Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (7 page)

‘Is everything all right?’ Joe asks.

‘For some reason I’m being stared at. I’d assumed those two waitresses were talking about all the stuff that’s going on with the hotel, but they keep looking over. I
don’t know what I’ve done.’

He glances at the waitresses, then takes my hand again. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s not you they’re looking at. It’s me.’

‘What?’

‘They’ve worked something out, that’s all,’ he says, under his breath.

I step back and gaze at him in bewilderment. ‘Worked
what
out?’

He lifts my arm up and I twirl around, landing haphazardly in front of him as he whispers to me: ‘That I’m the new owner of this place.’

I’m woken up at 5.45 a.m. the next morning by the deafening sound of my neighbour Agnes’s hedge-trimmer. I tread to the window to see her in her dressing gown
toting the power tool, attacking her rhododendrons as if she’s the Terminator.

I shut the window – it’s threatening to rain anyway – and flop back into bed, blearily picking up my phone, where I discover with a fluttering heart that Edwin texted me late
last night. I excitedly open it up, only to find the following:-

I can at least take solace in the three kisses, which are the sole nugget of hope and affection in an otherwise devastatingly banal request, albeit a reasonable one given that I have entirely
forgotten to bring it in since I promised to do so last week.

I log on to Facebook in time to see the latest Australia update from my cousin Steph. Steph is from my mum’s side of the family, the youngest daughter of my Uncle Harry, who grew up in
Birmingham. We were close when we were little, gravitating to each other during family get-togethers, at which we’d choreograph dance routines to Take That songs and make homemade rose
perfume out of battered flowers and tapwater. I hadn’t seen as much of her as an adult, but a few years ago, at a Boxing Day party, we discovered a mutual desire to travel Down Under and
agreed that it’d be great to do so with a friendly face. She got there sooner than me, but is as keen as ever that I go out and join her as soon as I can.

This is going to get MESSY!
she says, underneath a pic in which things are already looking messier than a rave at Mr Messy’s house. She is surrounded by a host of
tanned, ripped men, has a dodgy-looking cigarette drooping from her lip and is topless, except for two beer cans she is holding over each nipple. It’s too early to scrape an appropriate
comment out of the depths of my brain so I just hit Like.

A moment later, another comment appears, tagging my name.
When are you getting over here, Lauren Scott? I’ve just shown several of my new hotties, sorry friends (!!!),
your pic and they are all v. keen to show you a good time! Hurry up, girl!

It feels too early for that many exclamation marks somehow.
Won’t be long hopefully, Steph. Looks like you’re having enough fun for both of us in the meantime.
x

I press Enter and hope that placates her, at least for as long as she remains conscious.

I try to roll over to get another forty minutes’ sleep, but as soon as my mind starts working over last night’s bombshell about Joe owning the Moonlight Hotel, drifting off again
becomes an impossibility. I haul myself out of bed and try to put a positive spin on being up at this ungodly hour by pulling on my running shoes. A bit of exercise is exactly what I need after
falling off the MyFitnessPal wagon yesterday.

To be fair, it is very difficult to adopt a kale-smoothie-based diet when you can’t get your hands on any kale, so you have to make do with broccoli instead, an overdose of which can make
you feel as if there’s a helium balloon in your lower intestine.

Under normal circumstances, when I decide to go for a run, I open my front door, turn right and venture a mile in a straight line before turning round and walking back. But today I’m
feeling ambitious, so decide to drive up to the Struggle next to the Kirkstone Pass Inn, where the views make up for the fact that its name is entirely appropriate.

I park and remove my car key from its ring, then step out, lock my gear inside and tie the key to the string at the top of my running pants. I set off underneath a pale grey sky, a wild mist
twisting around the mountains, the air crisp as it hits the back of my throat.

I stick to the road, like I always do. A fine rain skims my face as I pound the rising gradient of the road and replay my reaction to Joe’s announcement last night. Which wasn’t
nearly as hard-hitting as it ought to have been. I just kind of stood there, carp-mouthed and muttering, ‘You?
You’re
the new owner?’ as I tried to think of a way to
explain why I’d have greeted the news that he was the son of the Anti-Christ more warmly.

Of course I was polite. Or perhaps a wimp. Either way, I hid the contempt sizzling through my veins as, when quizzed gently by Emily, he said simply that he’d be going into further detail
with the staff in due course, thereby doing nothing to abate anyone’s fears about the fate of the Moonlight Hotel – otherwise known as Lakeland’s newest Travel Haven
.
I
shudder.

It goes without saying that this puts a wildly different perspective on my views about him and Emily.

There is no way I’d have considered him as a potential love-match for my gorgeous friend if I’d known what he was up to. And despite the handsome smile and sexy swagger, one thing
was absolutely clear last night: he can’t be trusted.

Worryingly though, this is obvious to everyone except Emily, who refuses to be put off, despite my clearly-expressed rant on the way home.

I run for twenty minutes until the rain gets heavier, and by the time I’ve completed my circuit, there is steam coming off the skin on my arms. The second I reach the car and stop to catch
my breath, cold encroaches on my skin, rain slicing into my cheeks.

I grab my car key and dig my fingers into the knot on my leggings to release it. Only, it doesn’t budge. My nails are too soft from rain to be effective against the string, no matter how
determined my attempts and colourful my profanities.

A gust of bitter wind nearly sweeps me off my feet and, with rain lashing against my face, the more I fiddle with the knot, the more it refuses to budge. I’m swearing hypermanically,
sweating despair as the red raw skin of my fingers burns – until I am hit by a bolt of genius. I leave the key where it is – stuck to my midriff – and simply click open the lock.
Then I slide into the seat, soaking, freezing, but with a temporary respite from the elements.

I briefly consider an escape attempt that involves twisting into a position that would allow me to put the key in the ignition while it is still attached to my belt. Then it strikes me that, in
the absence of a lifetime’s experience in circus contortion, it’s out of the question.

In the end, there is no option but to whip off my leggings, drape them on the dashboard and start the ignition, thrusting the heating on high enough to recreate the climate inside a tumble
dryer.

If you’d told me this morning that I’d have been relieved at the prospect of sitting in my car in nothing but a sweaty Nike thong, attempting to bring my bum cheeks back to normal
body temperature, I wouldn’t have believed you.

But I tootle back home, reminding myself that it’s a single-track road most of the way and, even if someone overtakes me, I’d only be visible from mid-shoulders upwards.

All goes well, until I pull up to a junction adjacent to a white hotel service van. I glance up anxiously – at the exact moment when the passenger, a bearded, heavily-tattooed bloke of
indeterminate age, glances down.

His response when he sees that I’m near-naked from the waist down is not a subtle one. His eyes catapult out of his head. His jaw bungees to the floor. He even nudges his friend to have a
look, to which I can only respond with the expression of an outraged
Carry On
matron before the lights change and I slam my foot on the accelerator.

The rest of the journey is incident-free. All I want to do when I pull up in front of the cottage is scuttle into the house, run to the shower and get ready to work.

Fortunately, Agnes seems to have abandoned the butchering of her shrubs and the coast is clear. So I creep out of the car, shut the door and prepare to make a dash for it. However, I
haven’t taken a single step when my elderly neighbour appears out of nowhere, brandishing her power tool.

‘Your bush is terribly untidy, Lauren,’ she declares.

I instinctively glance down, then realise she’s referring to the greenery between our two front gardens. ‘Oh, sorry,’ I reply, cowering behind the car. ‘I haven’t
had a chance to do much lately. I’ll get on it at the weekend.’

She gives the hedge-trimmer a rev. ‘Sure you don’t want me to have a go? It’s trickier when it’s wet, but this bugger will cut through anything.’

‘Honestly, Agnes, don’t worry,’ I reply, but she’s already distracted.

‘Oh, damn it, my wire’s stuck,’ she grumbles, pulling at the cable. I’d like to help, but my state of semi-nudity prevents me from leaping to her immediate aid.
‘Well, come on, give me a hand!’

I glance around, then dive forward and hastily release the cable. I almost get away with it until she does a double-take and pulls a face as if she’s swallowed a lit firework.
‘
Where’s your skirt
!?’

‘Long story, Agnes,’ I wince. ‘But I’d appreciate it if you could keep this between you and me.’

‘And him,’ she nods, as I whip around to see Edwin, standing in mute horror at the end of my path.

‘Um . . . hello, Lauren. I only stopped by on the way to school to remind you about
Breaking Bad
. Is this not a good time?’

Edwin and I are both on playground duty at lunchtime. It is usual procedure to have a good old moan about this, at least when it’s as chilly as it is today.

But when Edwin heads across the tarmac to come and talk to me, moaning is the last thing on my mind, unless you count the low noises that occasionally escape from my mouth with every painful
flashback of this morning’s mortification.

‘Sorry to have just turned up at your house,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to take you by surprise.’ I fall in love with Edwin all over again for apologising for what
was very clearly my own blunder. Today, perhaps because he’s standing so close to me, he seems taller than usual. And he smells positively edible, a fact that can’t solely be attributed
to the Ferrero Rochers doing the rounds in the staff room earlier.

‘Oh, don’t worry. I don’t normally spend my mornings like that in the garden,’ I laugh, as lightly as possible, because the truth is I’d rather not have to go
through the entire convoluted explanation again about why I was outside and trouserless at 8 a.m. ‘I went to salsa again last night,’ I throw in, hoping to change the subject.

‘Ah . . . quite the dancer these days aren’t we?’ he grins. I laugh again, probably a bit too heartily this time, as it seems to alarm him somewhat. ‘Could you write the
details down for me for the class?’

‘You’d really like to come then?’ I ask.

‘Of course.’

I pat down my pockets.

‘Here.’ He removes his leather pad and fountain pen from his inside pocket and hands them to me. Our hands brush. Pleasure flips in my belly and I find it inordinately difficult to
hold the pen steady.

I finish the note and hand it to him, suppressing the wild hope soaring inside me that the next time I’m there, he might be too.

‘It was at the Moonlight Hotel but it’s moving to Casa Lagos in Bowness temporarily.’ I catch his eye. ‘I hope you come, Edwin. It’d be really good fun with you
there.’

‘Wouldn’t it?’ he agrees. A gust of wind picks up and I get a waft of him again. My reaction to this gorgeous smell is so primeval that it’s all I can do to restrain
myself from howling.

‘That’s a lovely aftershave you’re wearing,’ I mumble instead, which I hope is sufficiently understated.

A smile twitches on his lips. ‘Thanks, Lauren. It was a Christmas present.’

‘From someone with very good taste,’ I say.

‘Er, yes.’ He clears his throat. ‘Fiona.’

‘Oh.’ Discovering that the source of this heavenly, full-sensory-overload was his ex-girlfriend is comparable with complimenting a chef on his casserole, only to learn that
you’ve actually just devoured a bowl of Pedigree Chum.

Fortunately, with excellent timing Tom Goodwin appears at my side. ‘Miss!’

‘What is it, Tom?’ I ask.

‘Is “twit” a swear word?’ Ben Havistock and Jacob Preston come trundling up behind him. Edwin and I share a smile as I steel myself to deal with this with smooth
authority.

‘Hmm . . . well, it’s not a nice thing to call somebody, but it probably isn’t an actual swear word,’ I decree.

‘What about “wally”?’ Jacob asks.

‘Well, again, not a swear word exactly but—’

‘Nitwit? Numbskull? Plonk—’

‘Yes – we’ve all got the idea,’ I tell him. ‘Your best bet is to not call anyone those names. Far better to be nice, don’t you think?’