Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel Read online

  ‘Cate!’ I shriek, but she takes this as encouragement, grabs me by the waist and carries on dancing while the thread pulls against my ankle. Cate only becomes aware of my predicament when, in desperation, I reach out to try and stop myself from falling, a move that has the converse effect of making me lose my balance and stumble to my knees, taking my friend with me.

  I attempt to scramble to my feet, aware that Cate is speechless with laughter and Marion has her arms crossed in disapproval. ‘Sorry,’ I mutter, pulling down my skirt as I sit up and start picking at the threads around my ankle in an attempt to release them.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry – at least no one’s here to see us,’ she sighs, as I glance up at two of the best-looking men I’ve seen in my life standing at the door.

  In the excruciating moments that follow, I take in and process a succession of facts. The guys in front of us have that athletic, healthy look about them – tanned, muscular and with the air of being as at home in the great outdoors I would be in front of an episode of EastEnders. They are both wearing hiking boots, and one of them has on the instantly-recognisable bright red jacket of a Mountain Rescue volunteer.

  I’ve noticed a certain trait in this kind of bloke over the years: they insist on helping people. It’s not even a result of all the first aid courses they have to do. This is something in their genes that means they’re physically unable to restrain themselves when there’s anyone in need of assistance, whether it’s a lone hiker cragfast on Skiddaw, a group of walkers attempting to decode their Ordnance Survey maps, or two women in strappy heels scrambling around to untangle themselves from a fraying carpet.

  I respond to their attempts to help us up with the level of mortification the situation deserves – red faced, mumbling that none of this is necessary – while Cate holds out her hand as if she’s Deborah Kerr in the King and I and rises elegantly on to her toes, with a demure smile.

  As I brush myself down, I try not to look at the guy in front of me, although I’ve already caught a glimpse of clean-shaved skin, unusually symmetrical features and dark, brooding eyes that somehow look older than his face.

  ‘You’ve got something on your cheek,’ he says. I lower my eyes and follow the trail of a disconnected eyelash, before peeling it off and shoving it in my pocket.

  ‘Gents! Come in and join us! Are you beginners too?’ Marion asks, seizing the opportunity.

  The guy with the brooding eyes backs away. ‘Actually, we’re here for a business meeting. I have a feeling we have the wrong place though.’ At that, his phone pings and he opens a text, before turning to his friend in the red jacket, who is almost as tall as him, with blond hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose. ‘At least, we did have a meeting.’

  ‘They’ve cancelled on you again?’ asks the blond guy.

  ‘Apparently so.’

  Marion zones in on her chance like a heat-seeking missile. ‘Don’t suppose either of you fancy a go at salsa, do you?’

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think so,’ the guy with dark hair says instantly.

  But his friend is smiling: a broad, unashamed, distinctly flirty smile – aimed directly at Cate. ‘Oh, come on,’ he says. ‘We’re not doing anything else now, are we?’

  To be fair to the two newcomers, they throw themselves into the situation. And the result, against all the odds, is quite an enjoyable evening.

  I am more than happy to step aside and let Cate dance with the blond one, who’s called Will, and Emily dance with the dark one, who’s called Joe, while I stick with Marion. Meanwhile, Stella tries her very best to encourage Mike, despite the fact that every time I look over, his feet appear to be defying the laws of nature and going in opposite directions.

  The lesson itself is over before we know it, at which point it’s time for the ‘social’.

  Which isn’t admittedly as ‘social’ as it could be given that there are still less than ten of us in the room. But after sticking to a fairly regimental set of steps under Marion’s guidance, it’s an opportunity to let our hair down and do a little more actual dancing, at least as I know it.

  The kind where you get to loosen up, move with the music, enjoy yourself – although technically speaking, our salsa steps would never win Len Goodman’s approval. Once the music is cranked up, it’s easy to get into the swing of things, even if I am stuck with Marion while Cate and Will spin around the room laughing, and Joe gazes into Emily’s eyes as he takes her hand and leads her, like we were shown earlier.

  As the sky gets blacker and the moon shimmers outside, Marion looks at her watch and begins her appeal to drum up support for next week. ‘I realise it wasn’t as packed as we’d anticipated,’ she says. ‘But it’s early days, isn’t it?’

  Cate places a reassuring hand on Marion’s arm. ‘It’s been a great night. And once word gets round, you’ll be packed out.’ She turns to Will. ‘But do us a favour boys: next week, can you bring a few friends?’

  Chapter 3

  I feel mildly groggy when I wake the following morning, which I could put down to antioxidant deficiency due to the absence of kale in my diet (which I read about online yesterday) but probably has more to do with drinking three margaritas on a Tuesday night, even if they didn’t taste overly alcoholic.

  Still, it is Wednesday. It is not raining. And I have a staff meeting this afternoon at which Edwin Blaire will be present. So life is good, in a bittersweet kind of way.

  Which is how it has been in the two years since I’ve known Edwin, two tortured but sublime years in which he entered my life like a luminous blaze of fireworks . . . which I am soon to extinguish with a big bucket of water. Australian water, to be precise.

  I am saving up to join my cousin Steph, who is currently on the Gold Coast doing little but sleeping with handsome but dubious men and topping up her tan, for a gap year.

  I know I’m technically far too old for a gap year. But I’ve always wanted to travel Down Under. It’s in my blood. Dad was born and raised just outside Melbourne, and when I was a teenager I was obsessed with the idea of living there one day.

  As a result, my laptop is clogged up with bookmarks of travel articles for parts of the country I’m determined to see, including the town where my dad lived until he was twenty, when he and two friends came to the UK on a work visa and never looked back. Although he loved the UK, especially the Lake District, where he ended up after a short stint living in Shepherd’s Bush, my dad remained unmistakably Aussie. Funny, outdoorsy and with a quiet strength of character that feels like a rarity these days.

  Anyway, I’ve spent half my life in one long day dream about what it would be like to live, at least for a while, somewhere you could wake up knowing the sun would be shining, even though Dad said Melbourne’s weather wasn’t always that predictable.

  So, disappearing to the other side of the world makes sense, even without my need to escape from my deep, all-consuming love for a man by travelling 10,000 miles away from him and never seeing him again. This, I’m afraid, is the only way of liberating myself from the shackles of an overwhelming passion that is – and this is the miserable nub of the matter – completely unrequited.

  Edwin belongs to someone else. Fiona. Otherwise known as The Bitch.

  It’s an ironic soubriquet, in case you’re wondering, because Fiona couldn’t be nicer, sweeter, more fun and generally perfect if she’d been made in a cupcake factory and had a halo.

  They are a gorgeous couple and they are never, ever going to split up.

  I came to this realisation at our Christmas party before last, when Edwin confided in me that he was planning to propose in Paris on New Year’s Eve, with an antique diamond ring that once belonged to his great-grandmother (spoiler alert: he went ahead with it – and she said yes).

  There and then, after controlling the urge to cry for the rest of the evening, I decided I would follow in Steph’s libidinous footsteps for an Edwin-free year of sun, freedom and possibly sex, although I have forgotten how to do that, or at
least I would have without my Game of Thrones box set.

  I have saved up £4,764.37, and estimate I have only another few months before I’m ready to depart. Which means torturing myself with Edwin’s heavenly face for all that time, but at least there is light at the end of the tunnel. And I might as well enjoy the view in the meantime.

  I clamber out of bed and pad across my tiny, creaky bedroom to look out of the window across the misty landscape and towards the whitewashed walls and seventeenth-century timbers of the Mortal Man pub. I can’t deny I’ll miss a view like this, whatever the Gold Coast has going for it. I open the window and breathe in the air, brushing away crystal droplets of overnight rain that have gathered on the windowsill.

  Kissing Gate Cottage, which I’ve rented for the last five years, has two bedrooms, a tiny, old-fashioned kitchen, a bathroom and a living room. It’s small but I love every nook and cranny of it, its slate walls and ancient beams and the fact that it always smells of the seasons: new grass and sunshine in spring, burning wood and spice in winter, admittedly with a little help from Ambi Pur.

  It sits in a row of identical slate cottages in Troutbeck, which is quiet and scenic but close to the bustle of Bowness and Ambleside, both of which are short on the bright lights and action of a metropolis but have everything you could ever really need. There are pubs of every description, from the posh kind that serve thrice-cooked chips to the rugged kind full of muddy boots and wet dogs. There are boutiques that sell more than the obligatory hiking gear, old-fashioned cinemas – the kind where they have an interval and ice-cream sellers – and an exceptionally good chocolate shop in Ambleside, which probably just gives the place the edge for me.

  Once I’m dressed and ready, I pick up my phone and spot a text from Emily that says, Did you enjoy last night? I loved it . . . though not sure if that’s down to the dancing or gorgeous Joe! x I wish I could muster the same enthusiasm.

  I hop into my aging Mini to make the twelve-minute drive to work, St Luke’s and St Patrick’s C of E primary school. Three other vehicles are in the staff car park when I pull in. One of them belongs to Edwin, who always makes it in at least fifteen minutes before me and will be in the staff room reading the paper already. I examine my appearance in the mirror, which is more unforgiving than in my dimly-lit bedroom, to see if it’s suitable for his eyes this morning. The answer, immediately, is no.

  The zit on my chin is not the most offensive I’ve ever had. That honour was saved for the one that graced my face when I graduated from university in Lancaster, which was like a second nose – and was captured for all eternity in the picture still on my mother’s mantelpiece. But it’s offensive enough. I noticed some kind of protrusion when I was putting on my foundation this morning, but in the thirty-five minutes since that moment it seems to have swelled up as if it’s been sitting under the heat lamps in an industrial-scale cannabis farm.

  I pull out a tissue and do the only thing open to me: give it a little squeeze. Then another one. Then, just when I’m getting really into it . . .

  Knock, knock!

  I leap up and bang my head on the ceiling of the car.

  Edwin Blaire’s beautiful face is staring at me. And at my zit. I open the door and smile awkwardly. ‘Edwin! Good morning,’ I say, swinging my legs over and shuffling out of the driver’s seat.

  ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it. How are you today, Lauren?’

  ‘I’m really good, thanks,’ I tell him, surreptitiously holding my hand up to my face. When I remove it I notice a dab of blood on my finger. Perfect.

  Edwin, physically speaking, is like nobody I have ever fancied before. When I was a teenager I went for obvious types – Ryan Gosling in The Notebook, or Keanu in The Matrix. The fact that Edwin is not some overblown dream-boat is part of his appeal. That’s not to say he isn’t gorgeous, because he is, but his frame is tall and slim, where I once sought out boy-band muscles. His eyes shine with kindness the more you get to know him, and the angular jawline and wide mouth grow more sensual with each snatched gaze.

  His hair is glossy, his skin luminous and he always manages to dress in a way that’s as original as it is impeccable. I remember thinking when he first started here, about a year after me, that the children might find the fact that he always wears a tie a little intimidating, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. He is universally adored by the children – and the other staff, for that matter. Honestly, the rest of us don’t stand a chance; Edwin is without question the most popular teacher in school. He is a complete natural: strict enough to command their respect, but so much fun that you know every one of them wishes he was their uncle.

  ‘Your salsa class turned into a good night then?’ he asks.

  ‘Do I look that rough?’

  He laughs his lovely laugh, the one that makes birds and butterflies and little pink hearts fly up around my head. ‘You never look rough,’ he reassures me and continues to make eye contact just long enough for my stomach to swoop a little. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Oh . . . it was fun. Though I was mainly paired off with Cate, which wasn’t quite what I had in mind.’

  ‘I’ll have to come along one week and rescue you,’ he says, as my cruciate ligaments threaten to give way.

  ‘I wish you would,’ I blurt out, then feel my neck redden. Fortunately, he changes the subject.

  ‘Am I right in saying we’ve got a staff meeting later on? I had something in my diary but have managed to leave it at home.’

  One of Edwin’s gorgeous quirks is that, despite being only thirty-four and basically a genius – he has a degree from the London School of Economics – he manages to resist the frantic, twenty-first century scramble of technology that dictates all our lives these days. He’s got a mobile, obviously, but prefers to organise himself with nothing more than a Mont Blanc fountain pen, Moleskine notebook and old-fashioned leather diary. He’s not even on Facebook, which is quite inconvenient given how much I’d enjoy secretly poring over his pictures.

  ‘We have, Edwin, yes. Three o’clock. Straight after the school bell.’

  ‘Good job I’ve got you around,’ he smiles, as I am hit by a ten-ton truck of longing, which has the strange effect of making me feel the need to move the conversation on. ‘How’s Fiona?’ I ask as we stroll through the car park toward the main entrance.

  Our school was established in 1861 and parts of the old building still exist, although they have been renovated internally – in about as sympathetic a fashion as was possible in the 1980s. Edwin is about to push open the door, but stops.

  ‘Oh, Fiona’s . . . fine. At least . . . I think so,’ he says, as I register a meaningful look in his eyes.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Hmm.’ He looks down, mildly embarrassed. ‘I haven’t seen her since the weekend.’

  He pushes open the door and invites me to enter first as my heart starts thudding faster. ‘Has she been away?’

  ‘Er, no,’ he replies dully.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, suppressing an urge to shout: ‘Speak, man, speak!’

  He stops and turns to me, looking down again at his feet. ‘The truth is . . . I’ve moved out,’ he confesses. ‘And I can’t deny it, I feel terrible about it.’

  I realise my jaw is somewhere near my knees. ‘You dumped her?’

  He nods silently.

  ‘Why? What happened?’ I ask.

  He glances around to check no-one’s listening. ‘When I proposed, I meant it. At that point, I didn’t have a shadow of a doubt that I wanted to marry her. We would have done it last year, had Fiona not had so much on with work – it was her idea to leave it a couple of years. Anyway, in recent months, she started making wedding preparations and we went to see this venue in Ullswater.’ I look up and realise he’s started sweating. ‘It was all moving along so fast and . . . suddenly . . .’ he stops to draw breath before saying, ‘I knew I was making a mistake. I had to put a stop to it. I had absolutely no choice.’

  I don’t know how to process this i
nformation. ‘You’re not getting married any more?’ I croak.

  He shakes his head. ‘We’d been growing apart for a long time.’ He looks at me, clearly worried I’ll despise him, in some twisted act of sisterhood. ‘Not that it had been awful. It hadn’t. Fiona’s a lovely person. A perfect girlfriend.’

  I nod, feeling very hot. ‘She is,’ I agree, unable to deny it. ‘She is unquestionably a lovely person. I can’t speak for the girlfriend bit, obviously.’

  ‘Well, she was wonderful,’ he shrugs. ‘Which is why I think I convinced myself I was in love with her . . . when I wasn’t.’

  ‘Weren’t you?’

  ‘No.’ He looks into my eyes and my heart skips a beat. ‘And you can’t be with someone for the rest of your life when you’re not in love. Can you?’

  He’s clearly looking for reassurance. You’d think I’d be bursting to give it to him. But I’m so shocked, I’m finding it difficult to say a single thing.

  ‘Only you know if you’ve done the right thing, Edwin. But, you should be certain before you actually get married to someone,’ I murmur, unable to meet his eyes. Then, before I can think about it, I place my hand on his arm as a gesture of solidarity. He looks momentarily surprised, then after a heartbeat, places his hand on mine.

  I suddenly feel as if I’m dancing on poor Fiona’s grave – and I’m not the only one. We both snatch our hands away. ‘So you haven’t heard from her? You don’t know how she is?’

  He deflates. ‘OK, I confess: I was fibbing when I said that. She’s devastated. She keeps sending me texts saying she’s going to euthanise the goldfish in revenge.’

  ‘That seems very out of character.’

  ‘I think I’ve driven her over the edge,’ he says.

  ‘Poor Fiona,’ I offer.

  ‘Poor Fiona,’ he agrees.

  Then we stand, silently, wondering what to say next. ‘Um . . . I’d better get into class,’ I splutter, and he nods as we scurry to the front door, a blaze of nervous energy firing up between us.