Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (17 page)

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.

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 didn’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.’

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 just 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.’

The rest of the evening runs painfully slowly and culminates in the arrival of the final set of parents, Jacob Preston’s mum and dad. Mr and Mrs Preston are the most physically mismatched
couple you could ever meet. She is a female version of the Jolly Green Giant – unfeasibly tall, with the arms of a shotputter – while he is short, reedy, and looks as if a strong sneeze
would make him fall over.

Not that I care what they look like – I only care that they’re the last set of parents I have to deal with. So it’s with a noticeable lift in my mood that I take out
Jacob’s file and prepare for our friendly chat. Only it’s clear that Mr and Mrs Preston are feeling less than friendly.

‘I wonder if you could explain something,’ Mrs Preston barks at me. ‘Why did my five-year-old son come home yesterday evening and call me a
tw . . .
a word that
frankly I can’t repeat. He tells me
you
said it was OK.’

My mouth drops as I recall the incident in the playground when the children thought they’d run an array of insults past me – including the word ‘twit’.

‘Well, no . . . that’s not quite right. I said that he shouldn’t call anyone names. It was just a group of children asking whether certain words were naughty or not. One of
them was that.’

‘I can’t believe you think it’s no big deal. You teachers with your liberal, airy-fairy views.’

I sit back, slightly in shock. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I just thought—’

‘You just thought it was acceptable for a five-year-old boy to call his mum
a twat?
What are you teaching him next? That it’s okay to call his granddad motherfucker or his
grandma a cun—’

‘Mr Preston! I’m sorry, but there’s been a terrible misunderstanding!’ Only, by the look on both of their faces, they don’t look much in the mood to listen to
explanations.

I phone Emily on my hands-free the second I get into the car as I’m on the way to Cate’s. ‘Have you managed to speak to her?’

‘Only once,’ she replies. ‘I’ve been up on Striding Edge today, so had to wait until we got down the mountain.’

‘How is she?’ I already know the answer from the tone of her texts.

‘Awful. That website has ignored the email we sent last night so the picture’s still up there. And it turns out that as well as posting her email address on the site, her Twitter
name’s also up there, which meant she woke this morning to find dozens of messages calling her a slut and a whore and other things I don’t even want to repeat.’