Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel

by Jane Costello

  ‘Hey, I’ve got an idea,’ he continues.

  ‘Oh?’ I breathe, hoping it’s that we stumble home to his place, rip off our clothes and make passionate love until the morning sun reminds us it’s time to get up, go to work and take assembly.

  ‘Why don’t we head to the Royal Inn?’

  I try to hide my disappointment. ‘Great!’

  ‘It’s got a pool table.’

  I lift up my eyebrows. ‘Fab!’

  ‘Are you any good at pool?’ he grins.

  ‘Well, it’s been a very long time since I’ve played,’ I prevaricate. It might be true that my last brush with a pool cue was in Butlins circa 2005, but I was absolutely brilliant at it. Not that I’m going to say that, just in case I’ve lost the knack.

  ‘I might be slightly rusty,’ I add, erring on the side of humility.

  A smile appears at the side of his mouth. ‘We’ll soon polish you up, Lauren.’

  The cold air that hits my cheeks as we push open the door to the Angel Inn has the dramatic effect of making me feel approximately ten times drunker.

  It strikes me that, on paper, now might be a good time to call a halt to the evening because it’s late and I’m smashed. The Rules would definitely advise it, and what’s more, I have twenty-eight sets of parents coming in tomorrow to watch our assembly about ‘Seasons’ and I don’t relish the prospect of doing so while still swaying from the previous night’s intoxication.

  But then Edwin reaches out and takes me by the hand, clasping his fingers around mine as I buzz from his touch. I drift along next to him in a state of bliss, feeling the warmth from his skin radiate through me.

  As we arrive at the pub, he stops outside the door but doesn’t push it open. ‘Can I have my hand back, Lauren?’ he says teasingly.

  ‘Oh! Sorry,’ I blurt out, releasing him from my grip.

  I hang about behind him attempting to stand up straight while he orders two more double somethings and gets a token for the pool table in the back. The place is reasonably busy but we’re in luck because the table has just been vacated.

  I slip off my cardigan sexily, revealing my newly-tanned shoulders and newly trim-ish stomach. Then, with a seductive cowgirl-style sashay, I saunter over to the pool cues and grab one while he rolls up his sleeves. I watch, pouting, as he picks up the balls one by one, placing them in the triangle, before he stands back. ‘Would you like to break?’

  ‘Why not?’ I murmur, gliding to the table and bending over. I briefly consider feigning ignorance about the game and asking him to come and help with my positioning. Then I remember that I’ve already given him the impression that I’m a knockout – albeit a modest one.

  Besides, Edwin is not the kind of guy to go for the bimbo act. I instinctively know he wants a smart, sexy cookie who is on his level intellectually and can whip his ass at pool. I close one eye to attempt to focus on the white, but it’s surprisingly blurry as I take the shot. Yet, I feel sure as I go to tap the ball that something magnificent is going to happen.

  The sensation quickly dissolves as my cue slips and the white trundles along as if it’s run out of battery. When it finally touches the triangle of balls, it does not smash them across the table as I’d rather hoped, but simply jiggles one or two about a bit.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, genuinely bewildered as I go to examine the end of my pool cue to see if there are any obvious reasons for my faux pas, and end up with it momentarily up my nose. Fortunately, Edwin does not notice, for he’s already in position, walloping the triangle so hard that he manages to pot two stripes.

  ‘Well done,’ I say, grabbing the chalk and putting plenty of it on the end, feeling sure that this must have been the issue.

  ‘Oh – Lauren.’

  ‘Yes?’ I purr.

  ‘Your nostril is blue.’

  Once I’ve rushed to the ladies to excavate the chalk from my nose, the game resumes.

  It turns out that Edwin is embarrassingly good at pool.

  It turns out that I am just plain embarrassing.

  OK, so I’m drunk. But that still does not account for the number of times I pot the white (four). Or the number of times I hit precisely nothing (seven). Or the number of times I casually pick up the chalk and start chalking up my cue, concentration deep in my eyes, before Edwin points out that I’m smothering blue stuff on the wrong end (one, which is quite enough).

  I muster up my best good loser face, but frankly, I am struggling to deal with this. My performance is memorably humiliating; if Edwin isn’t telling this story over dinner-party tables when he’s in his fifties I’ll be amazed.

  The only thing that seems to help with combating my embarrassment is the vodka. And gin. And whatever else is in those drinks. The fact that it doesn’t have a particularly positive effect on my performance is suddenly barely worth worrying about.

  ‘I really enjoyed that, Lauren,’ Edwin says, as he takes another perfect shot and trounces me for the third time. He puts down the cue.

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t much competishhion,’ I reply.

  The landlord appears in the doorway and politely reminds us it’s time we were on our way, a point I concede when I look at my watch and realise that it appears to have developed six hands. We call a taxi and wait outside. ‘Why don’t we share?’ Edwin suggests softly. ‘We could go to your place first and drop you off. You’re closest.’

  The taxi pulls up, Edwin opens the door to let me in and, for some reason, I think it’s a good idea to negotiate entry by going in head-first. It’s only as I’m on my hands and knees on the back seat, tugging down my skirt so Edwin can’t see up it, that it strikes me that this might not be the most ladylike approach; I’ve certainly never seen the Duchess of Cambridge attempt it.

  As the journey home begins I open the car window slightly and let the breeze hit my face, while the orange glow of streetlamps whizz past and I desperately try to sober myself up enough to hold a conversation.

  ‘Lauren.’ He says my name in a slow, deep whisper that instinctively makes me realise he’s about to say something serious. I sit up in my seat slightly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d really love you to come to Singapore,’ he tells me, with an intense, burning look. ‘I just want you to know that.’

  A wobbly smile trembles to my lips. ‘Really?’

  He nods and it strikes me that he’s completely serious. ‘And I also want you to know how much I’ve enjoyed tonight. So – thank you for asking me out. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Oh, I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Well, I was thinking: I’ll do the asking next time.’

  My face breaks into an inane grin. ‘I’d love that.’

  ‘So watch this space,’ he winks.

  The car pulls up in front of my house. I tell myself there and then that if he kisses me – and I think he just might – then I’ll invite him in for a coffee. By which I mean sex, and lots of it.

  For a long, gloriously tense moment we sit in the half-light, our faces moving closer together. It’s a moment so near to perfection I couldn’t have dreamed it better.

  Unfortunately, at the exact moment when I’m convinced the kiss is about to happen, Edwin kind of . . . twitches. Only slightly – so slight I’m not sure a split second later if I imagined it. But it’s enough to ignite a moment of panic, when I convince myself that he wants nothing more than a kiss on the cheek. So I throw myself forward and do just that, crashing my face against his then darting away.

  ‘Bye, Edwin.’ I look up and register disappointment on his face.

  It’s so obvious and all-consuming that I decide there and then that the only possible action open to me is to lean in decisively and snog his face off. Unfortunately, by now he’s got his wallet out.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got two pound fifty? Sorry to ask – this is really embarrassing – but I didn’t realise I hadn’t got enough on me for the whole journey. I’ll pay you back in the morning.’

  ‘Of course!’ I
say, scrabbling about before producing a tenner and thrusting it in his hands.

  And as I get out of the car and stand under the streetlight, I watch the taillights of Edwin’s taxi wind up the road and over the hill. I touch my cheek where I collided with his and can feel it tingling, my body aching with happiness and frustration.

  Chapter 20

  I can genuinely say I have never had a hangover at work before. I’ve been a bit hazy on a couple of occasions, but nothing that matches this. I cannot tell you how hard it is to stand on stage, leading sixty-odd under-sevens in a chorus of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, when all you want to do is run off and regurgitate your breakfast.

  On the plus side, I catch Edwin’s eye from across the other side of the school hall, just as he’s leading out his class. He gives me a private, lingering smile, then mouths, ‘You OK?’ It makes my stomach flip, which isn’t as lovely as it sounds given the waves of nausea rising up my throat as I nod and return to my attempt to get 1P back into something that resembles a straight line.

  The following morning – Saturday – I wake up with a knot in my stomach, wondering when he’s going to ask me out, like he said. We barely saw each other yesterday and logic tells me that no man, no matter how smitten, would follow up a first date by bursting through the staff-room door and taking me in his arms while Joyce chokes on her Swiss roll.

  It’s probably for the best that he didn’t because, as I discovered throughout the course of the day, sudden movements had an alarming effect on my head.

  Now though, it’s all I can think about. Emily and I go shopping in Carlisle before she goes on a night out with the gang at Windermere Adventures. She advises me to put the whole thing out of my mind until Monday morning, when she’s betting he’ll ask. Which I know makes sense and is what I’d do if the shoe were on the other foot, at least I would if I could restrain myself sufficiently. Problem is, I know he has my mobile number and that fact alone means it’s really quite hard not to wonder about whether he’ll text.

  Then I spot the most perfect art deco hip-flask in the window of an antique shop and I know – I just know – Edwin will love it so, feeling slightly guilty and a bit of a saddo, I go in and buy it for him, even though I’m not entirely sure there’ll ever be an appropriate time to give it to him.

  I’m busy over the weekend with various house-related chores, including pruning my bush to keep Agnes happy, but my mind constantly drifts to blissful, drunken flashbacks from Thursday. Then on Sunday night, I’m sitting in front of some gentle television, flicking through Facebook on my phone, when an instant message pops up from Steph.

  I cannot wait til you get here, Loz! That’s been her nickname for me since we were little. I look at the clock and work out that it’s 4 a.m. there.

  Can’t you sleep?

  Shit! Only just realised the time – haven’t been to bed yet. Got a flat full of people here.

  You’re still enjoying it there then? I ask, suspecting she’s not yet ready to deal with the knowledge that I’ve spent the evening reading such articles as SINGAPORE’S BEST COCKTAIL BARS.

  It’s awesome. Wait till you see what I’ve got.

  When Steph makes a statement like that it’s usually impossible to predict what’s going to come next. And my brain doesn’t have the technicolour capacity for this one. Whaddaya think? An image pops up that I have to turn upside down several times in a bid to identify.

  I eventually realise I am looking at a tattoo. I also recognise that the tattoo in question is some sort of representation of the Sydney Opera House. Only, it’s slightly pink and looks more like a psychedelic sea creature that’s just emerged from a bath full of Radox.

  I am just pondering which part of her body this monstrosity appears on, when a second picture pops up, clearly designed to give me an alternative view, the way estate agents take pictures of a room from different angles. Only this particular alternative view is a massive photo of her bare bum.

  I hesitate, at a loss as to how to reply, before eventually tapping out: Wow!

  That’s what the guy from the hospital said. Good, eh?’

  What guy from the hospital?

  The doctor.

  Why have you been to see a doctor? A myriad of catastrophic health and safety breaches at the tattoo parlour burst into my head.

  I fell over on the way out and scuffed my arm. Nothing serious.

  I frown. So why were you showing him your bum, when you’d only broken your arm?

  Duh! Shagged him afterwards.

  That’s the last message Steph sends, before disappearing, presumably to either get rid of her house full of people or go to give her doctor a second viewing of her arse.

  I hesitate, then flick on to the draft application form I filled in for the teaching agency in Singapore. I’d told myself that the second Edwin asked me out, I’d hit the Send button. But suddenly that seems slightly ridiculous.

  Am I seriously making this monumental decision based solely on whether Edwin asks me for a second date?

  I need to make this decision on my own. Romantic developments between Edwin and me should be entirely incidental. I open up the agency document and compose an email. Then I stare at it for ten minutes, reading it through for the umpteenth time.

  I remind myself that applying doesn’t commit me to anything. Nothing at all.

  I glance at my phone for one last time, on the off-chance that Edwin has texted in the last thirty seconds to ask me out. But it remains blank.

  So I attach my application, sign off the email and, before I can release my breath, press Send.

  Chapter 21

  An entire week and a half passes without Edwin showing the faintest sign of asking me out. My despondency must be apparent when Cate asks me – again – for an Edwin update in the ladies of Casa Lagos, five minutes before our salsa class starts.

  ‘Do. Not. Panic.’ She says this with the tone of a First World War reservist sent into the trenches after spending the first three years of service learning the art of embroidery.

  ‘I’m not panicking as such,’ I reply. ‘I just am really disappointed.’

  ‘It’s weird, I can’t deny it. But from what you’ve said, he spent the evening trying to persuade you to move to Singapore. Plus you almost kissed. Edwin is clearly just not very confident. I still think he’ll get round to asking. I wish for your sake he’d get a move on, though.’

  ‘Now I’m just panicking that I read things into the situation that weren’t there.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t panicking?’

  I sigh. ‘I suppose that sending off an application to Singapore has focused my mind. Do you think I’ve done the right thing?’

  She puts her arm round me and looks at me through the mirror. ‘I obviously don’t want you to go anywhere because I’ll miss you like mad, but that’s the case whether you bugger off to Singapore, Australia or Mars. You’ve got to have your big adventure at some point, Lauren. Wherever, and whenever it is.’

  I decide to change the subject. ‘So, tell me about Will’s mum and dad.’

  Cate and I have already exchanged innumerable texts on this subject after her first Sunday dinner with them, but she’s clearly bursting to talk about it.

  ‘Unbelievably nice people,’ she smiles. ‘Especially his older brother Peter, who’s a detective inspector for Cumbria Police, and his fiancée Charlotte, who’s pregnant. I swear you’ve never seen a guy as excited about becoming a dad. All he could talk about was things he’d seen in Mothercare. They live in Near Sawrey so we went to the Cuckoo Brow Inn first with their dog Wilbur, who is just the cutest . . . and the house is really big and, you know, just nice. Homely. The kind of place where everything feels right.’

  ‘And Sunday dinner was good?’

  ‘It looked it, but I could barely eat anything. I hadn’t realised how nervous I was. It honestly couldn’t have gone better, Lauren. I’ve even been invited to go to one of his cousin’s christenings in a few weeks.’
>
  ‘You’re obviously part of the family already. When are you taking him to meet your parents?’

  ‘It’s going to have to be soon,’ she grins. ‘I know they’ll love him.’

  I actually think she’s right, too – even if Cate’s mum can be hard to please. I was always slightly scared of her when I went round for tea when we were younger. I don’t think she ever told me off, but she was always terrifyingly strict with Cate and that was enough.

  ‘Though there was something else,’ she continues.

  ‘What?’

  Her face breaks into an enormous smile. ‘He told me he loves me.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ I laugh.

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘So what did you say to that?’ I ask, though I don’t really need to.

  ‘I said I loved him too.’ She looks at me. ‘I really do, Lauren. He makes my heart feel like it’s about to burst out of my chest every time I look at him.’

  ‘Do you think he could be The One?’

  ‘I just know I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. Ever.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got your answer then.’

  Salsa is brilliant tonight, exactly what I need to take my mind off Edwin. It’s as if the evening has been sprinkled with an indefinable magic. Perhaps that’s because even the most distracted of hearts couldn’t fail to be lifted by Cate’s mood. Perhaps it’s the music, which thrums through my spine, making every bit of me tingle. Or perhaps it’s simply because the group is so comfortable with each other now – we breeze through stumbles, trips and almighty fails on the dance floor without worrying. If I stop and think about the fact that everyone around me is falling in love – Cate and Will, Emily and Joe – it might depress me. So I don’t. I just concentrate on my loops, locks, twists and turns – and keep those knees loose, as if Marion would ever let me forget.