Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (22 page)

‘But now it’s not?’

I look at the computer screen as she clicks on to the website. There’s a message reading:
This page no longer exists.

‘Now it’s not,’ she repeats quietly, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, a wide smile lights up her face.

There is a silence between us as one issue simmers in the air. Cate says it first. ‘Of course it could still come back. And there are other websites ’

‘But there’s every chance it could be the end of the matter,’ I finish.

Relief floods through her features. ‘Oh God, I hope so.’ Then she shouts into the air: ‘
Lisa Delaney from Flagstaff, Arizona, I owe you one, girl!’

I throw my arms around her, feeling tension dissolve from her shoulders as she sniffs away tears.

Then I pull back and look at her. ‘Right. Now that’s sorted, how about you put the kettle on and we make arrangements to go back to salsa again this week?’

She laughs. ‘Fine!’ She leaps up to head to the kitchen but stops in the doorway. ‘You know what, Lauren? I think you
should
go to Singapore.’

‘Really?’

‘I hadn’t finished,’ she clarifies. ‘I think you should go – as long as it’d still be attractive even if Edwin wasn’t there.’

‘The salary is twice what I’m currently earning,’ I tell her.

Her smile wavers. ‘In that case, you’ve probably got nothing stopping you.’

I don’t know why but I feel nervous about telling Edwin I’ve got the job. I’m worried that, having idly encouraged me to join in his jaunt, he might think
differently now the prospect of me tagging along is a reality. Or at least could be.

Particularly since I’d now be going not in the capacity of a friend, like we were when he asked me, but as someone he’s kissed, which by definition is a lot more complicated. At
least, I hope it is. There were tongues. Friends can’t possibly still be just friends when they’ve engaged in tongue action. I know that, Edwin knows that,
everyone
knows that.
Only, by Friday morning, I am fairly certain I can put it off no longer. I need to tell him my news before we go into the weekend.

‘Thank God it’s Friday, eh, Lauren?’ he grins, striding across the staff car park.

‘Um . . . yes. Looking forward to the weekend?’

‘Very much so,’ he says. ‘Are you doing anything?’

My heart skips a beat as I wonder to what this could be the prelude. I know
The Rules
would tell me to say, ‘Yes, actually I’m extremely busy,’ given that there are
now less than thirtsix hours until Saturday night – but for some reason I can’t bring myself to do so.

‘Nothing special. Just a spot of gardening. Nothing planned in the evening though’

There is a pregnant pause in the conversation as I refuse to ask him for a date. I simply refuse to. Not this time. Yet eventually the pregnant pause becomes so pregnant it’s virtually ten
centimetres dilated and screaming for gas and air.

‘Are you all set for Singapore?’ I ask finally.

‘It’s coming together,’ he replies. ‘Got my visa. Handed in my notice. Flights booked. I just need it to happen now. Have you had any news from the agency?’ he asks
casually, pushing open the door to the school.

‘Um . . . yes,’ I mumble. ‘I got the job.’

‘Bloody hell!’ he grins, grabbing both of my shoulders. I drink in his expression and realise, to my surprise and relief, how happy he looks at this.

‘So you’re pleased?’ I giggle.

‘Pleased? Lauren, I’m
totally
delighted!’

His enthusiasm is infectious. And for a moment I know that if I had any doubt whatsoever, then it’s now banished. In the last seven days Edwin Blaire has: kissed me, judged me to be an
excellent kisser, and actually sworn when I told him I was coming to Singapore with him.

OK, so he still hasn’t asked me for a Saturday-night date, but you can’t have everything.

‘Let me give you Georgie’s details. She’s the girl I told you about, the one who sorted the flat out. I’ve mentioned you to her and she’s totally up for you staying
with us for a while. It’d help with the rent, to be honest. How about I drop her a line tonight and you could arrange to speak to her? You could get to know each other; she’ll be able
to answer any questions.’

‘Sounds great.’

We walk down the corridor and reach Edwin’s classroom. ‘Well, this is me,’ he says awkwardly.

‘Yes.’

I know he’s not going to kiss me again here, not least because it’d get both of us suspended. But – irrationally – I wish he would.

‘See you at lunchtime,’ he says, pushing open his door.

I nod and smile and hold his gaze for a moment, backing away. ‘See you.’

Then I head down the corridor as he enters his room.

A moment later, I hear the door open again. ‘Oh Lauren,’ he calls after me.

I spin round to find him skipping towards me. ‘Yes?’

‘Would you like to come out with me a week on Saturday?’

‘A week on . . . Saturday?’ I stammer.

‘Yes. I’m tied up tomorrow night – my cousin Alistair’s staying for the weekend. But next Saturday would be great. If you’re not busy, that is.’

‘Not at all!’ I beam. ‘Well, I mean, obviously it being Saturday I’ve normally got something on. I lead a very busy and full life,’ I add, for the avoidance of
doubt. ‘But I’ve had a cancellation.’ I have no idea why I am saying this as if he’s phoned me up to ask if I can fit him in to have his roots highlighted.

‘Good,’ he smiles. ‘I’ll text you and we’ll make the arrangements. How does that sound?’

‘Brilliant.’

I head back down the corridor to my classroom where I sit and wait for the children to arrive, gazing out of the window at a cloudless sky and thinking about Edwin’s reaction. And
it’s there and then that I make my decision, once and for all.

I’m going to Singapore.

It is a bittersweet weekend. Having assumed I’d be going round to Cate’s to keep her company like the last two Saturday nights, she has instead accepted
Will’s invitation to go over for dinner. Which I’m very glad about, obviously, as it’s the first indication that the pit of depression she sank into after that picture appeared
isn’t going to cock everything up between them. Emily is of course out with Joe, which just leaves me, Netflix and half a bottle of Sauv Blanc.

My clear weekend does however mean that on Sunday I can tackle all the admin required to make my move to Singapore possible. So I apply for a work permit, check the notice period on my cottage
(a month – which means I’ll have to tell the landlord the week after next) and book my flight.

There’s a good price available via a comparison site, and it’s only a few pounds more to make it flexible if I need to change my dates later on.

Then I compose my resignation letter to work, swallowing the lump in my throat, and hit the button on my printer. As I’m waiting for it to print out, I log on to Facebook and find a
picture posted by Joe at the top of my news feed, tagging ‘Lawrence Wilborne’ – his dad – in front the Moonlight Hotel.

It reads:
Spent the day tackling the Kentmere Horseshoe with the old man. Now he’s come to cast a critical eye over what I’ve done with our latest acquisition.
Anyone would think he didn’t trust me ;-)

There follows a long jocular exchange with various Facebook friends, in which some jest about whether they’ll serve complimentary Custard Creams like in the Travel Haven, while a handful
of women offer simpering compliments about how they’re certain it’ll be
amazing
.

An instant message pops up from Steph.

I realise that there’s no escape: I’m going to have to face matters and tell her what’s going on.
Hi, Steph – what are you up to?

A picture pops up on my screen of a buff bloke with teak-coloured skin, shiny pectorals and a grin like a 500-watt strip light.

He seems very nice,
I write, which I hope covers all bases.
What’s his name?

I’ll have to check.
There’s a short pause.
He says, ‘Magic Mike’. I’m not sure I believe him though.

I squirm, considering for a second if I should break my news to her via an email – a more personal version of the one I’ve just done for the school. Then I realise this makes me a
complete wimp. And she forces the issue anyway.

My fingers seize up and I find myself unable to type. I eventually compose, then delete, a message four times before I finally hit Send on the last one.

There is a gap of a minute before she starts writing again.
What do you mean, Loz?

There is no easy way of breaking this to her.
The thing is, I’ve been given an opportunity to go to Singapore. It’s a really good job and, while I’d never
even thought about Singapore before, they’ve made me an offer I can’t refuse.

The response is unequivocal.
WHAT?

I start writing something again, but nothing feels quite right – and she follows it up anyway.
Loz, you’ve been banging on about Australia since you were a little
girl. We BOTH have. That was the plan! I’m here by myself. Waiting. For YOU.

I know. I’m so sorry, Steph. But this is such a great opportunity I can’t bring myself to say no. I feel awful for letting you down, I truly do. Although I hope
it’s not too much of a blow as you seem to be so settled there already. You’ve got so many friends.
Although I doubt Magic Mike is the kind with whom she could spend an evening
discussing relationships and shoes.

She doesn’t respond for two whole minutes. They are torture.
Are you still there, Steph?
I write eventually.

I gotta go,
she replies curtly.

I’m really, really sorry,
I type.

But as I look up, the message hovers on the screen. She’d logged off and disappeared before she could receive it.

For Monday morning’s assembly, I’d asked the children to write their own prayers to thank God for what’s important to them and to stand up and read them out
in front of the school. It starts off well, with Bethany Jones citing ‘food to eat’ and David Smith ‘my family’.

It’s only when James Wesley, a sweet, studious boy, stands up and clears his throat that things start to go awry.

‘DEAR GOD,’ he shouts. I’ve been stressing how important it is to speak loudly and clearly, but suspect the Archbishop of Canterbury himself must be able to hear this one.
‘FANK YOU FOR THE SKY . . . AND SUNSHINE . . . AND RAIN.’

I nod and smile and in common with everyone else, expect him to sit down. But then he decides to embellish the oneline prayer he wrote last week.

‘AND FANK YOU FOR BIRFDAY PRESENTS . . . AND CHRISTMAS PRESENTS . . . AND PRESENTS YOU GET IF YOU’VE BEEN GOOD . . . and . . . ANY OTHER PRESENTS.’

‘Thanks, James,’ I say, gesturing for him to sit down. But he doesn’t.

‘FANK YOU FOR . . . GRAPES,’ he says, and it’s apparent that he’s now on a roll.

The Head glances over and frowns as I shift in my seat.

‘AND CHICKENS.’

‘Um . . .’

‘AND MUMS AND DADS AND BROTHERS AND SISTERS AND AUNTIES AND UNCLES AND GRANDMAS AND GRANDADS AND COUSINS.’ At this point, he goes to sit down, but decides against it at the last
second. ‘AND GREAT-AUNTIES AND GREATUNCLES AND STEP-MUMS AND STEP-DADS AND GRANDMAS WHO AREN’T REALLY GRANDMAS BUT JUST THE LADY NEXT DOOR WHO WANTS TO BE A GRANDMA.’

‘OK, James, thank you,’ I smile, scuttling over to him in a half-stoop, in an attempt to gently ease him back to the seat.

‘I haven’t finished,’ he protests.

I sigh. ‘OK. Just one more,’ I concede, trying to avoid a scene.

He turns back to the school, 90 percent of whom we’ve now completely lost – yawning, playing with their hair or, in the case of one Reception child, picking something dubious from
the sole of his shoe before giving it a good sniff.

‘FANK YOU FOR MAKING X-BOXES . . . AND HOUSES FOR US TO LIVE IN . . . AND BAFFS SO WE ARE CLEAN . . . AND APPLES SO WE CAN EAT . . . AND BEDS SO WE CAN GO TO SLEEP . . . AND CLOTHES SO WE
DON’T HAVE TO GO ROUND WITH OUR BUMS OUT.’

At which point the entire school bursts into uncontrollable laughter and there is a near-riot while James Wesley, finally satisfied, goes to sit down. Edwin, mercifully, brings his usual calm
authority to the whole situation by clapping loudly and getting all the children to quieten down.

‘Thank you, James, that was a very big list,’ Edwin says, as the Head rolls her eyes.

‘Scarlet, would you like to continue?’ I add. ‘And perhaps we’ll restrict our prayers to God to just one item each?’

Clearly put out at this, Scarlet scrutinises the prayer she’s written and spends the next ten seconds in silence trying to work out which of her four things she should prioritise. Finally,
she settles on, ‘FLOWERS,’ before we move on to Benito Harper – but not before Scarlet puts her hands up, distraught, and says, ‘Sorry, can I change that? I meant sunshine.
I want sunshine.
Please can I have sunshine?
’

‘Sunshine, it is,’ I reply. ‘Benito, off you go.’

The only child who seems completely decisive about what he’s thanking God for is Tom Goodwin, who stands up, says simply, ‘Dear God, thank You for my mum and dad,’ then sits
down again.

But as a result of the near-chaos I appear to have caused, assembly runs over significantly. While the children file back into the classroom, Tom lags behind.

‘Come on, Tom,’ I say gently, noting that the rims of his eyes are pink.