Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel

by Jane Costello

‘If you know anyone to drag along here on a Tuesday, please do,’ says Lulu, during the break. ‘We’re out of beginners. All my new starters have done so well they’ve moved up to the improvers’ class.’

  I briefly wonder about asking Jeremy to come one day. It’d get him out of my mum’s hair for one night a week, although I’m not overly keen on admitting he’s a blood relative, however distant. It’d be a lot easier if Edwin would just walk through that door, swing me into a wraparound and dance the night away with me. Or even dance five minutes away – I’d take anything.

  As the class resumes, Marion announces that we’re going to ‘nail’ the steps she introduced last week, failing to notice that the introduction of this routine takes things more seriously than any of us ever imagined. Having already danced with Esteban, Luke and Frank, Joe appears in front of me. ‘Can you remember how this starts?’ he asks.

  ‘Haven’t the first clue,’ I reply, peering at my own feet. ‘I was counting on my partner.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ he grins, as we turn towards Marion and attempt to copy what she’s doing: a cuddle turn, then a ladies’ right turn, then a few steps that bring us back-to-back, from where we step into a reverse salsa wrap. It seems so ludicrously fast, all we can do is stumble around as if attempting to break the world speed record in a game of Twister. I glance over at Will and Cate, who seem to be managing better than anyone else.

  ‘Maybe it’s easier if you’re madly in love,’ says Joe, who’s clearly noticed too.

  I suppress a smile. ‘Will’s madly in love then?’

  ‘Oh, I would say so. A classic case. You know those trees planted in the shape of a heart just off the M6?’

  ‘You mean Broken Gill Plantation,’ I inform him. If you’re driving past the landmark, it’s unmissable – dozens of conifers planted on a hillside in a perfect heart-shaped formation, legend has it by a farmer devoted to his wife.

  ‘I think Will’s got it so bad he’ll be doing the same soon,’ he says. ‘Although he doesn’t own much land so she might have to put up with a few geraniums.’

  I laugh. ‘Personally, I’d be delighted with a few geraniums at the moment. Hell, dandelions would do.’

  ‘Oh, come on. That’s tragic.’

  ‘It’s true,’ I shrug mournfully, only half-joking. ‘I’d be happy with someone giving me their last Rolo. Or baking me a cake. Or knitting me a nice scarf.’

  ‘Knitting,’ he repeats. ‘Ah, so this is where my romantic gestures have been going wrong all these years. I haven’t knitted enough.’

  ‘OK, maybe I’ll take that one back. The point I’m making is, as long as they’re from the right person . . .’

  ‘Lauren and Joe! Don’t you remember anything from last week?’ Marion snaps.

  Joe turns back to me. ‘Every time I dance with you, I get in trouble.’

  ‘Don’t even think about blaming me. I’m brilliant when I dance with anyone else. It’s only when you turn up that it all goes wrong.’

  ‘Keep your core strong, Lauren,’ Marion hollers.

  Joe squeezes my hand, presumably as a demonstration of support as Marion instructs us to break while she huffily demonstrates the steps with Frank again.

  I’m peering in, trying to get my head around how she slips seamlessly from a cuddle to a turn, when Joe whispers to me, ‘So can I take it from your comment about the Rolo that your date with Whatsisname didn’t go as hoped?’

  The question instantly stops me from concentrating on Marion.

  ‘Edwin,’ I say. ‘And no, actually, I was only joking about the Rolo. It was wonderful.’ Clearly I’m not going to go into the fact that he’s not followed it up by asking me out again.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Joe says, as the dancing resumes and he lifts his arm for me to spin under. ‘You deserve to meet someone nice.’

  ‘You hardly know me. I might not deserve it at all.’

  ‘You’re still speaking to me after seeing my zebra. That’s enough for me,’ he replies, at which point I stand on his toes.

  ‘It’s not the zebra that bothers me most.’

  He pauses before answering. ‘Bothers you? Your reaction was underwhelming but I hadn’t realised it actually bothered you.’

  ‘It’s hard to explain, Joe. There’s no question that you’ve come up with a hotel that will get great reviews and people will enjoy staying there. I just prefer it the way it was. They’re my childhood memories – and you’re messing with them.’

  His back straightens defensively. ‘I’m determined that what we come up with will do you proud.’

  I don’t answer him because I know that’s impossible and I also know that there’s absolutely no point in saying it out loud. And OK, because I sound whingey. Which will achieve nothing, because if one thing’s clear it’s that I have very little choice about any of it.

  ‘So are you going out again?’ he asks.

  I do a double-take. ‘Going out?’

  ‘You and Whatsisname.’

  I suddenly wish that his attempts to make conversation would focus on something else.

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ I mumble, as Marion claps and Joe, mercifully, moves on to his next partner, leaving me to dwell on that question yet again for the rest of the class.

  Yet, after we’ve said our goodbyes and Emily, Cate and I are walking up the hill back to the van, something happens that makes all thoughts of Edwin pale into insignificance. Emily and I are comparing notes about our lack of ability to keep up with tonight’s routine, when Cate takes out her phone and idly logs on. We’re nearly at the van when the noise escapes her lips. It’s almost like a gasp, but more guttural, more raw.

  ‘What is it?’ Emily asks, spinning round to see Cate’s features, white under the moonlight, as she stands immobile, her hand on her mouth, whimpering ‘Oh my God. Oh my God.’

  ‘Cate, seriously – what’s the matter?’ I ask, walking towards her.

  She doesn’t hand over the phone, but she’s powerless with shock to stop Emily from reaching out and gently prising it from her grasp. I suspect if Em’d known what was on it, she wouldn’t have touched it.

  The picture is on a website called meetmyexx.com. In it, Cate is gazing at the camera, her eyes heavy and flirtatious. She is naked, next to a window I recognise as the one in her bedroom, her arms stretched up above her head, sunlight streaming on to her bare breasts.

  In another context it would be a beautiful picture, arty and elegant, as opposed to cheap and porno. But I instantly know that whoever made it public didn’t do so for artistic reasons. Instead, their motive was dark, twisted, more sinister. And presumably Cate realises the same as she stares at her phone, unable to speak.

  Chapter 22

  Cate’s flat is directly above the florist’s shop and reached via stairs running up the back wall. Its décor is as eclectic and lovely as the shop downstairs, a subtle clash of soft colours and fabrics. She pushes open the door and stumbles in, Em and I following, before I shut it behind me. Cate closes her eyes. But only for a moment.

  ‘What the hell do I do?’

  She marches to the living room, where her laptop sits on the coffee table, open but switched off. Emily and I follow her in as she thumps down on the sofa and presses its on switch with trembling fingers, waiting for it to load as she rocks backwards and forwards. Emily stands behind her and begins rubbing her shoulders supportively, but as she glances up, it’s clear she’s as helpless as I am.

  ‘Let me get you a drink, Cate,’ I say feebly.

  In the kitchen, I fill the kettle, but immediately decide against it and open the fridge, where I find an unopened bottle of white wine. I grab three glasses, even though I’ve got no intention of drinking any myself, and return to find Cate desperately trying to change the default safe-settings on her broadband, which won’t let her on to the website.

  ‘What sort of bastard would you have to be to do this?’ she yells, tears burning her eyes. ‘I dumped Robby. That’s all I did. I d
idn’t strangle his cat or call his mother a whore or . . . anything. I tried to be nice. I tried to let him down gently. Did I really deserve this?’

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ Emily says, flashing me a panicky glance. ‘It’s . . . it’s unspeakable.’

  ‘How did you even know the picture was up there on the website?’ I ask. ‘Did Robby send the link to you?’

  ‘No, I got an email from some vile creep saying . . . oh God, I can’t even repeat what he was saying, except that he didn’t want to get together for a jam-making session. And he had my email address. My own, personal email address.’

  ‘How did he get that?’ Emily asks, hastily pouring her some wine.

  ‘God knows,’ Cate mutters, before looking up at us, recognition blooming on her face. ‘Robby must have put that on the website too. He’s put my bloody contact details on.’

  It takes ten minutes before she finally gets on the site as Emily and I watch in growing horror.

  The image of Cate is about the tamest on there, but that’s not what makes my stomach twist into knots. It’s what these pictures represent that’s so disturbing: the demented actions of hundreds of sad losers who can only vent their rage against women with this intimate revenge. It’s clear as Cate becomes increasingly hysterical that someone needs to do something about this.

  ‘Cate, listen to me,’ I say, sitting next to her. ‘The first thing you must do is contact the site and threaten them with legal action unless they take it down. Then we will take stock. Work out what to do next. And just remember that nobody you know is ever going to log on to a website like that.’ I’m aware that this is a flimsy plan, but at the moment I just need to say something to try and get her to calm down.

  It doesn’t work. Because as we glance back at the screen and she hits the scroll button again, her own picture appears. Tears stream down her face and she thrusts her hands over the screen. ‘Don’t look!’ she begs us. ‘I’m so ashamed.’

  ‘Oh, Cate,’ Emily murmurs, as our friend slams shut the computer.

  ‘We won’t look,’ I tell her. ‘But you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. You and Robby had sex. You are consenting adults. And he took a photo of you in the privacy of your bedroom. You did nothing wrong. And he is an utter shithead for doing this.’

  ‘You said yourself people can’t seem to just have sex these days. You said that, Lauren,’ she sobs. ‘And you were right. I can’t believe I did it.’

  Chapter 23

  The following day at work is a blur of exhausted worry about Cate. It was stupidly late by the time I got home – the early hours of the morning – although at least I got some sleep, whereas I’m certain my best friend won’t have had a wink. I’ve exchanged umpteen texts with her by afternoon break, and as I sit in the staff room staring at my phone, I’m running out of ways to reassure her that nobody will have seen the picture. That it’s all going to be OK.

  ‘Good afternoon, Lauren.’

  I glance up to see Edwin sinking into the seat next to me, as I am reminded that it is thirteen days since our date. Thirteen whole days. Hell yes, I’m counting.

  And despite the fact that we’ve seen each other innumerable times since, I still hold my breath in anticipation of what he might say, praying he utters the words I’m desperate to hear: Come out with me, Lauren. Let’s have another date. We can dance the night away and have the time of our lives and—

  ‘Would you like a coconut macaroon?’

  I snap out of my daydream as Edwin holds out a Tupperware box lined with floral kitchen paper and filled with two neat rows of psychedelic pink cakes.

  ‘Oh, um, I shouldn’t. I had a big breakfast this morning. But thank you.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t blame you. I think anyone would have been put off after Mum’s baking last time,’ he says, suppressing a smile. ‘For the record though, I would never have offered you one if I wasn’t certain it was a one-off.’

  ‘It’s not that at all, Edwin, honestly.’

  ‘I think you’d really hit it off with my mum, actually,’ he goes on. ‘She’d love you.’

  I hesitate. ‘Oh, you’ve twisted my arm, go on,’ I say, diving into his Tupperware. ‘They look irresistible.’

  It’s only as I have one cake in my hand and am about to take a bite that I spot the thick grey hair sprouting out of the top of it. I subtly lower it to my knee and attempt to maintain eye contact with Edwin while I try my best to surreptitiously pluck it out with my other hand.

  ‘So . . .’ he begins. ‘I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity to tell you this – but I really enjoyed our night out together.’

  ‘Oh, so did I,’ I breathe, trying not to drop my eyes to the cake on my knee as I manage to grab the end of the hair and begin tugging gently.

  ‘I was a bit . . . chemically challenged after all those Old Fashioneds, though.’

  I laugh. ‘Me too.’ I realise with some alarm that the hair is not just long, like last time. This bugger is massive. And as I pull smoothly, it doesn’t pop out as I was hoping, but keeps on coming, like a string of handkerchiefs emerging from a magician’s sleeve.

  ‘So,’ he continues, as I give it a subtle yank. ‘I’ve been thinking . . .’

  I cannot tell you how tricky it is to focus half my attention on the hair and the other half on Edwin – or rather keeping Edwin on topic.

  ‘What have you been thinking?’ I say.

  ‘Oh, just that it was fun,’ he replies.

  I decide to go for it. ‘I agree, Edwin. And I think if we go out again, we should make it the weekend. Because I can’t cope with a hangover like that again at work, that’s for sure.’

  He laughs and looks so deep into my eyes my pupils nearly start bouncing. ‘Me neither.’

  My throat grows hotter as I register that the hair is still not out of the cake, and it strikes me that if I don’t get it out and at least put a morsel of the thing in my mouth soon then he’ll start to wonder why.

  ‘So I hope you don’t mind me asking you this,’ he goes on.

  ‘Not at all, I’d be delighted. Name the day!’ I blurt out.

  He frowns. ‘What?’

  ‘What?’ I repeat nervously.

  It occurs to me that the only way to deflect attention from this potential faux pas is to tug out the hair once and for all and shove the cake in my gob.

  So I do just that: tug. Sadly, this is not the deft movement for which I’d hoped and, instead of sliding out to make the cake edible enough to distract Edwin, the hair causes the cake to explode into two dozen pieces, spill all over my skirt and tumble across the staff-room floor.

  ‘Oh no,’ I mutter, as I jump down and begin scrambling round with a piece of kitchen paper, desperately trying to rescue Edwin’s mother’s culinary efforts.

  ‘Lauren, seriously – don’t worry,’ he reassures me, as he leaps to help me gather it up. ‘You should’ve just said if you weren’t hungry.’

  ‘No, I am! I wanted one, really. I’m desperate for one!’ I reply, over-egging the pudding somewhat.

  Only as I stand, watching Edwin on his hands and knees cleaning up my mess, the coconut cakes become a metaphor for my love for him. I get it into my head that if I really loved him I’d scoff the lot, even if there were more hairs in it than an Old English Sheepdog’s sleeping basket. I discard the smashed-up cake in the bin as he holds out the Tupperware box again and I take one, refusing to look at it as I take a decisive bite.

  ‘I was just going to ask,’ he begins, ‘if you’d applied to Singapore yet?’

  I chew the cake slowly and nod, before swallowing. ‘As a matter of fact, I have. I’m not certain that I’m going – not yet. But I thought applying wouldn’t do any harm.’

  Happiness sweeps across his face. Genuine, no-holds-barred happiness.

  ‘Lauren, you’re doing the right thing. I can’t tell you how pleased I am. I can’t deny I was feeling a bit intimidated by the idea of going by myself. Oh, I know there’s Georgie, but she’s j
ust more of an acquaintance. To have a proper friend there – to have you there – well, it’ll be amazing. Nothing less.’

  My heart swells to twice its size. Why the hell am I worried about a second date when the guy wants to whisk me away to the other side of the world? This is ridiculous! My face breaks into a spontaneous smile.

  He looks suddenly serious. ‘Lauren,’ he whispers, through a penetrative gaze.

  ‘Yes?’ I reply, sexual tension fizzing through me.

  ‘I think you might have something stuck between your teeth.’

  At which point I reach into my mouth and pluck out a small, grey hair. The whole thing really couldn’t be more romantic.

  All I want to do after the school bell rings is dart to Cate’s place to see if she’s OK, then go home, run a bath and let my thoughts about the imminent departure of Edwin – and possibly me – sink in. But I can’t. Because it’s parents’ evening. The first parents to knock on the classroom door and squat down on to two foot-high chairs designed for five-year-olds are little Tom’s.

  As Jenny and Nick Goodwin flick through Tom’s exercise books, I can’t help noticing that she’s more subdued than usual, barely responding when I explain what we’ve been doing this term and how Tom’s done in various tests.

  ‘He’s a really lovely child, an absolute credit to you,’ I say, trying to catch her eye. ‘He’s very polite and has lots of friends. A real joy to teach.’

  She looks up briefly and allows herself the flicker of a smile that makes her pretty apple-shaped cheekbones appear. ‘That’s good to hear.’

  Mr Goodwin glances at her briefly, then turns to me again: ‘How’s his spelling?’

  ‘He’s strong in all areas of literacy,’ I tell him, producing his test results.

  ‘He clearly gets that from his mum then.’ Mr Goodwin glances at his wife again, but she looks away silently, lowers her eyes – and it’s then that I realise, or at least suspect, that he’s in the doghouse about something.

  I feel the need to fill the silence. ‘We’re asked to suggest some areas where he could work on improving things, but in all honesty, he’s a dream pupil. The only thing I could think of was that he could do with getting dressed a bit faster. He’s always one of the slowest after PE. Not that that’s saying a lot – it takes forever around here.’