Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (12 page)

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 alike. 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?’

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

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.

Will and Joe are already in the breakfast room when we arrive, so Cate, Emily and I end up on a table with three people from Marion’s old Manchester salsa class. They’ve been on
several of her trips abroad and their advice can be summed up by a girl called Keeley with cropped dark hair and a nose ring almost identical to Cate’s. ‘They’re fab, as long as
you don’t let her bully you,’ she grins, at the exact moment that Marion appears brandishing a class timetable.

It is clear that our esteemed teacher is taking this trip very seriously: there is not a scheduled moment of respite from the dancing, apart from an hour for lunch. ‘When do we get to
sunbathe, Marion?’ Cate asks.

Marion looks as though she pities her. ‘You can sunbathe
anywhere
. Why on earth would you want to do that, when you can dance?’

‘I can’t sunbathe
anywhere,
Marion,’ Cate replies. ‘I live in the Lake District, which isn’t exactly known for its sub-tropical climate.’

In the event, the morning class is fantastic. It’s also hilarious. I do realise that hilarity isn’t supposed to be its key attribute, but it works for most of us. We start off by
attempting some fairly advanced moves, including a loopover lock with a barrel turn – which, yes, is as hard as it sounds and way beyond my ability. But, once we’re over the fact that
our collective failure to master this series of moves constitutes ‘entertainment’ for the Dutch and German clientele relaxing by the pool, there’s no going back. Particularly when
said clientele leap up and Marion nearly has a nervous breakdown while several men attempt to join in.

My mind drifts predictably to Edwin all morning. I can’t help thinking he’d love this. I’ve never been anywhere dancing with him, but you just instinctively know with some men
that they’d be a natural, and he’s one of them, at least I think so. Yes, I admit it’s not immediately obvious, but Edwin’s got so many hidden depths I know – I
categorically
know
– that, once he loosened his tie and grabbed me by the hand, he’d be unstoppable on a dance floor.

Lunch is big, long and mildly boozy, resulting in precisely zero takers for the afternoon class. All anybody wants to do is soak up some rays – apart from Cate that is, who wants to spend
some ‘quality time’ with Will. Read into that euphemism whatever you like.

Emily and I grab a couple of loungers by the pool and lie back in the sun. Sleep-deprived as I am, I close my eyes and push my dilemma about Singapore from my head, and very soon, the red blur
behind my eyelids disappears to nothing . . .

When I wake, God knows how much later, it is in the style of Basil Fawlty leaping out of bed, arms and legs akimbo, eyes wide, head spinning as I try to register my
whereabouts. Emily smirks and puts her hand on my bare shoulder.

‘How’s it going, Lauren?’

‘Eurgh, I feel a bit groggy. How long have I been asleep?’

‘An hour, maybe an hour and a half,’ she replies, as I register that she’s fully dressed.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ I ask.

‘I was going to suggest a walk along the prom if you fancy coming?’

I look down at myself and feel, frankly, wretched. ‘I think I need a shower before tonight’s activities to be honest, Em,’ I reply.

She smiles. ‘No problem. We’ve only got one key, though. Cate’s got the other.’

‘If you come up with me first and let me in, you can keep hold of the key. Then I’ll just meet you here in an hour and a half or so. I presume Cate will have emerged from
Will’s lovenest by then.’

After a shower and rudimentary tart-up, I am feeling significantly more human so head back downstairs to wait for Emily and Cate over a coffee. I settle at a table by the pool and take out my
notepad and pen, resolving to do my decision-making the
Cosmo
way: by making a list of pros and cons of going to Singapore. It ends up like this: