Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (33 page)

‘You must be Lauren,’ he smiles, offering me his hand.

I shake it, feeling inexplicably embarrassed. ‘Yes, that’s me. I believe I left my bracelet here?’

‘I believe you did. Why don’t you come with me?’

I prickle at the suggestion, wondering why he couldn’t have just brought the damn thing out to me, saving me the turmoil of being here longer than necessary.

‘I understand your father was once the General Manager of this hotel?’ he begins, as I follow him through into reception.

‘Many years ago. It was completely different then.’ My eyes skitter around the room as I realise the furniture is now
in situ
. Still covered in plastic, but all in
place.

He stops and turns to me. ‘Mr Wilborne is putting his heart and soul into this project,’ he says quietly. ‘I’ve worked with his family for twenty-three years and . . .
I’ve never seen anybody so passionate about a place.’

I don’t answer him. It’s not a conversation I want to get sucked into. So I simply follow, thoughts whizzing through my mind so fast that at one point, I don’t actually
remember how I got to where I am: through the double doors at the back of the hotel, overlooking the gardens that stretch down to the lake.

I look at Gianni, waiting for an explanation as to why we’ve come outside again. ‘Your bracelet is down there,’ he says with a perplexing smile, before glancing at his phone.
‘Sorry, I have a call to make. You’ll find it just down there,’ he repeats. ‘In the gazebo.’

He walks away before I can answer, not that I’d know what to say anyway. I simply stand, feeling bewilderment crinkle on my face. And then I start walking across the lawn. My steps quicken
before breaking into a gallop as I approach the trees at the shore, disbelief searing through me as I see it appear behind them.

My gazebo.

Or at least, a replica of it. I walk towards the structure in a trance, holding my breath. I place a foot on to the step and pull myself up into it, inhaling its new, woody smell as I run my
fingers along the rail. Then I sit down on the beach, in the exact spot where my little pretend café was, and close my eyes.

My heartbeat slows and the birds quieten around me as I can almost feel my dad sitting beside me. Sipping a non-existent drink in my tea set and murmuring approval at my plastic cakes. Laughing
as I played see-saw on his leg. Cuddling me into him as we fed the ducks.

When my eyelids flutter open, hot tears spill down my cheeks so fast I can feel a drip on my knee. Then I glance down and see the envelope my bracelet has been left in. I sniff back tears and
pick it up. My bracelet is in there, along with a letter, handwritten in black ink on thick, white paper.

I put down the envelope and stand up, focusing on the ripples of water lapping against the shore. I don’t want to leave. I want to just stay here, and breathe the air in
my happiest of places.

The thought makes me despair – of everything. And it’s then that I turn around and spot the little plaque on the bench I’m sitting on.

It says,
LAUREN
’
S PLACE
.

As I try to make sense of it all, one thought keeps pushing its way in.

Joe. Why are you making it impossible for me not to fall in love with you?

To say Cate is shocked when I tell her I have the solution to all her problems – in the shape of £5000 – barely covers it. She looks at me open-mouthed across
the counter in Daffodils & Stars and a piece of gold ribbon drops from her fingers.

‘
What
did you say?’ she whispers.

‘I still think you should go to the police about Robby. This doesn’t change that.’ I reach out and take her hand. It’s trembling. ‘But the money’s yours. If
this is the only way you feel able to get him out of your life, then I want you to have it.’

She shakes her head violently. ‘No, Lauren. Don’t be ridiculous. I absolutely couldn’t. You’ve spent years saving this up. It’d mean you couldn’t go. And you
have
to go – you’re out of a job, aren’t you?’

‘There’s always supply work,’ I tell her, which is true, less than ideal as it is. ‘I won’t starve. Some things are more important.’

‘No,’ she says again, her eyes darting about as the implications of my offer sink in. ‘I couldn’t do it.’ Her chest reddens as the next words catch in her throat.
‘You’re such an amazing friend to even offer . . . thank you so, so much. But it’s not fair. This is my problem, not yours.’

‘And you’re my friend – the best friend I’ve ever had. Which is why I’m doing this for you. I’ve already transferred the money to your account,’ I
say.

The plump, salty tears that follow are the best kind of tears, ones made up of relief and happiness and the knowledge that you’re loved and protected, no matter how shitty others can be
towards you. I walk round the counter and pull her into a hug.

‘I’ll pay you back really quickly, I swear,’ she says, sniffing. ‘I’m going to get a bar job or something and, month by month, I’ll put it back in your
account. I absolutely promise you, Lauren.’

‘Take all the time you need.’

As Cate’s face continues to go through a whole range of emotions – disbelief, guilt, elation – something else is flickering behind her eyes the entire time: relief that her
nightmare is going to end. What she doesn’t know is that a nightmare of my own is just beginning.

But I still think I’m doing the right thing.

Cate phones me the following day to say she’s arranged to make a cash withdrawal from the bank – having told them the money was to buy a car – and to meet
Robby on Saturday to hand it over.

But none of that lessens the private hell I’m going through in having to stay here, with Joe’s words throbbing in my head when, unbeknownst to him, he is about to become a father.
And when the mother of his child is one of my best friends.

That night, I sit at my bedroom window, gazing past my curtains as mist swirls around the trees, and I try to work out a solution to this. One that makes Joe Wilborne completely unable to think
of me as someone he even likes, let alone anything more.

I pick up my phone and scroll to his name in the contacts book. Then I dial it with a heart that thrashes harder and harder with every ring.

It goes to voicemail.

I sigh and click off, lying on the bed as my adrenalin subsides.

Then it rings. I scramble to a sitting position and glance at the phone. It’s him.

With my breath hanging in my chest, I pick up.

‘Hi, Lauren.’

He has the kind of voice that makes your skin tingle: masculine but warm, with rolling vowels and an accent that’s only apparent with every other undulating lilt. I force myself to stop
thinking like this. The only emotion that is ever going to be possible between the two of us from now on is dislike. No, that’s not enough.

I need to make him hate me.

‘Hello, Joe,’ I reply coldly.

‘I believe you got your bracelet.’

‘I did,’ I reply, summoning the strength to say the words I’ve planned to say. ‘I saw your gazebo too.’

‘Well, it’s your gazebo really . . .’

‘No, it’s not. It’s not my gazebo at all.’

He doesn’t answer at first. Then he asks, not unreasonably, ‘What do you mean?’

‘
How insensitive can you get?
’ I spit out the words as if I can’t bear the taste of them in my mouth. ‘Did you seriously think you could build some crappy
replica of the place where I used to spend days with my dad? Was it some kind of cruel joke?’

‘Of course not.’ He tries to say this dispassionately, but the hurt in his voice almost –
almost
– makes me take it back. Then I think of his baby, of
Emily’s determination to make a go of it, and steel myself to deliver a further onslaught.

‘I think you’re
sick
, Joe,’ I rant on. ‘That’s the only explanation for it. I don’t know why anyone would do something like that.’

‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ he replies, with pain in his voice.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he continues, ‘and I apologise if I did. I thought it would be something you’d like. With hindsight, you’re right. It was
crass.’

My heart breaks a little more, as I say, ‘Yes. It was upsetting and stupid, and well, like I said, Joe – I just don’t want
anything
to do with you any
longer.’

‘Well, you’re not going to, are you? Given that you’re leaving the country soon.’

‘As it happens, I’m not going just yet,’ I mumble. ‘There’s been a setback so I’m stuck here. And that’s precisely why I wanted to let you know –
because of this – that it’s just impossible for you and me to be friends.’

‘OK, I’ve got the idea,’ he says stonily.

‘And in case you’re wondering, I’m quitting salsa,’ I go on.

‘Yes, me too,’ he replies.

That rattles me. ‘Really?’

‘There wasn’t any point in going any longer.’

I let this sentence filter through me then brush aside my innate desire to decode it.

‘So, it seems like we’re probably not going to bump into each other anyway from now on,’ I conclude. ‘Which suits me fine. I’m certainly not going to be heading
anywhere near the Moonlight Hotel after the stunt you’ve just pulled.’

‘I’m sorry, Lauren,’ only this time, he doesn’t say it as if he is sorry. He says it as if he’s pissed off in the extreme – and who could blame him. But I
can’t let him know that. ‘Like I say, it was meant to be a nice gesture, it was meant to—’

‘Yeah, well, it didn’t work.’

‘Yes, I’ve got it, Lauren,’ he snaps. ‘I’ve got it completely.’

Steph has a friend – a real one, someone she spends time with and tags herself with on Facebook, at the beach, or having coffee.

She’s called Rosa and is twenty-four, Italian and the daughter of a former priest. When I heard that last bit I couldn’t help but wonder if the chap in question realises who his
daughter is socialising with but, surprisingly, Steph seems to be changing her ways. Last week, she put something on Facebook about being on a detox. I dread to think what this could do to some of
the bar takings around Bondi.

‘Don’t tell me, you’re not coming,’ she says when we Skype on Thursday night. She has a twist in her lips designed to underline that she thinks I’m dangerously
eccentric. ‘Seriously, Loz – you don’t need to say a thing. It’s written in your eyes.’

‘The thing is, Steph, I really want to come to Australia – and I will some day. Definitely. But at the moment, I’ve got a few things I want to sort out. A few . . . cash-flow
issues.’

‘Loz, it’s fine. You don’t need to worry. I know Mum had mentioned to your mum that I was having a hard time of it, but things are looking up. And I’m sure you’re
right . . . you’ll get over here one day. Don’t leave it too long though, eh? We want you young enough to still be in a bikini without scaring anyone off.’

The last day of term is a strange and sad one. Strange because, while the children are typically hysterical with excitement, for me the day has none of its usual uplifting
effect.

Matters aren’t helped by the fact that I am backed into a corner during a conversation with the Head – and find myself forced to confess the inglorious news that I’m no longer
going to Australia, Singapore or indeed anywhere.

I can’t tell her or anyone else the real reason, so just have to mumble something about ‘domestic matters’. She responds by looking at me as if I am flakier than a Greggs
cheese and onion pasty.

‘I hope you don’t expect to get your job back. We’ve already filled it,’ she says curtly. I never expected anything else.

I always knew I’d be spending my summer job-hunting, in the hope that by September, when my pay runs out, I’ll have somewhere to go. If not, it’ll be supply work for me, which
I don’t mind at all, apart from the fact that it’s intermittent, involves lots of travelling and will look like an odd move on my
CV
. Which I suppose is exactly
what it is.

What I feel most sad about though is saying goodbye to the children. The end of a school year is always bittersweet; saying cheerio to a bunch of little people you’ve grown fond of,
knowing that their funny little quirks will be absent from your life, at least for the near future.

Only this time, I’m not going to see them next term. I’m not going to watch them progressing and growing and turning into the person they’re destined to be. This time,
I’m probably never going to see them again full stop.