Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel

by Jane Costello

  He disappears behind a pillar as I strain to get a look, my stomach lurching as I realise that I recognise the jacket. HE’S COME! Edwin’s here and all is right with the world again!

  The problem with happiness flooding your body is that it has a terrible effect on your co-ordination. My legs start to wobble, and I don’t mean in a way that’s good or sexy or cute. And instead of completing a fairly basic turn I absolutely know is within my capabilities, this time it’s as if someone’s trying to practise tying a slip knot in my ankles. Despite my best efforts to steady myself, I end up with my face momentarily stuck to Joe’s T-shirt, quietly dying at the thought that Edwin might have witnessed this. Joe pushes me away, his lips twisted in amusement, as Marion thrusts her hands on her hips.

  ‘I’m sure that’s not really the best you can do, Lauren,’ she says.

  ‘Just . . . lost my concentration,’ I mumble, wondering when and how I signed up to being critiqued, particularly when Edwin is here to witness it.

  I look up again, my cheeks sizzling – and realise with a crunch of disappointment that it’s actually Frank, the ex-theology lecturer, mid-way through battling with his combover, which couldn’t be more of a contrast with Edwin’s gorgeous hair.

  ‘OK.’ Marion purses her lips. ‘We’ll move you up to improvers’ anyway, I think.’

  Having been initially concerned that I wasn’t ready to move up, this vote of confidence lifts my mood. ‘You really think I’m improving?’

  Marion looks at me doubtfully. ‘No, love. We’ve just run out of space in the beginners’ group.’

  It becomes evident that the leap from the beginners’ to the improvers’ group couldn’t be bigger if I dislocated both inner thighs making it. Which is an apt analogy, in fact, because I almost do. Particularly compared with some of those in the class who are endowed with more natural ability than me. Two of the nurses especially are fantastic, as are Andi and Joshua.

  Part of the problem is that I can’t stop looking at the door, willing Edwin to walk through it. And partly praying that he doesn’t, given that being promoted to Marion’s group primarily involves being contorted into a variety of positions that make us look like a tea party of pissed chimpanzees attempting to play Twister.

  ‘You still can’t persuade Mike to come back to salsa?’ I ask Stella, my arm over my head as Esteban holds my hand, midway through a twirl.

  ‘Sadly, no,’ she says breathlessly. ‘It’s so annoying, particularly as he’s throwing himself into everything else about the wedding.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely. He’s helping you choose the colours and things then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. But he has been on a healthy eating and exercise plan – lost ten pounds in two weeks. Wouldn’t you just kill for that?’

  ‘At the moment, yes,’ I say, contemplating the abject flop that was my Win Edwin Diet.

  I glance over and see that Emily is now partnered with Joe. There’s so much sexual tension between the two of them you can virtually hear it.

  By the time we leave the restaurant an hour later, Emily can talk of little else. ‘I know you’re worried about what’s happening at the Moonlight Hotel, Lauren, but honestly – Joe’s such a nice guy. And so funny and interesting. I found out tonight that he was in the army before he did this.’

  ‘Unusual career path – from that to running budget hotels.’

  ‘He’s well-travelled and sweet and—’

  ‘I believe you, Emily,’ I interrupt, then regret it.

  There’s no point discussing Joe with Emily when she’s so obviously smitten with him. It’s my job as her friend to be happy for her, whether it sticks in the throat or not.

  ‘Shall we go for a drink before we head for home?’ she suggests as we pause in front of Cate’s van.

  ‘I’m up for it if the driver is,’ I say, glancing back down the hill and seeing straight away that the driver is otherwise engaged.

  I nudge Emily and she follows my gaze, letting out a spontaneous, ‘Awww . . .’

  Because Cate and Will are in each other’s arms, kissing under a streetlight as if they never want to let each other go.

  Chapter 10

  There is little dignity in trying to woo the man of your dreams when he has already decided to bugger off halfway around the world and is apparently not even interested in a sneaky, no-strings snog in the meantime.

  There is even less dignity in doing so with a fake tan application so mental that, naked and in a certain light, you’re doing a very good impression of a Friesian cow. I completely forgot to even out my St Tropez last night. I was so distracted, too wound up, that it just disappeared from my head.

  Worse, despite the fact that it has pissed down relentlessly for months, the lady on BBC Breakfast News gleefully announced this morning that today would be the hottest day of the year so far, a veritable spring heatwave, the likes of which hasn’t been seen ‘since records began’.

  This meteorological scenario is so unusual it even prompted said weather lady to opt for a distinctly daring – nay, plunging – dress, one that exposed her shoulders and will no doubt make the Points of View complaints email account melt. I, by contrast, have had to turn up to work on the hottest April day since records began . . . in a polo-neck.

  Admittedly it’s a lightweight affair – if I’d attempted a woolly one I’d be on a drip being treated for heat exhaustion by now. However, it’s bad enough. I pull my Mini into the school car park, just as Edwin is about to head to the door. He too is not dressed for a heatwave: I’ve learned over the years that it would take some kind of nuclear apocalypse for him to let standards slip.

  He turns and looks at me, his face breaking into this incandescent smile that’s enough to make me catch my breath. If I didn’t know any better, there are times when I think Edwin likes me.

  Then the facts of the situation hit me: I’ve known the man for two years and he’s not once made a sniff of an advance.

  ‘Morning, Lauren,’ he says, and a pang hits my throat at the thought that, come the end of term, I’ll never get to see that lovely face on a Wednesday morning ever again.

  ‘Hi, Edwin,’ I smile, stepping out of the car.

  ‘You’re looking . . . smart today.’

  This is a beautiful euphemism. Because I am not looking smart. If smart equals an insane volume of clothing, then I would concede the point. But it doesn’t. ‘My aunt used to wear a pair of gloves like that to church,’ he adds, which was obviously just the look I was going for when I threw on the lace fingerless affairs I wore as a bridesmaid ten years ago.

  ‘The eighties are very in at the moment,’ I say, hiding them behind my back. ‘This is what Madonna wore in that film . . . what was it?’

  ‘Saving Private Susan?’ he muses.

  ‘Desperately Seeking Susan, I think,’ I correct him.

  ‘Oh God,’ he laughs at himself. ‘Movie trivia was never my strong point as you might be able to tell.’

  I click the lock on the door.

  ‘So, are you doing anything over the break?’ I ask, deliberately avoiding any mention of him failing to turn up to salsa. ‘It’s a long one, Easter, isn’t it?’ The thought of an enforced separation from him for two and a half whole weeks doesn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Lots to do to prepare for Singapore,’ he replies. ‘It’ll be non-stop.’

  ‘Oh yes. Not long now, is there?’

  ‘About twelve weeks.’

  ‘Twelve weeks and four days,’ I blurt out.

  He smiles and to his credit doesn’t look at me as if I’m a bunny-boiler. ‘It’s getting exciting now, I must admit. You’ll feel like this when you go on your big Australia trip too. I know you’ve got some way to go for that, but it’ll come round sooner than you think.’

  We reach the school door and he opens it for me, inviting me to walk in first. ‘It’s a shame you’re so set on Australia really,’ Edwin continues.

  ‘Australia has been my dream since I was a
little girl,’ I reply.

  ‘I’ve been to Sydney twice and it’s amazing – wonderful place. But with somewhere like Singapore, you could just go tomorrow.’

  I realise we’ve both stopped walking; he’s facing me, looking directly into my eyes. ‘What . . . what do you mean, Edwin?’

  ‘They’re crying out for English teachers in Singapore. The pay is great.’ He looks at me with a quiet intensity that burns through me, and whispers: ‘Why don’t you consider it, Lauren?’

  I try to swallow but my tongue suddenly feels too big for my mouth. ‘Singapore? I . . . I don’t know.’ But the fact is, I do know. I want to leap into his arms, spin around three times and say, ‘Singapore?! You’re inviting me to Singapore? WITH YOU, EDWIN?’

  Fortunately, I manage to restrain myself and pretend I’m still pondering the question for an acceptable period of time.

  ‘Seriously,’ he continues. ‘If I’d thought for a moment you’d be into the idea, I’d have suggested it ages ago.’ Then he touches my arm – or at least, my jumper. It sounds like a small gesture but the intimacy of this movement makes my heart leap into my throat.

  ‘It does sound quite appealing, I must admit,’ I croak.

  ‘Do you know much about the country?’

  ‘Oh, a little bit.’ In fact, I’ve spent so much time Googling the place since Edwin mentioned it, I could probably get a job as the Singaporean Ambassador in any country in the world.

  Then, the most amazing thing happens. He puts his hand on my chin and lifts it up gently, like Mills & Boon heroes do before they ‘plant their lips’ on the heroine. OK, he doesn’t go so far as to kiss me, but the teasing glint in his eye as he says the next sentence is almost as good.

  ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were considering it, Lauren Scott.’ I can feel his breath on my face.

  ‘You can’t be serious, Edwin?’ I whisper, and obviously I know what I want the answer to be.

  ‘Of course I’m serious,’ he says, removing his hand from my chin. ‘Come to Singapore, Lauren! There. I’ve spelled it out,’ he grins, his arms open wide.

  ‘Well,’ I cough, trying to pull myself together. ‘I’d have to give it some thought. It’s a very big step. And as you know, my plans had always firmly centred on Australia.’

  ‘Oh, I know. But you’d love it there, Lauren. I’ve even got a place to stay! You’d be welcome to bunk on the sofa until you found somewhere. Travelling is always better with a friend, and you and I get on so well together. We’re totally compatible in every way – we love each other’s company. At least, I do yours . . .’

  He stops talking and there’s an awkward silence between the two of us.

  He grins. ‘Just imagine – you, me, an exciting new country. I can’t think of anything better.’

  ‘OK. Don’t get your hopes up too much, Edwin, but I’ll definitely consider it,’ I reply coolly, as I push open the swing door to the school and decide to finish this conversation on a magnificent, flirtatious high. ‘I promise you that,’ I add huskily, as the swing door flips back and hits me in the face.

  On any other day, I would be quite bothered about the fact that I am dressed like a lunatic and have been smacked on the nose yet again. But this is no ordinary day. This is the day when I heard it with my own ears: Edwin Blaire invited me to move to Singapore with him.

  No matter how much I try, I cannot bring myself to play down its significance. I mean, he hasn’t invited any other members of staff to move to Singapore with him, has he? I don’t see him asking Joyce to put down her copy of The Well-Endowed Billionaire Prince to jet off with him.

  And OK, in the normal development of any relationship you might expect him to ask me out for a date at the Wild Boar before inviting me to fly 6,500 miles to South-East Asia with him – but beggars can’t be choosers.

  I cannot deny that Singapore had never appeared on my radar before Edwin mentioned it on that fateful day. I know also that Australia is where my heart has lain throughout my entire life. The feminist in me would be slapping me round both cheeks right now. But come on! I have the means, I have the invitation, and judging by what Edwin says, I shouldn’t have too much difficulty finding a job. It has to be worth looking into.

  By the time I get to the staff room for break, I am literally itching to log on to my tablet and start Googling Singaporean schools. I’m partly glad that Edwin has a meeting with the Head because it means I can tuck into my Ryvitas (which I’m happy to eat now because if – yes, that’s IF – I move to Singapore, I would have to be thin), and have a good look, in peace, at my options. It proves to be a positively dreamy break. I sit, pretending that I’m on the Times Educational Supplement website as I flick through a list of teaching agencies that advertise openings at Singaporean schools. They all sound wonderful. Then a pop-up advert appears for Singapore’s most exclusive wedding venue. Honestly, I’ve never been one of these women obsessed with the idea of marriage. Finding lifelong love, yes, but I’m no future bridezilla, I swear.

  But it wouldn’t do any harm to look at the ad, would it?

  I click on the link and my stomach swirls as I take it in: it looks nothing less than magical. A bride’s wispy silk veil floats upwards against the backdrop of a blissful sunset, her handsome groom leaning in to kiss her. I close my eyes and lose myself momentarily, when I am jolted out by a sound I can only compare to that of a cackling banshee on the set of Loose Women.

  ‘You’re a dark horse, Lauren! When are you getting married?’ shrieks Joyce. ‘Budge up and let’s have a look. Is this the venue? Singapore. Oooh, Lauren’s getting married in Singapore, everyone!’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m just . . . it’s for a friend, honestly,’ I cough.

  ‘That’s what they all say. Did you have any idea that LAUREN’S GETTING MARRIED IN SINGAPORE, EDWIN?’ she adds, as the love of my life walks through the door. And I wonder if I am forever destined for a life of glorious humiliation.

  Chapter 11

  Over the next week, I bury my head inside my laptop researching jobs in Singapore and try to close my eyes and ears every time I pass the Moonlight Hotel or hear another rumour about what’s going on there. And there is a lot going on. I’m not just talking about the vans that are perpetually coming and going, but also the adverts that have been doing the rounds for a new Head Chef – and the rumours about just how hard this Gianni bloke is making life for the current staff.

  Cate and Will, meanwhile, are inseparable. When they’re not working, they’re going for picnics by the tumbling water of Aira Force or failing to emerge from one or the other’s flat for days on end. When he’s not around, she can talk of nothing but him. When he is around, they’re perpetually locked together, hands clasped, foreheads touching as they whisper and smile – as if they know a secret the rest of the world couldn’t begin to understand.

  The only time they emerge from each other’s embrace is for work, salsa night and a hiking trip organised by Emily up Coniston Old Man, for which Joe joins them. I declined. For obvious reasons – I don’t do hiking and I despise Joe – and less obvious ones: they’re all busy making plans for the Spain trip that’s coming up at the end of the Easter break and to which I, alas, am not going. But I don’t mind too much. I have other things on which to focus.

  ‘Are you seriously thinking of going to Singapore?’ Cate asks, as she adds a lush, heavy tulip to a bouquet.

  ‘Do you think it’s mad? The more I look into it, the more tempting it seems, I can’t deny it. When I was planning for Australia, I’d aimed to save enough to allow me to travel round the country, without getting a job. If I moved to Singapore, I’d get a job and just soak up the local culture without moving.’

  ‘Soak up Edwin, you mean.’ I don’t even attempt to argue. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she adds. ‘I understand your reasons. But you’ve been harping on about going to Australia for as long as I’ve known you. You were obsessed.’

  ‘I know. But Singapore has got one trum
p card.’

  ‘And he’s called Edwin.’ She stands back to examine the bouquet.

  ‘I was actually referring to the fact that the pay out there is so good. Those flowers are absolutely beautiful,’ I tell her.

  ‘Thanks,’ she grins, pushing back her armful of colourful woven bracelets as she picks up a pen to write the card. ‘Whoever Doris is, she’s going to have an awesome seventieth birthday.’

  She’s done a tremendous job with Daffodils & Stars since she inherited the place from her Grandma Isobel three years ago. The fact that the old lady approved so wholeheartedly of the bohemian edge to Cate’s refurbishment was the source of huge pride – even if Isobel didn’t know it was all funded by every loan Cate could get her hands on – and one or two credit cards to boot.

  She was always close to her grandma, who was a sweetheart – funny and kind, just like Cate herself. In fact, Cate had far more in common with her than she does with her own mum, so it was little wonder that she was devastated when Isobel died last year. But her legacy lives on in every bloom Cate ties, in every colourful corner of the shop – and in the huge black and white photograph that dominates the far wall, of her beloved Isobel arranging lilies of the valley.

  Daffodils & Stars is one of those shops it’s impossible to pass without stopping to look inside. Its high wood-framed shopfront is stained with a pale, moss-coloured paint, above which its name pops out in an elegant, yellow scrawl, a clutch of tiny stars bursting out from one side like popped champagne. The window is a riot of colour and scent, with flowers spilling on to the pavement whatever time of year: hydrangeas and roses in summer, berries and ivy in winter.

  Cate’s speciality is weddings and she’s listed as a preferred supplier for some of the swankiest hotels in the Lakes. She tackles everything from large, formal arrangements in elaborate candelabras, to soft, floating trails of orchids that look perfectly understated on a summer’s day – and she does it all with passion and skill.