Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel

by Jane Costello

  ‘Is that better?’ he asks gently as I nod through bloodshot eyes, hook a finger into my throat and catch something on the end of it. Then I pull. And pull, gazing wonkily at my hand as I unravel a long, grey hair, which finally emerges from my mouth and dangles between my fingertips. He leans in to examine it.

  ‘Oh God,’ he winces, clearly mortified. ‘That’s one of Mum’s. I’m so sorry,’ he says, removing it from my hand and placing it in a napkin.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I mumble, composing myself. Then I realise he’s looking at me peculiarly.

  ‘Well, that was embarrassing,’ he says. ‘Mum’d be distraught.’

  ‘Please don’t worry, Edwin – honestly.’

  He nods, clearly wanting to change the subject. ‘So. Are these salsa classes you’re doing fun?’

  ‘Um . . . yes, actually.’

  ‘I’ve always fancied it, you know. I love a dance. Not that I’m any good.’ Unlike the first time he hinted at this, he looks like he could actually be serious.

  ‘None of us are any good. You should come along,’ I urge him, rather more desperately than I’d intended. ‘You’d love it.’

  He stands up, picks up his Tupperware box and turns to flash me a smile. ‘I just might do that one day, Lauren.’

  ‘I hope so, Edwin.’

  And Mrs Blaire’s hairball aside, I’m starting to think that today couldn’t get any better.

  Chapter 7

  When we arrive at salsa night a few minutes early this week, Marion is pacing up and down with her arms crossed and a face like she’s chewing a pickled wasp.

  ‘Just when we get the class up and running – and a decent number of people turn up – I get told we’ve got to go,’ she huffs, flipping back a wisp of blonde fringe.

  ‘Go where?’ asks Cate.

  ‘Precisely! The new owner is going to rip this place apart. And for that, the hotel needs to close, probably for months, which means we’ve got nowhere to hold the class. It’s all here,’ she says, waving a piece of paper about. ‘In a letter left for me at reception tonight from Gianni Battaglia . . . whoever he is.’

  Cate looks over her shoulder. ‘Project Manager of Wilborne Associates,’ she reads.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Janice the housekeeper,’ Marion continues. ‘The staff were called into a meeting last night by the current owners. The sale is due to be completed tomorrow. This place has been losing money for years and it’s now reached a critical point. They didn’t want to sell, but they had no choice. And the only buyers are these Wilborne people, who seem intent on destroying it.’

  ‘Why would they want to destroy it?’ Emily asks.

  ‘They spin it as “bringing it into the twenty-first century”. Which we can only assume means no more of these lovely ceilings and walls – and no more hotel for the next few months at least. It must be drastic if they need that amount of time.’ She leans in. ‘Wilborne Associates run other hotels, by the way – a budget chain called Travel Havens.’

  My mouth gapes open as a wave of defiance sweeps over me. I feel like the miners marching in protest against pit closures in the 1980s. Like Emmeline Pankhurst at the gates of Parliament. I am burning with a righteous sense of indignation.

  ‘Hang on, this is a listed building,’ Emily leaps in. ‘There are restrictions on what they can do. They won’t be allowed to tear it apart.’

  ‘They can’t alter the basic structure but that won’t stop them ripping out everything inside and putting in IKEA wallpaper,’ Marion contends.

  ‘Someone’s got to do something,’ I splutter. ‘They can’t allow this – the Moonlight Hotel is a piece of Cumbrian history.’

  Cate frowns. ‘So when is this all happening?’

  ‘The new boss is going to be here tomorrow speaking to all the staff about their future,’ Marion says ominously. ‘What about the future of the bloody salsa class?’

  In all honesty, the fact that Marion hasn’t got a venue for her class is the last thing on my mind. I’m not even thinking primarily about the fate of the staff, although that’ll be bad enough if people are out of their jobs. It’s what’s going to happen to the hotel. The thought makes my stomach swirl.

  ‘I’ll ask around Ambleside to see if I can find somewhere else, if you like,’ Cate suggests. ‘Shouldn’t be too hard.’

  ‘Maybe this isn’t such a terrible thing,’ Emily ventures. I glare at her. ‘Obviously it’s a nightmare for you having to find another venue, Marion, but this place is obviously in need of renovation.’

  ‘Some TLC, Emily, that’s all,’ I correct her. ‘Not for the entire character of the place to be bulldozed and all the staff to be sacked.’

  The door opens and Esteban enters, wearing combat shorts and a luminous yellow muscle top that looks as if it belongs in one of Jane Fonda’s 1980s fitness videos. ‘Evening, ladies, how are things?’

  Marion launches into a repeat of her tale of woe, virtually beating Esteban into submission until he agrees wholeheartedly how horrific the entire thing is. The others start to arrive shortly afterwards. The nurses aren’t here tonight, but there’s one new couple – a geologist called Andi and her husband, who I recognise from the local press as an environmental campaigner.

  Then Lulu puts on some music – a salsa version of a Maroon 5 track – and Marion is forced to turn her attention to something other than winding everyone up. We start with the same basic moves on the spot that we’ve learned so far, and then move on to rotating back steps with a ‘crossover’.

  Lulu gives us a slow-motion demonstration with Esteban, before we all get to have a go ourselves. It feels good to be actually moving, covering some ground instead of being rooted to the spot.

  ‘Couldn’t Mike make it tonight?’ I ask Stella, as Lulu thrusts Will in front of her.

  ‘He’s given up,’ she says, making it clear that this isn’t a decision of which she approves. ‘He insists he’s a hopeless case. Nothing will persuade him to come. Which means either I’ve got to do my first dance alone, or we don’t do a first dance – or I find someone else to do it with.’ She looks up. ‘Do you fancy the job, Will?’

  ‘Not sure what Mikey would make of that,’ he grins, glancing down the row of dancers to Cate. She waves. His smile widens. And Stella begins dancing in the certain knowledge that her partner would rather be elsewhere.

  As with last week, Lulu insists on us swapping partners and I find myself dancing with one of Will’s Mountain Rescue friends, Luke, a divorced dad of three who’s significantly better than me with the footwork.

  During a short break, I go on chatting to Stella.

  ‘How are your wedding preparations going?’ I ask, keen to discuss something other than the future of the hotel. ‘Apart from the first dance, obviously.’

  ‘I hate to tempt fate, but pretty good really,’ she replies. ‘It’s a big wedding but we’re trying to keep things relaxed – you know, with a hog roast, instead of a formal, sit-down meal. Oh, and I went to see Cate this weekend to book her to do our flowers.’

  ‘You won’t regret it. She’s awesome.’

  ‘I know, I’ve seen her portfolio. Hey, are those two an item?’ she whispers as Cate starts laughing at something Will has said, his playful eyes drinking her in.

  ‘I think it’s only a matter of time,’ I reply as Lulu calls us to attention to watch a new turn and the men shift places until Joe is in front of me.

  ‘I think a few of you ladies and gents are going to be ready to move into the improvers’ class soon,’ she announces.

  My eyes widen. Then I become aware that my new partner is looking at me, with an undisguised smirk.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, disconcerted.

  ‘You,’ Joe replies. Heat blossoms on my neck. ‘You’d think Lulu was trying to sign you up to the Olympic bobsleigh team, rather than move you up a class.’

  ‘There’s no way I’m up to it,’ I protest.

  ‘Ah, you’ll be fine. Just wing it,’ he says casually
, taking my hands.

  ‘Do you take that approach to all aspects of your life?’ I ask.

  He does the smirk again. It’s got an aren’t-I-sexy quality that is only not unbearable because he is. Sexy, that is. And nice. Not quite as nice and sexy as Emily, but the two of them are undoubtedly in the same arena.

  ‘It’s got me by OK so far.’

  Lulu instructs us to repeat the turn as I wonder for a moment how I can twist the conversation to the subject of my friend. ‘So are you single?’ I blurt out.

  He looks mildly surprised.

  ‘I’m not asking for me, by the way,’ I add hastily, as if I’m alluding to a fate worse than a slow death at the hands of a psychopath with a crochet hook. He frowns.

  ‘I’m not saying you’re hideous or anything,’ I clarify. ‘It’s just that I have someone in my life already.’ I realise this mysterious statement paints a significantly rosier picture than the reality. ‘Kind of, anyway. The point is, I don’t fancy you.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Wow. That’s a relief. But someone else does?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ I say coyly. Then it strikes me that subtlety is of limited use if I want to get things moving between him and Emily. ‘At least, I’m not saying she fancies you – I wouldn’t go that far, but if you were interested, then maybe she might be too.’

  ‘Spit it out. Who?’

  I glance over at Em, who smiles at me hopefully, then looks away. I instinctively know I need to be bold here. ‘Emily.’

  He doesn’t reply at first, so I peer into his face as he contemplates the information, refusing to give anything away.

  ‘So do you like her?’ I ask, nudging the conversation along.

  ‘She’s lovely.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her out? She might even say yes,’ I grin.

  ‘All right, Cupid. Maybe,’ he replies, as I attempt a twirl but land on his toe again, mumbling apologies.

  At that moment, I glance over Joe’s shoulder and spot two of the waitresses huddled in the corner, talking with their arms crossed and brows furrowed. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that they’re gossiping about the future of the hotel and their jobs. Yet as we begin another turn, I realise that they’re glaring in my direction. For a second I wonder if I’ve imagined it, but the longer it continues the more disconcerted I become.

  ‘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.’

  Chapter 8

  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:-

  Don’t suppose you could remember to bring that box set to school tomorrow? E xxx

  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 com
pleted 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.