Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (24 page)

Now Emily stops dead. She and Cate look at each other, incredulous.

‘You’ve got a date on a Saturday with Edwin?’ Cate blusters. ‘How could you have forgotten about that?’

I suddenly want to change the subject. ‘I thought I’d mentioned it,’ I shrug, and continue up the hill.

‘You don’t seem very excited,’ Emily says, to my alarm.

‘I’m ecstatic!’ I reply, probably too forcefully. ‘Ooh, honestly, I can’t wait. Ooh, gorgeous Edwin . . . ah, it’ll be amazing!’ Emily is frowning.
‘I’m very nervous, obviously. But I mean, wow! This is everything I’ve ever wanted.’

I am unlikely to be nominated for a Golden Globe, but at least it seems to placate my two friends for the time being.

‘How are you doing your hair?’ Cate asks.

I have put about as much thought into how I’m doing my hair as I have the Theory of Relativity. ‘I’ll watch some Youtube videos tonight. I’m thinking an up-do would be
good. Or maybe down. A down-do.’

‘And are you still on your diet?’ Emily asks.

‘I’ve eaten nothing but celery sticks and raw spinach,’ I lie, shoving my hands in my pockets and fingering my Kit Kat wrapper from earlier.

‘Well, it’s clearly all happening between you two, isn’t it,’ Cate says.

And as we reach the top of the hill and turn to look at the lake shimmering in the moonlight, all I’m certain of is that
something
is happening. But I’m not sure how much
it’s got to do with Edwin.

I wake up at 6.40 a.m. on Saturday morning desperate for the loo and, having stumbled to the bathroom and supposedly relieved myself, notice I’m not feeling as much
relief as I ought to. The implications of this are immediately clear: I’ve suffered on and off for years with mild urinary tract infections and, with a Saturday-night date ahead, I’m
just not prepared to risk this going any further.

So I get straight onto the GP out-of-hours service, who dutifully provide me with a course of antibiotics and instruct me not to drink anything other than cranberry juice and water.

I’m home for five minutes when I hear footsteps outside and look out of my bedroom window to see Mum striding up the path. She’s almost at the door, when she yanks out a stray
hawthorn branch with her bare hands, chucks it over the fence and wipes her palms on her trousers, before ringing the bell.

I make her a cup of tea – builder’s strength – before she asks about my preparations for Singapore, apparently having accepted that the change of plan merely reflects one of
the myriad oddities about my personality.

‘Well, I hope you have a better time of it there than Steph,’ she concludes.

‘Steph? Why, what’s up with her?’ I ask.

‘From what Harry says, she’s as miserable as sin,’ Mum replies. ‘She’s not enjoying a minute of Australia.’

‘I’m sure there must be a minute or two she’s enjoyed,’ I say, thinking back to the six-pack on that junior doctor.

‘I don’t think she’s made many friends.’

‘Are you sure?’ I resist the urge to point out that she seems overflowing with ‘friends’ every time I see her.

Mum gives me a hard look. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘I’m surprised, that’s all. When I see her on Facebook, she always seems so . . . busy.’ This is the politest euphemism I can think of for the fact that she seems intent
on shagging half of New South Wales.

‘It’s apparently an act,’ Mum says. ‘The pictures on Facebook are just people she drinks with. They’re not real friends.’

I lower my cup and realise that this probably
is
true. At best they seem to be drinking buddies or fuck buddies or buddies of any description except real ones.

‘She spent last night bawling her eyes out on the phone to Harry,’ Mum continues. ‘She’s thinking of coming home. It’s a shame. She was always a nice girl, even if
she got a bit lost in recent years.’

‘Maybe something will come up and she’ll change her mind about coming home.’

Mum doesn’t look convinced. ‘I don’t think so. She’s too lonely.’

Which does nothing to make me feel any less guilty about the whole thing.

I meet Emily for lunch in the Lake Road Kitchen in Ambleside, a trendy little bistro with stripped-back floors, an open kitchen and an adventurous menu. We eat good food, laugh
a lot and basically put the world to rights. Most of the time being around Emily feels like it always has done. But not always; not when I hear her talking about Joe.

‘I shouldn’t have eaten all that – Joe’s cooking dinner for me tonight,’ Emily tells me, as a waiter brings a coffee for her and a cranberry juice for me.

‘Oh, lucky you.’

‘His house is absolutely gorgeous,’ she continues, picking up her cup. ‘It must be brilliant to have such a knack for making places look good – he’s obviously a
natural. I know you’re worried about it, but the hotel is going to be beautiful when it’s finished.’

‘So, is it a big house?’ I feel myself flush as I say it.

‘Not at all. Don’t ask me why, when his dad flew in by helicopter the other week. It’s only a three-bedroom cottage, a bit bigger than yours. But he’s got one of those
range cookers and a free-standing kitchen – it looks rustic but modern if that makes sense. And there’s a lovely view from the garden. He’s got one of those stone benches. You
could sit and watch the sunset for hours.’

I picture Joe and Emily curled up on the bench, warming each other under a stretching sky.

‘You sound smitten,’ I manage.

‘Joe’s lovely,’ she confesses. ‘But speaking of lovely guys, shouldn’t you be at home by now shaving your legs and with your hair in rollers?’

‘Why?’

‘For your date with Edwin, of course!’

‘Oh, I’ve got plenty of time,’ I say listlessly. ‘Besides, we’re only staying in.’

‘That’s even better, isn’t it? When a man cooks dinner for you, you’re in business, Lauren. You must know that, surely?’

She gestures for the bill as I hear myself asking something quietly: ‘Has Joe cooked dinner for you?’

‘Yeah, a few times,’ she grins and I take a sip of cranberry juice to hide my stricken expression.

Edwin’s flat is on the top floor of a terraced house in one of the narrow, winding back streets of Windermere, and it’s fair to say it’s not what I was
expecting. Considering this is a heterosexual man prepared to wear ruffles on a Tuesday night, the place is surprisingly drab.

I don’t want to overstate this, as it’s not awful. But Edwin’s fondness for iconic style – the one that’s evident at least in his taste in stationery –
hasn’t quite translated into his home. If I was being unkind I’d say it was reminiscent of a two-star guest-house, with a dark blue carpet fraying at the edges, white Anaglypta
wallpaper and an abundance of dusty cabinets.

He invites me to sit on his sofa, which could well be original art deco, but looks like it’s been fished out of a skip, courtesy of scratches from a cat, dog or possibly twelve gerbils. I
perch on the end while I wait for him to open up the bottle of wine I brought and hand me a glass.

‘Lovely choice of wine, Lauren. Hmm . . .’ he takes a mouthful. ‘Those crisp, starchy overtones really hit the back of your throat – it’s like
liquid
potato
. Not that I’ve got anything against that,’ he smiles, and I wonder as I force out a laugh why I’m not falling to pieces like I would have done once.

‘Whatever you’re making smells tremendous, Edwin.’

‘Hope so,’ he replies, throwing his tea towel over his shoulder. And for a second he looks as attractive as I always thought he did. Those dreamy eyes. The lovely lips. I
do
still fancy him as much as always, I tell myself, taking a big slug of wine.

I’m not technically meant to be drinking. But the antibiotics – and five gallons of cranberry juice – have kicked in remarkably quickly and by this afternoon, my UTI was
definitely on its way out. I predict it will be completely annihilated by dawn.

Under normal circumstances I would have stuck rigidly to the medical advice not to drink alcohol – but, obviously, the doctor didn’t know the important circumstances of this evening:
that I am on a Saturday-night date with Edwin. And therefore, the only option was to pop one last antibiotic before I left the house, and take it easy on the booze. The alternative – not
drinking at all – isn’t an option because firstly, after the years I’ve known Edwin he’d be aware this was out of character, and secondly, now that tonight has actually
arrived, I’m unexpectedly nervous.

He apologises for the fact that his music system is playing up and puts the TV on low in the background. It’s the
Britain’s Got Talent
final. I’m not a massive fan,
but I recognise the contestant who appears on the screen as she hasn’t been out of the papers. She’s a big girl, defiantly refusing to starve herself and succumb to the pressure the
world seems to exert on pop stars.

‘Blimey,’ scoffs Edwin. ‘She’s got what you might describe as an
excellent personality
.’

I bridle at this. ‘I think she looks lovely. Besides, she’s got a great voice and the audience love her, so that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

‘Gosh, you’ve drained that already,’ he replies, topping up my glass.

‘I’ll never say no to liquid potato, Edwin,’ I reply, and he laughs as the phone rings.

‘Oh, that’ll be Georgie, calling about Sing.’ I never did get round to calling her myself.

‘I thought they were seven hours ahead,’ I point out.

‘She’s back in the UK for a week so I suggested she call tonight. She can’t wait to speak to you. Honestly, we’re all so excited now.’

He answers. ‘Hi, Georgie. Yup, she’s here. She’s excited too. Yep, I know.’ He grins at me. ‘I know.’ He nods. ‘I know,’ he adds, as I wonder what
the hell it is he knows so well that it’s worth saying three times. ‘OK, I’ll put her on.’

He hands over the phone, grinning as he mouths: ‘You’ll love her.’

I smile and take the handset from him. ‘Hello? This is Lauren.’

‘Lauren! Lovely to speak to you!’ Georgie replies, and I can’t deny she sounds really nice. For about six seconds. ‘So listen, I’m very glad you’re able to
join Edwin and me in Singapore and I’m certain we’ll all get on like a house on fire.’

‘Oh me too,’ I reply.

‘But I know you’ll understand if I don’t leave this to chance. So I’ve got a few ground rules I’d like to make clear from the very beginning. Hope that’s
OK?’

‘Of course.’

‘Right. All shoes to be left in the vestibule at the front of the flat to ensure no dirt is brought inside. All suncream must be removed with an exfoliating brush before entering the
swimming pool. No nuts – I have an allergy. No eggs – I have an intolerance. No spray deodorant, only roll-on. No house guests.’

‘O-kay . . .’

‘I haven’t finished yet. No meat, it’s against my religion and there’s a well-stocked vegetarian supermarket down the road. Please do not leave any lights on in the
middle of the night. If you need to get up to go to the toilet, use the light on your phone.’

‘OK.’

‘No music.’

I frown. ‘None?’

‘Headphones are fine, naturally.’

‘Er . . . thanks,’ I reply, but apparently this sarcasm is lost on her.

‘So do you enjoy it out there?’ I ask, deciding to make conversation before she can hit me with another rule.

‘Oh, it’s faaabbbulous! Have a look at my Facebook page – I never let anyone on who I haven’t met in real life but I’ll make an exception. You’ll never want
to live in the UK again. Every Saturday we have a champagne breakfast brunch at one of the hotels – the Greenhouse at the Ritz-Carlton’s my fave. Though the W’s pretty good too
and they have Veuve on tap. Have you got your padi?’

‘My what?’

‘Can you scuba dive? If not, you
must learn
. Everyone does.’

‘It does sound wonderful,’ I reply.

‘And you’re lucky. You’ve got a friend in tow so it doesn’t feel quite so daunting, does it? Not that you’d find it hard to make friends here, even if Edwin decided
to drop you on day one.’

I scrunch up my nose.

‘Not that I think he would. He speaks quite highly of you,’ she adds, as if I’ve asked him for a reference to go and work in a shoe shop.

‘Does he?’ I say. Then I can’t resist asking the next question. ‘What has he said about me?’

‘Oh um . . . let me think. I know – he says you have an
excellent personality
.’

The
excellent personality
comment resonates with me long after I’ve tried to play down its significance in my head.

I remind myself that it’s not even technically offensive, if you take it out of the context of the
Britain’s Got Talent
contestant. But the thought that Edwin might find me
as unsexy as he apparently finds the girl belting out her own version of Cher’s ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ makes something rise up in me: determination. Determination that this
man – the subject of my most vivid dreams for two years – will find me irresistible tonight if it’s the last bloody thing I do.

I arrange myself on the sofa seductively as Edwin busies himself in the open-plan kitchen. It’s only as my elbow slips off the arm that I realise I’m feeling tipsier than I’d
expect after a glass and a half of wine. Normally it’d take at least half a bottle before I started misjudging the depth of soft furnishings.

As Edwin chats away about whether we should have a joint leaving do, I surreptitiously check the antibiotics in my bag to see if I’d get away with pre-loading another one, when several
words leap out at me.
DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOL WITH THIS MEDICINE
.

I draw a sharp breath as I attempt to focus on the words. I’d known I was being slightly naughty in straying from the cranberry juice and water, but I hadn’t for one second suspected
that the wine could react with the bloody medicine. Then I glance over at Edwin and tell myself to
relax
: I’ve already had a glass and a half and I feel really good. A little drunker
than usual, perhaps, but as long as I don’t go overboard, this will all be fine.