‘I believe you did. Why don’t you come with me?’
I prickle at the suggestion, wondering why he couldn’t have just brought the damn thing out to me, saving me the turmoil of being here longer than necessary.
‘I understand your father was once the General Manager of this hotel?’ he begins, as I follow him through into reception.
‘Many years ago. It was completely different then.’ My eyes skitter around the room as I realise the furniture is now in situ. Still covered in plastic, but all in place.
He stops and turns to me. ‘Mr Wilborne is putting his heart and soul into this project,’ he says quietly. ‘I’ve worked with his family for twenty-three years and . . . I’ve never seen anybody so passionate about a place.’
I don’t answer him. It’s not a conversation I want to get sucked into. So I simply follow, thoughts whizzing through my mind so fast that at one point, I don’t actually remember how I got to where I am: through the double doors at the back of the hotel, overlooking the gardens that stretch down to the lake.
I look at Gianni, waiting for an explanation as to why we’ve come outside again. ‘Your bracelet is down there,’ he says with a perplexing smile, before glancing at his phone. ‘Sorry, I have a call to make. You’ll find it just down there,’ he repeats. ‘In the gazebo.’
He walks away before I can answer, not that I’d know what to say anyway. I simply stand, feeling bewilderment crinkle on my face. And then I start walking across the lawn. My steps quicken before breaking into a gallop as I approach the trees at the shore, disbelief searing through me as I see it appear behind them.
My gazebo.
Or at least, a replica of it. I walk towards the structure in a trance, holding my breath. I place a foot on to the step and pull myself up into it, inhaling its new, woody smell as I run my fingers along the rail. Then I sit down on the beach, in the exact spot where my little pretend café was, and close my eyes.
My heartbeat slows and the birds quieten around me as I can almost feel my dad sitting beside me. Sipping a non-existent drink in my tea set and murmuring approval at my plastic cakes. Laughing as I played see-saw on his leg. Cuddling me into him as we fed the ducks.
When my eyelids flutter open, hot tears spill down my cheeks so fast I can feel a drip on my knee. Then I glance down and see the envelope my bracelet has been left in. I sniff back tears and pick it up. My bracelet is in there, along with a letter, handwritten in black ink on thick, white paper.
Lauren,
I’ve thought of little else but what happened between us last week – or rather what didn’t happen. And why. In fact, I’ve thought about it so much and still failed to work it all out that the only thing left to do was stop thinking and start acting.
I know you’re going to Singapore with Edwin and I want more than anything to just wish you a glorious, happy life together and really mean it.
But I’m seriously struggling, Lauren.
I’m struggling because I can’t help how I feel about you – and wanting things to have been different.
But I won’t dwell on it as I’d only embarrass myself and I’ve done enough of that. In fact, I might be about to do it again. I’ve never claimed to be brilliant with words, but I did something that expresses how I feel about you in the only way I know how – and I couldn’t bring myself not to let you see it.
I started building your gazebo weeks ago, but finished it this weekend. I told myself that I was doing it because I’d simply wanted old elements of the hotel to be restored, to keep the history of the place alive.
But I was lying to myself. I was doing it because I wanted to give you something, to make you something, with my own hands – to show you how I felt, when I couldn’t say it.
None of this was selfless, by the way: it made me feel good. In fact, it still does, every time I set eyes on it. So, I hope you like your gazebo and get to enjoy at least a few moments in it before you fly away.
It’ll be yours, for ever. And when you find yourself at home, visiting your mum or whatever, I want you to know that your seat here will always be reserved, just to come and think, or even throw a tea party, if it takes your fancy.
Joe x
I put down the envelope and stand up, focusing on the ripples of water lapping against the shore. I don’t want to leave. I want to just stay here, and breathe the air in my happiest of places.
The thought makes me despair – of everything. And it’s then that I turn around and spot the little plaque on the bench I’m sitting on.
It says, LAUREN’S PLACE.
As I try to make sense of it all, one thought keeps pushing its way in.
Joe. Why are you making it impossible for me not to fall in love with you?
Chapter 48
To say Cate is shocked when I tell her I have the solution to all her problems – in the shape of £5000 – barely covers it. She looks at me open-mouthed across the counter in Daffodils & Stars and a piece of gold ribbon drops from her fingers.
‘What did you say?’ she whispers.
‘I still think you should go to the police about Robby. This doesn’t change that.’ I reach out and take her hand. It’s trembling. ‘But the money’s yours. If this is the only way you feel able to get him out of your life, then I want you to have it.’
She shakes her head violently. ‘No, Lauren. Don’t be ridiculous. I absolutely couldn’t. You’ve spent years saving this up. It’d mean you couldn’t go. And you have to go – you’re out of a job, aren’t you?’
‘There’s always supply work,’ I tell her, which is true, less than ideal as it is. ‘I won’t starve. Some things are more important.’
‘No,’ she says again, her eyes darting about as the implications of my offer sink in. ‘I couldn’t do it.’ Her chest reddens as the next words catch in her throat. ‘You’re such an amazing friend to even offer . . . thank you so, so much. But it’s not fair. This is my problem, not yours.’
‘And you’re my friend – the best friend I’ve ever had. Which is why I’m doing this for you. I’ve already transferred the money to your account,’ I say.
The plump, salty tears that follow are the best kind of tears, ones made up of relief and happiness and the knowledge that you’re loved and protected, no matter how shitty others can be towards you. I walk round the counter and pull her into a hug.
‘I’ll pay you back really quickly, I swear,’ she says, sniffing. ‘I’m going to get a bar job or something and, month by month, I’ll put it back in your account. I absolutely promise you, Lauren.’
‘Take all the time you need.’
As Cate’s face continues to go through a whole range of emotions – disbelief, guilt, elation – something else is flickering behind her eyes the entire time: relief that her nightmare is going to end. What she doesn’t know is that a nightmare of my own is just beginning.
But I still think I’m doing the right thing.
Cate phones me the following day to say she’s arranged to make a cash withdrawal from the bank – having told them the money was to buy a car – and to meet Robby on Saturday to hand it over.
But none of that lessens the private hell I’m going through in having to stay here, with Joe’s words throbbing in my head when, unbeknownst to him, he is about to become a father. And when the mother of his child is one of my best friends.
That night, I sit at my bedroom window, gazing past my curtains as mist swirls around the trees, and I try to work out a solution to this. One that makes Joe Wilborne completely unable to think of me as someone he even likes, let alone anything more.
I pick up my phone and scroll to his name in the contacts book. Then I dial it with a heart that thrashes harder and harder with every ring.
It goes to voicemail.
I sigh and click off, lying on the bed as my adrenalin subsides.
Then it rings. I scramble to a sitting position and glance at the phone. It’s him.
With my breath hanging in my chest, I pick
up.
‘Hi, Lauren.’
He has the kind of voice that makes your skin tingle: masculine but warm, with rolling vowels and an accent that’s only apparent with every other undulating lilt. I force myself to stop thinking like this. The only emotion that is ever going to be possible between the two of us from now on is dislike. No, that’s not enough.
I need to make him hate me.
‘Hello, Joe,’ I reply coldly.
‘I believe you got your bracelet.’
‘I did,’ I reply, summoning the strength to say the words I’ve planned to say. ‘I saw your gazebo too.’
‘Well, it’s your gazebo really . . .’
‘No, it’s not. It’s not my gazebo at all.’
He doesn’t answer at first. Then he asks, not unreasonably, ‘What do you mean?’
‘How insensitive can you get?’ I spit out the words as if I can’t bear the taste of them in my mouth. ‘Did you seriously think you could build some crappy replica of the place where I used to spend days with my dad? Was it some kind of cruel joke?’
‘Of course not.’ He tries to say this dispassionately, but the hurt in his voice almost – almost – makes me take it back. Then I think of his baby, of Emily’s determination to make a go of it, and steel myself to deliver a further onslaught.
‘I think you’re sick, Joe,’ I rant on. ‘That’s the only explanation for it. I don’t know why anyone would do something like that.’
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry,’ he replies, with pain in his voice.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he continues, ‘and I apologise if I did. I thought it would be something you’d like. With hindsight, you’re right. It was crass.’
My heart breaks a little more, as I say, ‘Yes. It was upsetting and stupid, and well, like I said, Joe – I just don’t want anything to do with you any longer.’
‘Well, you’re not going to, are you? Given that you’re leaving the country soon.’
‘As it happens, I’m not going just yet,’ I mumble. ‘There’s been a setback so I’m stuck here. And that’s precisely why I wanted to let you know – because of this – that it’s just impossible for you and me to be friends.’
‘OK, I’ve got the idea,’ he says stonily.
‘And in case you’re wondering, I’m quitting salsa,’ I go on.
‘Yes, me too,’ he replies.
That rattles me. ‘Really?’
‘There wasn’t any point in going any longer.’
I let this sentence filter through me then brush aside my innate desire to decode it.
‘So, it seems like we’re probably not going to bump into each other anyway from now on,’ I conclude. ‘Which suits me fine. I’m certainly not going to be heading anywhere near the Moonlight Hotel after the stunt you’ve just pulled.’
‘I’m sorry, Lauren,’ only this time, he doesn’t say it as if he is sorry. He says it as if he’s pissed off in the extreme – and who could blame him. But I can’t let him know that. ‘Like I say, it was meant to be a nice gesture, it was meant to—’
‘Yeah, well, it didn’t work.’
‘Yes, I’ve got it, Lauren,’ he snaps. ‘I’ve got it completely.’
Chapter 49
Steph has a friend – a real one, someone she spends time with and tags herself with on Facebook, at the beach, or having coffee.
She’s called Rosa and is twenty-four, Italian and the daughter of a former priest. When I heard that last bit I couldn’t help but wonder if the chap in question realises who his daughter is socialising with but, surprisingly, Steph seems to be changing her ways. Last week, she put something on Facebook about being on a detox. I dread to think what this could do to some of the bar takings around Bondi.
‘Don’t tell me, you’re not coming,’ she says when we Skype on Thursday night. She has a twist in her lips designed to underline that she thinks I’m dangerously eccentric. ‘Seriously, Loz – you don’t need to say a thing. It’s written in your eyes.’
‘The thing is, Steph, I really want to come to Australia – and I will some day. Definitely. But at the moment, I’ve got a few things I want to sort out. A few . . . cash-flow issues.’
‘Loz, it’s fine. You don’t need to worry. I know Mum had mentioned to your mum that I was having a hard time of it, but things are looking up. And I’m sure you’re right . . . you’ll get over here one day. Don’t leave it too long though, eh? We want you young enough to still be in a bikini without scaring anyone off.’
The last day of term is a strange and sad one. Strange because, while the children are typically hysterical with excitement, for me the day has none of its usual uplifting effect.
Matters aren’t helped by the fact that I am backed into a corner during a conversation with the Head – and find myself forced to confess the inglorious news that I’m no longer going to Australia, Singapore or indeed anywhere.
I can’t tell her or anyone else the real reason, so just have to mumble something about ‘domestic matters’. She responds by looking at me as if I am flakier than a Greggs cheese and onion pasty.
‘I hope you don’t expect to get your job back. We’ve already filled it,’ she says curtly. I never expected anything else.
I always knew I’d be spending my summer job-hunting, in the hope that by September, when my pay runs out, I’ll have somewhere to go. If not, it’ll be supply work for me, which I don’t mind at all, apart from the fact that it’s intermittent, involves lots of travelling and will look like an odd move on my CV. Which I suppose is exactly what it is.
What I feel most sad about though is saying goodbye to the children. The end of a school year is always bittersweet; saying cheerio to a bunch of little people you’ve grown fond of, knowing that their funny little quirks will be absent from your life, at least for the near future.
Only this time, I’m not going to see them next term. I’m not going to watch them progressing and growing and turning into the person they’re destined to be. This time, I’m probably never going to see them again full stop.
‘What are you eating, Georgia?’ I ask a little girl in her last day of Reception year.
She looks up at me with wide eyes. ‘Some chewing gum.’
I reach into my pocket for a tissue and hold it out. ‘Pop it in there, please. Chewing gum’s not allowed, even on your last day.’
‘I didn’t know,’ she says, looking slightly worried. ‘I just found it stuck on my shoe.’
Scarlet Cranston tugs at my side. ‘Miss, when are you going to open our presents?’
‘Oh . . . you want me to open them now, do you?’
‘YES!’ they all shriek.
I laugh. ‘OK, right . . . well, look at all these lovely surprises!’ I say, though in reality we are fairly light on the surprise front around here at the end of term.
Last year I ended up with four plants, seven Body Shop gift sets and fourteen boxes of chocolates, which were responsible for me putting on three quarters of a stone over the summer.
‘Oh, how lovely! I never would’ve expected one of those!’ I declare, unwrapping the first present to reveal a box of Roses.
‘Do you like it? That was from me,’ James Wesley tells me proudly.
‘It’s extremely kind of you, James – I love it. Please thank your mummy and daddy.’
‘My dad got them from a man in the pub,’ James tells me. ‘They were really cheap because they’re out of date.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘They’re OK though,’ he reassures me. ‘Apart from the orange ones. The orange ones gave my Auntie Rachel the trots.’
‘I’ll remember that, thank you, James,’ I say, moving on to the next box.
My stack of booty amounts to an unusually large number of plants this year (six), something I briefly wonder could be attributed to people noticing how dramatically my arse had ballooned by the time I returned to school last September. And as the children file out to go to lunch, Tom Goodwin appears.
‘My mum forgot to get you a present. She forgets a lot of things these days.’
‘Tom, it’s absolutely fine, please don’t worry. It’s been gift enough to me being able to teach you.’
He goes to shuffle out but pauses and turns back to me. ‘I’m going to miss you,’ he says.
I’ve replied in exactly the same way dozens of times today. Only this time, to my surprise, the words catch in the back of my mouth. ‘I’m going to miss you too, Tom.’
On Saturday night I have never felt less sociable, and certainly in no mood for Mum and Barry’s ‘farewell dinner’ to Jeremy. Having decided that the farm-handling job isn’t for him, he’s taken a job shovelling shit of a different variety, at an accountancy firm in London.
Helen, Jeremy’s mum, told my mum that the pay is minimal, the prospects are abysmal and that he’ll be lucky if they’ll let him near the photocopier, but he’s said yes because he gets to wear a suit and never has to see the business end of a sheep again. To listen to Jeremy, you’d think he was taking over from Richard Branson.
‘I’m going to be in charge of a twenty-nine-million-pound portfolio,’ he tells us with a self-congratulatory grin, as Barry walks to the kitchen table carrying his latest culinary masterpiece: a recreation of the Swedish Ice Hotel, fashioned primarily out of marshmallows and Fox’s Glacier mints. ‘I cannot tell you how glad I’m going to be, to be out of this place.’
‘I’m sure Jim and Gill Gavin will miss you too,’ Mum says. To the untrained ear, it’s impossible to work out whether she’s being sarcastic or not. I’m not sure that even I can tell.
‘You must be so hacked off that your Australia trip’s fallen through,’ Jeremy continues – and I grit my teeth because I could do without discussing the subject again in front of Mum, who seems to think my ‘change of heart’ can only be explained by some sort of mental breakdown.
‘I don’t know how you’ve been able to stand living round here all your life, Lauren,’ he goes on. ‘I’m not saying it’s without any appeal; it’s pretty enough, if you go for that kind of thing. But after a while, all this fresh air is enough to make you sick. And the hills – Jesus! I cannot wait to walk somewhere without my calf muscles burning. Even the buildings . . .’
Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel Page 26
