too, obviously.’

  ‘Will’s lovely,’ Emily tells Cate.

  ‘He is,’ she agrees. ‘But so’s Joe. And you’ve still got a spring in your step after your nights of passion in Spain.’

  Emily blushes to her roots as we arrive at the restaurant and push open the door.

  The class is smaller than usual, with only two of the nurses and none of the Mountain Rescue crew apart from Will. Even Frank’s taken a breather which, unlikely as it sounds, I think qualifies us as the dedicated few.

  ‘Hello, girls,’ Stella says, lighting up when she sees us. ‘How was the trip?’

  ‘Good,’ I tell her. ‘It wasn’t the most luxurious hotel in the world, but there was sunshine and salsa and quite a lot of booze so it definitely did the trick. Did you get a lot of wedding planning done?’

  ‘Yes, but I wish I’d been with you. Instead, I was stuck at home saving up for the hog roast and making the silk bows on chair covers.’

  ‘Do yourself a favour, love, and save the silk for your knickers,’ Cate advises.

  ‘If you’d once told me I’d be the sort of woman who gave a toss about what the chairs looked like, I wouldn’t have believed you,’ Stella replies. ‘But I’ve been sucked into this weird world in which nothing but a pair of Jimmy Choos will do. This time last year, I was shopping at Primark.’

  I look up in time to see Joe gazing lovingly at Emily next to me. He glances away, caught in the act.

  ‘Shame you haven’t persuaded Mike to come back to dancing again,’ Emily says.

  Stella shrugs. ‘I’d have loved my big moment, but it’s not going to happen. Anyway, he’s too busy with other things these days – he’s never out of the gym. Honestly, he’s there all the time.’

  ‘Wow. He must look amazing,’ I say.

  She scrunches up her nose. ‘By rights he should have a sixpack like Wolverine. He’s lost a bit of weight, but not that much.’

  I laugh as Marion claps her hands. ‘Good evening, dancers,’ she says, as if addressing the cast of Chicago. ‘Today we’re going to have a go at putting together some of the steps we’ve learned so far, to create a routine. It’ll be a doddle now you’ve put in all that practice on the salsa holiday! Right – I need a volunteer.’

  She scans the room optimistically and is rewarded with complete silence.

  ‘Thank you, Joe,’ she says, grabbing him by the hand.

  ‘Now. Let’s start with a hammerlock, then break into a ladies’ right turn. The lead and the follow end up back-to-back, from where you’ll turn and go into a reverse salsa wrap. Got it?’

  She lets go of Joe, who throws her a look as if to say, ‘Is that meant to be a joke?’

  Marion is right that the more you practise, the easier it becomes, but I can’t ever envisage a day when we can put all that together smoothly – and, more importantly, remember it all.

  Still, being coupled with Esteban gives me a bit of a head start. He’s one of the few ‘naturals’, which makes it easier for me to be trailed around by him.

  When we take a breather halfway through, Emily pops out to make a phone call as I go and buy us some drinks.

  ‘So did you go ahead with it?’

  I spin round with two glasses in my hand and see Joe looking at me.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Edward. Whatsisface. Did you ask him out?’

  ‘It’s Ed-win. And yes, now you mention it.’

  He waits for me to elaborate, which I must admit I’m dying to do. ‘Come on, spit it out,’ he grins, clearly fancying himself as some sort of relationship guru. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘We’re going out on Thursday!’ I blurt out, then it strikes me that if it wasn’t for Joe, this joyous situation would never have even happened. ‘I think I owe you one, Joe. I’d never have done it without your pep-talk.’

  He looks strangely uncomfortable with this declaration, as if he’s suspicious because I’m no longer being horrible to him about the Moonlight Hotel. ‘Well . . . good. Glad I could help.’

  I nod, feeling slightly woozy every time I think about the date. ‘I just hope it all goes OK. I’m a bit nervous.’

  Then Emily appears at our side and he says, quite simply: ‘I don’t think you’ve got anything to be nervous about, Lauren. I’m sure you’ll have a fantastic time.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say happily. ‘I think you might be right.’

  Chapter 19

  The preparations for my date with Edwin are so extensive you’d think I was getting ready for a wedding. As I heard Stella saying the other day, when she was debating the case for and against microdermabrasion, the aim is to be the most gorgeous version of yourself.

  And OK, so I’ve put a few pounds on again lately after my Cadbury Marvellous Creations habit crept back in. But in other respects I am, if not exactly flawless, then as flawless as it’s possible for someone as flawed as me to be.

  I’ve waxed my legs. Tinted my eyebrows. Applied fake tan, this time with the precision of Michelangelo. And after racing home from work, I decided to go ahead and put my hair in heated rollers. I was torn about doing that, as it is obviously imperative that Edwin doesn’t get the impression that I’ve done anything other than throw on the first thing that fell out of my wardrobe.

  If he thinks I’ve made a big effort, that would leave me in the heinous position of looking too keen, which is the last thing I want: I might as well change my Instagram username to Bunnyboiler87 and fall to my knees to ask him to have my babies.

  We’ve arranged to meet at the Angel Inn, which is a landmark pub that sits right at the top of the hill, with panoramic views from its terraced gardens. I get a taxi into town and stop at the bottom of the hill to get some cash – not because I need some but because I’m somehow three minutes early and if I marched into the pub now it would make a mockery of my ice-cool façade.

  The tumbling gardens at the front of the Angel Inn are largely empty this evening, aside from a few hardy souls wrapped in fleeces as they sip pints of bitter. We’ve arranged to meet in the front room of the pub which, like the rest of the place, is cosy but newly-renovated, with a roaring fire, polished wooden floors and a grand chandelier above.

  He’s there when I arrive, lounging on a sofa as he flicks through a copy of the Westmorland Gazette, a glass of red in front of him. In the small moment before he looks up, I allow myself to imagine what it’d be like to walk over, hold his face in my hands and gently press my lips against his.

  ‘Lauren,’ he grins, looking up.

  ‘Hello, Edwin,’ I reply, as he stands to greet me. He takes me by the hands and gives me the briefest of kisses on my cheek, before letting go and handing me the drinks list. My heart is in overdrive. I want his lips back on my cheek.

  Instead, I manage to sit down in the seat next to him and focus on the list, scanning its contents.

  ‘Did you get a taxi?’ he asks.

  I look up. ‘I did.’

  ‘Me too.’ He flashes me a conspiratorial smile. ‘What are you having?’

  I look back at the list but I can’t really focus on it. ‘They’ve got quite a nice selection by the glass, haven’t they?’ I murmur.

  ‘Yes, I thought so. Although,’ I look up again, ‘seeing as we both got a taxi, we might as well get a bottle, don’t you think?’

  ‘But it’s a school night, Edwin.’

  He leans in and whispers, ‘I won’t tell the
Head if you don’t.’

  The evening progresses way too fast. We talk a lot about Singapore, which in my head is increasingly becoming my own personal Garden of Eden – though I try not to linger too long on thoughts of Edwin wearing a fig leaf as it just brings my neck out in blotches.

  Edwin tells me that he’s got a flat lined up, sharing with a girl who he went to university with, that he’s run the idea past her of me bunking in and she was fine about it. ‘You’d love Georgie,’ he tells me.

  ‘It wouldn’t be awkward with the three of us? I wouldn’t want to get in the way of anything.’ I’d win no prizes for subtlety during these info-fishing sessions.

  ‘It’s a strictly platonic relationship,’ he reassures me. ‘She’s a great girl, but not my type, romantically speaking.’

  I take a large mouthful of wine and consider for a second if I’ve got the guts to say the sentence that’s whizzing through my head. ‘So, who is your type, romantically speaking?’

  He looks at me with an expression I can only describe as intensely mischievous. ‘Let me see. I like brunettes.’

  I feel slightly hotter.

  ‘Blue eyes,’ he adds.

  My hands start to sweat.

  ‘Slim,’ he says.

  I breathe in, reminding myself to log on to MyFitnessPal again in the morning.

  ‘And just . . . I suppose someone with a personality I can really click with. You know, someone I can sit and talk to, while away the hours without ever feeling bored or uncomfortable.’

  ‘It is nice when you meet someone like that, isn’t it?’ I agree. I realise he’s looking at me. I also realise my eyelids have softened, my lips have parted slightly. Lust is rushing through my body as if it’s been turned on like a tap.

  ‘Are you all right? You look a bit faint.’

  I sit up straight. ‘I’m fine. Just a tad too much wine, I think.’

  Actually, that’s not far from the truth. The wine went ages ago and we then moved on to Old Fashioneds, at Edwin’s suggestion.