Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel Read online

  More’s the pity.

  Chapter 13

  Despite the overblown title, the Grande Princess Royale Mar resort is a clean but uninspiring two and a half star hotel on the outskirts of Torremolinos. On the plus side, it overlooks the Bajondillo beach, with a sweeping view of the mountains and sea. It’s early afternoon before we check in to the ‘family suite’ Emily, Cate and I are sharing. This arrangement was organised by Marion, who was either oblivious to the fact that Cate and Will are an item, or wanted to make sure that the only exercise in which they indulged was dancing.

  The room consists of one queen-sized bed and a bunk apparently pilfered from the set of Orange Is the New Black. We toss a coin and I end up on the top. A brief try-out reveals a noisy squeak that gives the impression it’s been left in the rain for sixteen years.

  The rest of the afternoon is left free for the three of us to soak up some rays by the pool. In the evening, we head downstairs on to the terrace as a disco is in full throttle, belting out a medley of ear-splitting Europop songs as two dozen overtired children and their beleaguered parents hop about waving their arms.

  ‘Not much salsa dancing going on, Marion,’ Will says mischievously. ‘Unless we’re meant to do it to “Gangnam Style”?’

  ‘The dancing programme starts tomorrow, when there’ll be a full day of it, so don’t worry,’ she replies.

  Will flashes Cate a glance and, unable to stop himself, leaps up, grabs Marion by the hand and challenges her to a Gangnam-style salsa. To be absolutely fair to Marion, while the resulting dance isn’t her best performance, it’s as impressive as could be expected when surrounded by a dozen four year olds squealing ‘EHHH . . . Sexeh laydeh!’

  ‘Your new man is a nutcase,’ I tell Cate.

  ‘I know,’ she laughs. ‘A breath of fresh air from Robby.’

  ‘Poor Robby,’ I snort.

  ‘There’s no poor Robby about it,’ Cate huffs.

  ‘Oh I didn’t mean—’

  ‘No, I know you didn’t. But let me show you why I no longer feel sorry for him.’ She takes out her phone, clicks on to her messages and starts scrolling down. ‘Look what he sent me about twenty minutes ago.’

  I take a sip of sangria and peek at the phone, expecting either some schmaltzy message proclaiming undying love, or a text alerting her to the fact that he left socks at her flat last time he was there.

  But there are no socks on this picture message.

  In fact, there are no items of clothing whatsoever. There is just Robby, reclining on a sofa, one arm behind his back – and completely naked.

  I realise I’m supposed to respond, but a piece of fruit from my sangria is wedged in the back of my throat and prevents me from doing anything other than spluttering several expletives.

  ‘Shhh!’ she says, glancing round. I look at the phone again. Then look away. Then look again. Then, convinced that my eyes are about to start bleeding, Cate says, ‘Oh come on, it’s not that incredible – at least his bits are covered.’ This is technically true, although by ‘covered’ she is referring simply to the strategically-placed bottle of bleach on the table in the foreground.

  ‘What’s with the Domestos?’ I whisper.

  She shrugs. ‘He was obsessed with cleaning so that was probably just the first thing we had to hand. And it was about the right size to cover him up.’

  I park the issue of the unlikely proportions of the contents of Robby’s trousers and ask a more pressing question: ‘Did you take this picture?’

  ‘Yeah, but ages ago. Sexting was Robby’s favourite hobby,’ she says, then catches my eye. ‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s not that unusual these days.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. The last time I had sex was before Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone.’

  ‘Well, this is what dating is like these days, believe me,’ she tells me, pursing her lips. ‘Loads of men go for it. Not that I’ve had loads of men, I hasten to add.’

  I shake my head while contemplating this issue, which I’d never given a second thought to until now. ‘Wow. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day . . . and get a shot of your boobs for posterity?” It hasn’t quite got the same ring to it. Why is he sending it to you now?’ I ask.

  ‘Exactly!’ she replies.

  ‘Have you asked him?’

  ‘I texted him right back. He claims he pressed the button by mistake,’ she says dubiously. ‘Which is bollocks – and does nothing to change my view of him as a Class A creep.’

  Then, as the track changes to ‘Oops Upside Your Head’, she says, ‘Come on, let’s go and dance,’ grabbing me by the hand before I get the chance to query whether her enthusiasm for this music is the result of a sharp blow to the temple.

  Sometimes though, with a playlist as gloriously naff as this, all you can do is roll with it. So we do roll with it, all the way to Crapsville, taking a detour via ‘The Birdie song’, the ‘Macarena’ and a whole host of other audible delights with names such as ‘Cim bombom!’ and ‘Chichi Wah!’ By the time we get on to ‘Barbie Girl’ and Will dances up to Cate, I decide to head back to my sangria.

  I put the straw to my lips, take a small sip and relax into the chair.

  ‘“Barbie Girl” not your thing then?’ I look up to find Joe sinking into the seat next to me.

  I sit up uncomfortably straight and mumble, ‘I’ve done the “Macarena” twice. I consider my work here to be done.’

  ‘Me too. Besides, I can’t shimmy as well as Will can.’

  I don’t know what his aftershave is, but the smell of him agitates me beyond words.

  ‘So how’s your room?’ he asks, clearly not noticing that I can do without the small talk.

  ‘Not quite up to the glorious standards of the heyday of the Moonlight Hotel,’ I say pointedly.

  He doesn’t answer for a moment. Then: ‘The Moonlight Hotel isn’t up to the glorious standards of its heyday either, I suspect – and hasn’t been in a long time. The place I bought is no reflection of what it was like years ago. Which is why it needs a bit of . . . vision.’

  ‘So that’s what you’re calling it.’ I slosh the straw in my drink up and down.

  ‘It is. At least, I hope so.’

  I remove the straw and take a large mouthful of the drink before looking away frostily.

  ‘Will mentioned you have a family connection to the hotel,’ he continues.

  ‘Yes. My dad was GM for twelve years. So the Moonlight Hotel means a lot to me. And I don’t like the idea of it being changed beyond recognition, I can’t deny it.’

  He singularly fails to leap in and reassure me.

  Defiance starts to build in my chest and I feel the need to say more, to explain why what he’s doing is so wrong. ‘Look at this,’ I continue, reaching into my purse and removing the photo I carry around of me and my dad.

  I don’t know why this one is so precious to me, why I keep it on me all the time; there are hundreds of other photos of us and this one’s actually slightly blurry. But we’re sitting in the place I loved more than anywhere: the gazebo at the bottom of the gardens of the Moonlight Hotel, right on the banks of Windermere.

  I’m throwing one of my regular tea parties, with Dad as the only guest, forced to endure endless cups of non-existent beverages and to say ‘Mmm . . .’ while pretending to bite into cakes made of polyurethane.

  I hand it over to Joe. ‘I was five or six in that picture. Do you recognise where it is?’

  He scrutinises it. ‘I can’t say I do.’

  I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes. ‘It’s in the gardens of the Moonlight Hotel. Look – don’t you recognise the tree?’

  ‘Possibly,’ he replies uncertainly. ‘It was the gazebo that threw me. What happened to that?’

  ‘No idea – I’d spend hours in it, though. I’d have lived in it if I could have.’

  He smiles. ‘I take it that’s your dad?’

  I nod but don’t say anything.

  ‘You look al
ike. You’ve got the same eyes. Although – clearly – he’s a lot bigger than you.’

  ‘He was a big guy, with a big personality. There was no one he couldn’t make laugh.’

  Joe looks hesitant, then asks: ‘Was?’

  I decide it’s time to put the picture away. ‘He died when I was sixteen.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Anyway. I hope you can understand why I’m so worried about any plans to tear out all the character and original features and . . . well, just about everything that makes the Moonlight Hotel what it is. Does the world really need another Travel Haven?’

  He looks taken aback. ‘The Moonlight Hotel is not going to be part of the Travel Havens chain, Lauren.’

  My back straightens. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. We want to give it the kind of treatment we’ve done with a couple of the hotels we own in other parts of the world. They’re a lot more upmarket.’

  I wonder if he’s showing off, but don’t say so.

  ‘Although, for the record, I’m very proud of the Travel Havens part of the business – it’s what we’re known for in the UK. But I can’t deny I’d be disappointed if people thought the Moonlight Hotel belonged in the budget end of our company.’

  ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

  One side of his mouth quirks up. ‘I suppose I would. Look, Lauren, I’ll be honest with you. I was in a difficult position when I first bought the place – on two fronts. The bank hadn’t quite signed off the finance I needed to do what I wanted, so I’ve had to stay quiet about the plans. But, I’m presenting them next week to the staff and I’m confident that what we’re doing will be far from average.’ I can feel my jaw seize up. ‘Having said that, I can’t claim that we’re leaving the place as it is. It’s going to be very different. There’s going to be a massive overhaul. It needs it.’

  I bristle and take another large mouthful of my drink. ‘Why don’t you let me in on the secret, then? What are you doing with the place?’

  He looks at me for a second, then takes out his phone, edging his chair closer to mine. I feel my heartbeat quicken and not in a good way.

  The picture on the home screen shows him in climbing gear, his arm around a girl of about twelve or thirteen with orange hair, black nails and a T-shirt that reads Yeah, I’m a weirdo. They’re both grinning from ear to ear. He sees me looking. ‘That’s my niece, Sophie. My sister’s daughter. She’s an angel. We had great fun that day. We’d been scrambling and . . . ’ His voice trails off, clearly realising I’m not interested in anything other than the Moonlight Hotel. ‘Sorry – the plans.’

  He flicks on to his photos. ‘I shouldn’t be showing you on here. It does it no justice.’ Yet he swipes his strong fingers over the screen before pausing – and then he offers me the phone.

  The images are artists’ impressions, which in my experience are never a wholly accurate representation. Even accounting for that, what I’m looking at prompts a clash of emotions in my head. It’s still clearly the Moonlight Hotel, with its high ceilings and grand windows, but it’s a weird and, what Joe obviously believes is wonderful, version of it: opulent and kind of funky too. There are huge chandeliers, antique books lining the walls, gold cornices above the windows – but they’re juxtaposed against a glossy champagne bar, clever lighting and lush velvet furnishings. Joe, it’s clear, wants to make a strong statement that this is no longer a fusty old hotel. This is a luxury hotel where newlyweds will while away their honeymoon and sophisticated travellers will feel right at home.

  I sit silently, attempting to decode my emotions.

  OK, I’m delighted – over the moon, in fact – that it’s not going to be a Travel Haven. And I’ve no doubt that when the Guardian journalists traipse up from London to be plied with Veuve Clicquot and have their feet massaged with Jo Malone toiletries, before disappearing home again, they’ll love what Joe Wilborne has done to it.

  But I, Lauren Scott, will be unable to share their enthusiasm. I’ll admit it: I loved that fusty hotel, just how it was.

  True, the original features aren’t quite being torn down like I thought they would be, but the whole thing is so vastly, catastrophically different from the place I grew up in, it brings tears to my eyes. The worst thing about this is it’s going to be a success. That much is obvious. People will love it.

  But I’m not people. And I won’t love it. I loved it the way it was when I was six.

  And as if to underline all this, I flick on to an image of what is no doubt to be a defining ‘statement piece’ of the hotel: hanging on the wall is a massive, spectacular – and very modern-looking painting . . . of a flying zebra. It’s completely mad and I don’t like it one bit.

  ‘What do you think?’ Joe asks quietly. And suddenly he looks so anxious about my answer, I can’t bring myself to tell him I hate it. Because he clearly wants to make this place a success. He clearly is investing more than just money in it.

  ‘It’s certainly striking,’ is all I can manage.

  He presses his lips together as a second passes. ‘Very diplomatic,’ he nods, and I can tell he’s got the message.

  ‘You’ll bring the guests in, Joe,’ I concede. ‘People will like it. Although, for the record, it is lunacy to even think about putting a flying zebra in the hall.’

  He smiles. ‘You think it’s a bit OTT?’

  ‘If you’re prepared for people to think you’re clinically insane, then I reckon it’s fine.’

  ‘Maybe when people see it for themselves, they’ll be won over.’ His eyes search my face. ‘I shouldn’t really have shown you the plans – it’s hard to see the place in its full glory on a bit of paper. It’ll be different once it’s completed.’

  Which brings me to a question that’s been nagging at me since I first found out about this.

  ‘Why now, Joe? I mean, why are you closing the hotel as we’re heading into the busiest season? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘I didn’t see any point in hanging around,’ he says, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not telling the truth.

  ‘How did you get into all this anyway? Emily tells me you were once in the Army.’

  ‘Yes, it’s been a circuitous route here,’ he replies, clearly glad to be on an easier subject.

  ‘I never had you down as the military kind,’ I say.

  ‘Why not?’ he asks, and for a moment I can’t work out why. Physically, Joe can obviously handle himself; he’s big, muscular . . . all the attributes a soldier would require. But, rightly or wrongly, I’d always imagined guys in the Army to be excessively macho. And I can’t quite square that with a man who’s as concerned as he is with champagne-coloured upholstery. ‘I just didn’t have you down as the type,’ I confess rather lamely.

  He laughs. ‘I hadn’t thought you were the kind of girl who harboured stereotypes.’

  ‘Neither had I. Sorry – go on.’

  ‘Well, my dad was in this business, and when an opportunity came up to develop a hotel in Chester, he wanted to put me in charge of it, to teach me the ropes. If I’m honest, my mum hated me being in the military. She lived in perpetual fear that I was going to come back in a coffin.’

  ‘So you did it for them?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ he says immediately, then stops to think about whether his response is entirely accurate. ‘It was the right thing to do,’ he concludes. ‘Though not a decision you take lightly. I’m glad I experienced life in the Army – I saw some incredible places and met some incredible people. But I’m equally glad to be out of it.’

  I glance up to see Emily at the edge of the dance floor; she’s looking in our direction. ‘Emily’s over there with nobody to dance with,’ I tell Joe.

  He looks up at her then back at me. ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ he says softly. Then he tucks his phone into his back pocket, drains his drink and stands up. ‘See you later, Lauren. And don’t say a word to anyone about those plans, will you?’

&
nbsp; I force a smile and put my finger to my lips. ‘Your zebra’s safe with me.’

  Chapter 14

  I don’t sleep well that night because even the slightest wriggle prompts a cacophony of violent squeaks which threaten to wake the entire room. As the sun finally shears through the edge of the curtains, my eyes flicker blearily open and I lean down to see if Emily’s awake.

  ‘Morning, Lauren,’ she grins, looking inordinately happy.

  ‘Emily, I am so sorry. You’d have got more sleep in an orchestra pit.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not your fault,’ she says, with a long, languorous stretch. She rubs her eyes and, even with a glob of mascara underneath them, her hair mussed up on top, she still manages to look gorgeous.

  ‘So, Em . . . were you late back last night?’ I ask, which is a subtle way of asking whether she and Joe ended up finally getting together. Cate is awake and has sat up to hear Emily’s reply.

  ‘Yeah, come on – spill the beans,’ she grins, subtlety not being her speciality. ‘Did you snog Joe?’

  Emily responds with a giggle, before rolling over and snuggling down into her sheet. ‘That’d be telling.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Cate shrieks, clapping her hands together.

  ‘Yes, okay, Poirot,’ Emily grins. ‘You love all the juicy detail, don’t you?’

  ‘Right, all we need to do now is hook our Lauren up with someone and all our love lives are sorted. Easy. How about Esteban?’ Cate continues.

  I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not? I don’t think Jilly’s interested – and besides, he seemed to be getting very cosy on the flight.’

  ‘He had me in a headlock, Cate,’ I tell her. ‘There is a difference.’

  The hotel might not look overly fancy, but breakfast is magnificent – and it therefore goes up in my estimation by about 1000 per cent. We feast on scrambled eggs and toast with a selection of pastries, washed down with hot, treacly coffee.