Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel

by Jane Costello

  ‘WHEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE!’

  The little girl is off, hurtling in the direction of the lake, clearly having a whale of a time. I don’t want to shout ‘WHEEE-EEE-EEE-EEE!’ I just want to have a wee; my control of all bodily functions has never felt flimsier.

  ‘Ready when you are,’ the instructor tells me jovially, obviously wondering why I’m still here. I hesitate. ‘Any time you like.’

  I close my eyes and inch forward. Then, before I black out in panic, I step off the ledge.

  The experience of flying towards the lake at a similar velocity to the Millennium Falcon during a meteor shower takes seconds and feels like forever.

  My heart is the size of a beach ball, thumping violently inside my ribcage. Only that’s nothing compared with that stupid bloody woman who is SHRIEKING at the top of her lungs and . . . oh, that woman turns out to be me.

  My knuckles aren’t so much white as on fire, as I clutch on for dear life, my legs knotted together as I perch on the harness in a constipated position, all the while hurtling towards the end, gaining in speed and wondering how THE HELL THIS IS EVER GOING TO STOP.

  When I think the experience cannot possibly get any worse, I note to my horror that the harness I’m in is starting to turn – slowly, ever so slowly – in direct contrast with my approach to Windermere. Eventually I’m facing in entirely the wrong direction and heading, arse-first, to the landing pad.

  I desperately try to start spinning myself back the right way, yanking my head in the right direction – just enough to spot a group of people, one of whom is Sophie, gathering at the spectator ledge in front of where I’m due to land.

  I’m still some way from the landing pad, when I register that a malfunction is occurring.

  My right welly is slipping off.

  I lift my leg to the side and start jerking it in an upward motion, hoping this will do the trick. And this tactic might have worked if I was on the ground and hopping on one foot, but when you’re flying through the air at this speed, it’s another matter altogether.

  After several sharp thrusts upwards, which results in me looking like a life-size, eccentrically-dressed marionette, the welly has edged itself back slightly on to my foot and I’m attempting to grip it in place with just my toes.

  At this point I know that there is one option open to me: this is make or break time. So I close my eyes and give my leg a single, massive kick upwards, designed to return the welly firmly to its rightful position back on my foot.

  The result is catastrophic.

  The boot flies off my foot and soars across the field, at such a tremendous speed that at first glance it resembles a giant, rubber bird of prey. A group of Girl Guides run for cover.

  I don’t actually see the welly land, since by this stage the harness has spun me round again and I seem to be gaining in speed, if that’s possible, as I reach the end. Screeching and breathless, I close my eyes and wait until the rope reaches the end of the line, which it does with a whiplash-inducing flop.

  A staff member runs up and grabs me, pulling me to a spot where I can put my feet down. She’s an earthy, sporty type who, it appears, has not run towards me to check if I’m still conscious and breathing.

  ‘Enjoy that?’ she grins, clearly not noticing that my face is the shade of an avocado bathroom suite.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I croak as I look up and see Joe. I disengage from the zip wire and hobble towards him as Sophie informs me helpfully, ‘You lost your welly.’

  ‘I know,’ I reply apologetically. I can no longer feel my legs. Or face. In fact, I can barely speak. ‘I need to go and get it.’

  The three of us silently plod out of the way of the zip wire and I begin limping across the field, my foot squelching so I’m ankle-deep in mud every time I put it down. I had so much to say to Joe and now, suddenly, my head is empty.

  Sophie races ahead. ‘If I fetch the welly, can we go and get some ice creams, Uncle Joe?’

  ‘I’ll buy you a whole van,’ I interject, as she laughs and runs away.

  Joe and I continue walking behind her, as I try and find some words. ‘Joe . . .’

  We stop and he turns to look at me, briefly, but it’s clear my performance has done little to impress him. He is reluctant to meet my eye, so I do the only thing I can do: keep talking. Words tumble from my mouth faster than I can really think about any of them. But the thing about them is this: I really mean every single one.

  ‘Joe, I don’t know where to begin, except to say that I am sorry. For everything I said. I must’ve come across as a selfish, unhinged idiot – although I promise you that I’m not one. Not in the slightest. It was totally out of character. The thing was, I was convinced you and Emily were an item. More than an item, actually. She was – well, I’m not meant to say anything, but I thought – wrongly – that you and she were . . . I thought she was pregnant. But she isn’t. It turns out . . . well, it doesn’t matter why now, but that’s what I thought.’

  He looks stunned by this outburst.

  ‘We never even slept together,’ he tells me simply. ‘We just went on a few dates, then became walking buddies when it became clear that we had both become distracted.’ His eyes bore into me. ‘And, yes, I’m talking about you, Lauren. I became distracted by you.’

  Tears fill my eyes; I don’t know what to say. ‘Every time I think about that gazebo, it breaks my heart.’ And it’s true. ‘I can’t bear to remember the things I said to you about it. I’m so ashamed, Joe.’

  ‘Well, you don’t need to worry about the gazebo any longer.’

  ‘You haven’t taken it down?’

  ‘It’s happening this afternoon.’ And then, because there doesn’t seem to be anything else to say, he turns to walk away from me. The sight of him leaving makes my legs buckle.

  ‘Joe, please!’ I hobble after him, as one bare foot sinks further into the mud with every step. ‘I cannot believe I would do this – say this – to a man I’ve . . . argh!’

  I am suddenly unable to take another step. And so I find myself sitting in the mud in my posh jumpsuit, wearing a lone welly, mascara smeared down my cheeks and an overwhelming sense of despair. Time seems to stand still as I gaze across the lake, helpless, cold and miserable to my very bones.

  What the hell am I going to do now? About everything. Hot tears sting my cheeks as I sit, sobbing.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, you can’t stay there.’ I look up on hearing his voice. He’s walking back to me and then tugging me to my feet. Then he’s square in front of me.

  I’d forgotten how big he was until now, something I’d noticed on the very first day we danced. The thought that he’ll never take my hand again like that makes my chest contract.

  ‘To a man you’ve what?’ he whispers urgently.

  ‘Eh? What?’ I blub.

  ‘To a man you’ve what? You were about to say something. I’m too intrigued – or maybe just weak-willed – to walk away and not find out what the rest of that sentence was.’

  Through my tears, I see that his expression has softened and that very fact – the way he looks at me – makes me pull myself together. Sometimes, I decide, you’ve just got to spit it out. Throw caution to the wind and lay yourself completely bare.

  ‘Joe, this is what it comes down to,’ I say, taking a deep breath, before declaring loudly, ‘I would knit you a scarf.’

  We stand gazing at each other as the meaning of this sentence filters into his head, and his face is lit up by a wide, spontaneous smile. I take this as encouragement. ‘And I’d plant you some trees,’ I sniffle. ‘And bake you a cake. I would even give you my last Rolo.’

  He tries to maintain his cool but he’s glowing – and his smile warms every bit of me up. ‘Seriously? Even the Rolo?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I grin nonchalantly. ‘Even the Rolo. Well, probably.’

  He laughs now, a big wholesome laugh that gives me a sliver of hope – that there’s a possibility that he’ll forgive me. And then the most miraculous thing happe
ns.

  He slides a warm hand behind my neck and leans down to kiss me. Only this is not a kiss like the last one – not one we fall into then have to stumble out of. When his mouth touches mine, it’s as if every nerve in my body has been diverted to my lips. His body feels hot and strong and his neck smells faintly of earth and salt and aftershave. And the whole experience, his mouth hard on mine, his big arms around my back . . . it’s so passionate and all-consuming and blow-your-socks off awesome, that it makes me feel weak at the knees for reasons that go beyond the fact that I am only wearing one welly.

  I am lost in the moment, in this eternal place and time, with the sun high over the trees and fells, as the sky swells with light. Then he finally pulls back and brushes my hair away from my face with his fingertips before releasing me. I watch as he wrestles with his harness and finally manages to extricate his phone out of his jacket.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  He reaches down and takes me by the hand, and together we start walking to the exit, as Sophie appears from behind a tree, clutching my welly.

  ‘Putting a call into Gianni,’ he replies, squeezing my hand. ‘To see if I can rescue your gazebo.’

  Chapter 57

  Will and I get back to the wedding, after a quicker-than-ideal spruce-up, before Stella has even noticed our absence. She’s too caught up in the whirlwind of the day. Joe arrives about half an hour later – after his sister has arrived to collect Sophie.

  I’d tried phoning Cate while we were on our way back to the venue, but her phone went straight to voicemail. I wondered how you are, sweetheart? I say. Please let me know you’re OK. I’m worried about you.

  ‘Where’s your Karen Millen jumpsuit?’ asks Emily, in front of the mirror in the ladies.

  ‘I thought I’d have a quick change. Just call me Lady Gaga.’

  She forces a smile.

  ‘How are you, Emily?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, look, I know I was barely even pregnant. And I know that lots of early pregnancies end in miscarriage,’ she says. ‘I just . . . I feel shit. Completely shit.’

  I put my arm around her and hug her. ‘What made you decide not to bring Nick along today?’

  It takes her a moment to say, ‘I’ve called it a day with Nick.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I didn’t know what I was expecting her to say but it wasn’t this.

  ‘Do you know what it was, Lauren?’ she asks tremulously. ‘It was the ring you told me about. That sounds stupid, doesn’t it, but afterwards I just kept thinking to myself, this doesn’t add up. He’d told me his marriage was as good as over. I’d already had my suspicions that that wasn’t the whole truth, and the ring just added to them. You don’t buy a token of love for someone you feel nothing for, do you?’

  ‘Maybe he was confused,’ I offer, wondering why I’m trying to come up with an explanation for him.

  ‘I’ve no doubt he was. It was clear when I discussed all this with him that he still had feelings for Jenny. He just couldn’t deny it.’ She glances down at her pale hands. ‘If I’m honest, I wanted him to tell me you’d been mistaken about the ring and that the relationship was as he’d always told me: irretrievable.’

  ‘He didn’t?’

  She shakes her head. ‘He admitted that part of him still loved her.’ Her voice chokes. ‘But then he said that part of him loved me too and that he suddenly didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Oh, Emily . . .’ I clutch her cold, delicate hand.

  She goes on, ‘I don’t know if it’s possible to love two people, but I do know one thing: I can’t share someone’s affections. And if there’s a chance he can make it work with Jenny, then . . . as much as it kills me to say it, he should. I grew up in a family with a mum and a dad and, although I’ve never sat and meditated over that, I know I was privileged to do so. If Nick ends up leaving Jenny, leaving Tom, then that has to be his decision. I don’t want to be any part of it. And I certainly don’t want to be the cause of it.’

  ‘That’s really brave of you, Emily.’

  Her shoulders move involuntarily upwards. ‘I can’t switch off my feelings for him. But all I’ve done for the last twenty-four hours is think about this. I’ve told Nick he should try and be the best father he can. And that means staying put. Trying to work things out. And never seeing me again.’

  ‘He’ll come after you,’ I tell her. I can see how much her face crumples with emotion, how hard this has been for her. She really does love him.

  She sniffs away tears and tries to hide them as the door pushes open and Stella’s mother walks in. ‘We’ll see,’ she whispers.

  Then we head outside, spilling into the hotel lobby, out of earshot of anyone else.

  ‘You’re going to find a man who’s perfect for you,’ I promise her. ‘And he’ll be all yours.’

  She nods. ‘Thanks, Lauren. Speaking of which, you and Joe . . .’

  I tense up. ‘You know about me and Joe?’

  ‘I saw him reach out to hold your hand when he came in just now,’ she smiles. ‘I’m really happy for you, Lauren. I knew he liked you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know you liked him, of course – I thought you were still obsessed by Edwin and moving to Singapore. But Joe and I have done a lot of talking on our walks in the last few months, and you’ve been a topic of conversation that’s barely left his lips. I want you to know that if I’d even remotely known that you were interested in him, then there’s no way I’d have kept up the charade that we were together.’

  ‘Well,’ I shrug. ‘Edwin and Singapore turned out to be my little charade too. Part of me hoped to convince myself I was still mad about Edwin – it would’ve been so much easier had I been.’ My phone beeps. ‘That could be Cate.’ I take my mobile out of my bag and read her message.

  I’m fine, honestly. Just enjoy the wedding and please don’t worry xxx

  I sigh. Because, somehow, I don’t believe a word of it.

  The wedding is an absolute riot. Esteban seems intent on breaking a world record in chatting up bridesmaids, before lingering on Stella’s older cousin Jasmine, who takes one look at his biceps and seems unable to lift her tongue off the floor.

  He’s not the only one who’s attracted attention today. As Will joins me, Joe and Emily on the lush terrace that runs alongside the meandering River Leven, I take a sip of champagne and notice when most of the guests spill out of the double doors that he’s winning admiring glances from every direction. I honestly don’t think he’s even noticed though.

  ‘The weather’s meant to be good next week, Will. Fancy tackling Great Gable?’ Joe asks.

  ‘Why not,’ he answers.

  ‘We might even persuade Action Girl to come with us,’ Joe adds with a smirk. I realise he’s referring to me.

  ‘Very funny,’ I reply, feeling my cheeks heat up.

  ‘Hello, you lot!’ Stella heads over, sloshing champagne about so haphazardly there’s only about an inch left in her glass by the time she reaches us.

  ‘Stella!’ Joe says, standing up to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Congratulations. You look beautiful.’ The rest of us heartily endorse this statement, because it’s completely true, despite the fact that her tiara won’t stay on straight.

  ‘Oh, I thank you, I thank you! So the burning question on my lips is this,’ she says, turning very serious. ‘What did you think of the organza chair tie-backs?’

  The men look at each other blankly. ‘I made them myself,’ she adds proudly, failing to cover the slight slur in her words. ‘Seven bloody hours it took to get those bows straight.’

  The hint of a smile appears on Will’s lips. ‘Well, I can say categorically that those bows were definitely straight. That’s what I said to you, Joe, didn’t I? “Look at the bows on these chairs. They’re sooo . . . straight.”’

  Stella purses her lips, suppressing a giggle. ‘I hope you’re not being sarcastic.’

  He laughs. ‘Congratulations, Stella. It’s been a great
day.’ Then he glances self-consciously at the rest of the group and excuses himself to go to the gents.

  A thought buries itself in Stella’s brow and she turns to me with a frown. ‘Where’s Cate?’

  I squirm. ‘Oh, um, well . . . ’

  ‘She’s there,’ Emily whispers.

  We all look up. Conversations are being cut short, heads are turning, and a sizeable number of guests have their eyes on our friend.

  As Cate scans the crowd, searching for us, I wave to her and go to leap up before she can change her mind and dart home again.

  Only before I get there, something surprising happens. She straightens her back, draws a fortifying breath into her lungs and looks, for the flicker of a moment, every bit the confident woman she always was. Then she walks towards the guests, her head held high.

  Instead of slinking away from people – people she knows could well have seen her picture – Cate does what she does best: she starts chatting. She’s making small talk with Stella’s mum when I reach them, discussing posies and button-holes and how she’s not a fan of gypsophila as she thinks it looks dated. I join in briefly, nodding my approval about the choice of colours, when the mother of the bride is politely swept away to take part in another family photograph.

  Cate forces her mouth into another stoic smile when she sees me, then she leans in to give me a hug. ‘Hello, you.’

  ‘You came.’

  She responds with a tight nod. ‘I did.’ Then she braces herself to add: ‘I have spent the afternoon with the police.’

  ‘Oh my God – really?’

  ‘I had to,’ she concludes. ‘You were right, Lauren. There was no other option left. I have to face the fact that everywhere I go, anywhere I go, people might have seen that picture. And that is horrendous. But there comes a point when you have to say to yourself: I didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing at all. So I refuse to let my life be ruined by a vicious little prick like Robby.’

  I squeeze her arm. ‘That’s the truth.’

  ‘Well, I’m still dying inside just being here,’ she confesses. ‘But I won’t be bullied. Not by him and not by anyone. So if anyone here has anything to say about the fact that they happened to see my boobs on Facebook this morning, bring it on.’