I, on the other hand, dance with Frank again, who has increased in confidence so dramatically that he grabs me by the hand and yanks it back and forth as if he’s trying to win three cherries on a fruit machine. As the steps become more familiar, I relax into the music and indulge in a blurred fantasy of what it’d be like to dance with Edwin. The thought sends a shot of heat through my body as I twirl round and stumble to a halt.
‘Not bad,’ declares Frank, grinning at me from behind his wire spectacles. My fantasy disintegrates.
When the class is over, we spill out into the floodlit driveway and head towards Cate’s van, emblazoned with the logo of her shop, Daffodils & Stars.
The first part of the name is a reference to the William Wordsworth poem, which he wrote in Ullswater; the latter a reflection of the fact that Cate will always be a bit of a hippy at heart, no matter how successful her business becomes.
‘Did you pick up on some of the gossip among the staff tonight?’ she asks me.
‘No, what sort of gossip?’
She clicks the lock. ‘The hotel is being sold,’ she says tentatively, gauging my reaction. ‘Apparently, it’s been up for sale for nearly a year, on the QT. It’s only now they’ve found a company willing to take it on.’
I feel a prickle of anxiety. ‘So, who’s the new owner?’
‘They don’t know who it is yet, but the rumour mill has gone into overdrive,’ Cate replies. ‘The staff seem to think it’s going to be a disaster.’
‘Why?’ Emily asks.
‘Word is, the new buyer is going for the jugular on the hotel. Plans to overhaul everything. The woman I got talking to seemed to think they were all going to be sacked and the place turned into Disneyland.’
I’d heard a rumour about it being up for sale, but that was months ago. Besides that, it’s been on and off the market for years without anyone showing any interest, which is how I’d hoped it would stay.
Because, while I can’t claim the place is thriving, the current owners at least understand the importance of keeping the fabric of the place intact, of retaining its history and charm. The idea that someone’s going to come in and tear it all apart sucks the breath out of me. Cate obviously notices.
‘Sorry, that was really insensitive of me,’ she says, putting her hand on my arm. ‘They’re probably exaggerating. I’m sure it can’t be that bad.’
I glance back at the hotel. ‘What if they’re not?’
‘Lauren, don’t even think about it until we know more,’ Emily says wisely.
And she’s right. Of course she’s right. When people’s jobs are at stake, rumours like this have a tendency to spread like wildfire despite being dangerously inaccurate.
‘Good night, ladies,’ Will shouts, as he opens the door of a slightly dilapidated SUV.
Cate perks up. ‘Night! See you next week?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ he grins.
Joe lifts up his hand and opens the passenger door. ‘Bye,’ he says simply, as I realise Emily is mesmerised by him.
‘Bye,’ she replies, with a shy smile.
She’s still unable to tear her eyes away as their tail-lights disappear down the drive. ‘Is love in the air, Em?’ I nudge her.
She glances up, shocked. ‘Oh! No idea really . . .’
‘Come off it. Things were looking seriously hot in there if you ask me,’ Cate smirks as she starts up the van and we head out of the driveway.
‘Do you really think he might like me?’ Emily asks.
‘I’d bet my Cuban heels on it if I had a pair,’ Cate replies. ‘Oh, while I remember, did you pick up one of the flyers Marion was handing round tonight? She’s organising a two-night salsa holiday in Spain.’
‘That’s a bit optimistic, isn’t it? She’s only been running the class for two weeks,’ I pipe up.
‘I know but it’s dirt cheap. I’m seriously tempted.’
‘It’s only your second class!’
‘I haven’t been abroad for three years and honestly, you couldn’t get a week in Butlins for the price she’s offering. If I’d known that learning to salsa would mean access to cut price holidays, I’d have signed up ages ago.’
‘How does she manage to do it so cheaply?’
‘Marion had been running a class in Manchester that’d been going for ages, and she’s done the Spain thing for the last four years so has some sort of deal with the hotel. She swears it’s a riot.’
‘Cate – you hardly know these people. You might hate everyone there by the time the Spain trip happens.’
She takes on a dreamy expression. ‘I doubt it somehow.’
‘Well, don’t look at me,’ I tell her, glancing into the mirror of the van. ‘Saving for Australia has put paid to any ideas of a holiday for me since I started.’
Emily spins round from the passenger seat and looks at me. ‘I’m glad you’re still saving,’ she says. ‘I was worried Edwin’s newly-single status might have put you off the idea of leaving and following your dream.’
My heart misses a beat. ‘Oh God, no. I mean, even if Edwin and I got together . . . Oh God, what am I saying! Edwin and I are never going to get together. I wouldn’t dream of planning my life around a schoolgirl crush that shows no signs of coming to fruition,’ I say, wondering whether I’m lying or not.
‘You never know, Lauren,’ Emily shrugs. ‘He definitely likes you. Now that Fiona is out of the way, who knows?’
I bite my lip, failing to suppress a surge of ill-founded hope. But Emily is right: it would be pathetic if I called a halt to all my Australia planning just because Edwin’s love life has been thrown into disarray.
‘Whatever happens, the trip to Spain sounds like a bargain, and I’m not prepared to let it pass me by, whether I’ve only just started this class or not,’ Cate says firmly. ‘What about you, Em? I can’t think of anything better to do at the back end of Easter, can you?’
Chapter 6
Like my mum, I’m not one for diets. On the very rare occasions when I’ve dabbled, it’s quickly become apparent that I have all the willpower of a starving elephant in a branch of Thorntons. I joined Weight Watchers – and left – in a record fifteen hours once, after one of the children brought in a humungous Minion-themed birthday cake with homemade buttercream that nobody but a machine could have resisted.
But things have got to change. Edwin Blaire is single for the first time in two years and this, finally, is my chance. I’m not going to let my wobbly inner thighs blow it.
I should say for the record that Edwin is not the kind of man who is shallow enough to worry about a few extra pounds on a woman. He is too emotionally intelligent for that. I’m almost certain of it. Just not certain enough to risk it.
Hence the fact that this morning’s breakfast consists of plain porridge made with water, not milk – a dish not just entirely devoid of flavour and appeal, but so small it’d test Gwyneth Paltrow’s resolve. I finish the bowl feeling like Oliver Twist, except it’s so foul that even he would not have asked for more.
The drive to work is beautiful this morning. The sky is crisp and blue, sunshine shearing through the top of the Kentmere Horseshoe. It’s the kind of day for picnicking and romance, a thought that trails into a day dream about Edwin and me sitting on the bank of Loughrigg Tarn, sipping something cold and sparkly and eating strawberries (hardly any calories!) between luxuriant kisses.
I flick in and out of a gentle reverie all the way to school, until I’m at the door of my classroom, ushering the children inside to join me and our new teaching assistant, Angela.
‘Good morning, miss. Did you have a nice weekend?’
Tom Goodwin is at my side as he pushes his spectacles up his nose, soft tufts of pale brown hair at every conceivable angle. I know you’re not meant to have favourites, but Tom is quite possibly the cutest, funniest child I’ve ever taught, an absolute sweetheart.
‘I did, thank you, Tom. What did you do?’
‘I went to my cousin�
�s house for a sleepover,’ he begins, removing his school bag from his shoulder.
‘That sounds exciting.’
‘Some bits were good. We watched Ice Age and ate loads of sweets. But then he called me a brat,’ he tells me, blinking earnestly.
‘Oh dear. What had you done?’
‘Nothing! He thought I didn’t know what a brat was.’ He glances around, before leaning in and whispering, ‘But I do.’
‘Do you?’ I whisper back.
He straightens up, as though I’ve put him on the spot. ‘Well . . . I know it’s something with a tail,’ he says.
I always wanted to be a primary school teacher. I had my first taste of how rewarding young children can be when I was basically still a kid myself, aged fourteen, and I volunteered to help out at a Sunday School at the church Dad intermittently attended.
It’s been a while since I set foot in there these days – sorry, God – though I still believe and try to be kind, which is what Dad used to say was at the heart of it all, at least on the Sundays when he didn’t make it there.
Anyway, it was only for a couple of years, for two hours a week – and I loved it. In fact now, even when I’ve been teaching long enough for the gloss to have worn off, I still can’t imagine doing anything else. I only wish Dad could have seen me in this job, and come to the summer fairs and Christingle concerts as the family members of other staff do. He always knew teaching was where my ambitions lay, but by the time I got my first job, in a school in Kirkby Lonsdale, he was no longer with us.
Today, our first lesson is about the months of the year. We’re attempting to order them correctly and discuss what happens during each one. Only, as ever, it’s remarkably easy to stray off-topic.
‘August is when my aunty gets married,’ says Scarlet Cranston, who turned five last week.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ I reply. ‘You’ll have to bring something in for Show and Tell afterwards.’
‘I will,’ she grins.
‘Now, onto September . . .’
‘She’s a lesbian,’ Scarlet continues, turning to Tom next to her. ‘That means her husband is a woman.’ He pushes his glasses up his nose as he considers this.
‘You can’t have a husband who’s a woman,’ Bethany Jones interjects.
‘Yes, you can!’ Scarlet argues. ‘You can get married if you’re a lesbian and you want a husband but that husband is also a woman. Can’t you, Miss Scott?’
Trying to unravel this statement sufficiently to come up with an answer that is both accurate and politically correct makes my temples throb. So I make a series of ambiguous noises, before moving on to the time of the year when the leaves turn brown.
‘Can anybody tell me the name of any more of the autumn months?’ I ask.
‘She’s been married before,’ Scarlet continues, apparently reluctant to drop a subject I can’t deny is significantly more interesting than deciduous trees. ‘That time it was to a man. He wasn’t very nice though. He had a hairy back.’
‘Thank you, Scarlet, let somebody else have a turn now.’ I glance across the room to James Wesley, whose hand is thrust so high in the air he looks like he might give himself a hernia.
‘Go on, James,’ I encourage him.
He puts his hand down and thinks. ‘I’ve forgotten the question.’
‘Can you name one of the autumn months? What comes after September?’
‘March,’ he replies.
‘No, not March, no. Anyone else?’
‘January,’ James shouts out again.
‘Not January,’ I reply, scanning the room.
‘December? February? May?’ James splutters.
‘No, James, and you mustn’t shout out,’ I tell him, but it’s too late, he looks ready to burst.
‘WHAT ABOUT JUNE?’
The poor child appears distraught as I throw open the question to the class again and the first person to answer – Laura Cole – gets it right.
Little James looks so desolate after this turn of events, that I make sure when we move on to the subject of Halloween that he has the first chance to give it a go. Unfortunately, he doesn’t want to answer my question, but ask one.
‘Are you a lesbian, Miss Scott?’ he pipes up, as I look at my watch to check how long there is to go until break.
Later, in the staff room, I recount this episode to Edwin who is looking unbelievably, earth-shatteringly attractive today. He’s wearing brogues, with preppy chinos – a slightly more casual style for him than usual. It strikes me that Edwin could be a hipster in a certain light, although I should stress that there isn’t a hint of pretension about him. It’s just, he can carry off a waistcoat beautifully and he likes swing music and green tea, I mean genuinely – he doesn’t just pretend to, like everyone else.
He’s the only male in the room; indeed, he’s the only male who works for the school. He and I are the youngest in here, although Maeve Barter, a Year Two teacher, sometimes acts as though she’s sixty-three rather than thirty-three. As well as her, there’s Gill Sumner, who’s in her late thirties and is normally good fun but is in the process of a bitter divorce at the moment; this means she bites your head off at even the offer of a cup of tea. Then there’s Joyce Bevan, who’s looking forward to retirement next year and spends all her time between lessons reading books on her Kindle with names like The Sheik’s Tenacious Lover and Her Insatiable Italian Boss.
‘You’re not, are you?’ Edwin asks, glancing at me.
I frown. ‘Not what?’
‘A lesbian.’
I nearly spill my PG Tips as my head swims with the implications of this question. How, after knowing me for two years, could Edwin think that was a possibility? I know I haven’t been out with anyone . . . I know that I’ve had the love-life of a celibate mollusc . . . but still. ‘No,’ I gulp.
‘It’d be fine if you were, obviously,’ he says.
‘Of course,’ I mutter, feeling my stomach sink further.
The fact that it’d be fine with Edwin if I was a lesbian, and therefore not even in the market for getting it on with him, does not sit well with me. Then I wonder, with a brief stab of hope, whether this simply adds an air of mystique and mystery to me, and means that I’ve hidden my feelings well. I decide to stick with that on the basis that the only alternative course of action is slitting my wrists.
‘Of course it’d be fine. But I’m not. Just to be clear.’ I smile and make a concerted effort to hold his gaze. To flirt with him. In an unequivocal, definitely-not-a-lesbian kind of way. It takes a second, but he does a double take and holds my gaze too. His back straightens in realisation. He doesn’t move.
And for a quiet moment I am convinced that this unspoken sexual tension between us is finally being unleashed. I want him to know how I feel, or at least wonder about it, without saying a single thing. The moment is actually kind of perfect. Until my empty stomach decides to step in.
‘Ggggrrr,’ it gurgles.
It sounds as if someone is starting a rusty Harley Davidson from within the confines of my large intestine.
I gasp and put my hand over my stomach. ‘Bllughhehae!’ it adds for good measure as I blush to my roots. ‘Sorry about that,’ I mutter. ‘On a diet. Bit hungry. Better run.’ I go to stand up.
‘Don’t run on my account, Lauren,’ he says. I turn round again. ‘Why don’t you stay and share some cake? Not that I want to ruin your diet or anything.’
He holds out a Tupperware box and I realise I cannot pass up a moment like this: when the love of your life suggests you share his cake, calories don’t come into it. You just get stuck in, for the sake of a higher cause. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’ I ask.
‘Of course not, take some. My mum made it,’ he adds, offering out the plastic box and handing me a wine-coloured napkin.
I don’t know what type of cake it is beyond the fact that it’s pale brown, cut into squares and covered in thick white icing. Even accounting for the fact that I am so ravenous I could eat a
scabby horse with a pair of chopsticks, one thing becomes painfully apparent with my first bite: Edwin’s mum is no Mary Berry.
‘It’s delicious, Edwin, thank you,’ I say, trying not to gag as a chunk of raw, unmixed flour gets lodged in my windpipe. ‘Is she . . . a keen cook?’
‘She was. I’m not sure she’s quite as good as she used to be.’
I muster a smile, swallow laboriously and pray that the flour was the worst of it. ‘So . . . how are you, Edwin? You know, after the break-up?’
He sighs. ‘Oh, I’m OK mostly. I’ve done the right thing, but I can’t deny I feel a bit lonely lately. Fiona might not be the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her. Does that make sense?’
‘Of course it does. Sometimes, we all just need human contact, don’t we?’
He looks at me and my cheeks heat up but mercifully he changes the subject. ‘Maybe I just need a good distraction. Perhaps it’s time for me to take up your offer to borrow that Breaking Bad box set . . . as long as you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Of course not!’ I’ve been extolling the virtues of Walter White and co since the day I met Edwin.
‘Fiona never fancied it, but you convinced me.’
‘I’ll bring it in tomorrow,’ I say. Then a tickle in my throat that makes me cough. And cough. So badly that at one point it sounds as though someone’s polishing my tonsils with a feather duster.
Edwin stares at me with increasing alarm as, red-faced and eyes watering, my reflexes start to do everything they possibly can to eject his mum’s cake in the most violent manner possible. ‘Lauren, are you OK?’ he asks in alarm.
When I fail to answer, he gives me several sharp thumps between my shoulder-blades. I wave my hands about, unable to speak, which finally persuades him to stop and start rubbing my back gently. I am slightly dazed from the experience, and the sensual feel of his hand against my spine does nothing to bring back my power of speech.
Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel Page 4
