Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (21 page)

I couldn’t be more ready for the break.

While Edwin retreats to the gents, I grab a Diet Coke and stand to watch the improvers’ class finishing their turns. The music softens and my eyes drift on to Joe,
dancing with Marion.

It’s impossible not to notice how handsome he looks tonight, in the simplest of long-sleeved T-shirts and jeans slung low on his muscular hips. He’s got one of those faces that
demand to be looked at: not simply attractive, but beautiful, with playful eyes and a Brando-esque definition to the jaw.

I’ve noticed all this before. But tonight it unleashes a throb of pleasure inside me. It’s almost a relief when Edwin returns and I can focus on reassuring him that it probably
is
just the lighting in here that’s putting him off.

When the lesson resumes, Lulu announces that we’re going to try a basic right turn – to which Edwin responds by diving in front of me and gripping my hand. ‘I don’t like
being anyone else’s dance partner,’ he grins. ‘You’re the only one who’ll tolerate me.’

I laugh as he pulls back. But as the evening draws on and Edwin’s assault on my toes continues, I become aware of my attention drifting. And the fact that I keep thinking about Joe on the
other side of the room disturbs me more than I can tell you.

I take my last mouthful of margarita as Lulu draws a line under the beginners’ class – and when I realise that Joe and Emily are by our side, I feel my neck grow hotter.

‘Welcome to salsa, I’m Joe,’ he says, extending a hand to Edwin. ‘We didn’t get introduced earlier.’

‘Edwin.’

They shake hands, but Edwin is significantly less buoyant than he was before the class started.

‘Did you enjoy your first lesson?’ Emily asks brightly.

Edwin forces a smile. ‘It’s safe to say I won’t be coming again.’

Logically I know that I can’t be held responsible for Edwin having a shit time of it, but I still feel as though I am.

‘I don’t think Lauren would want me, for a start,’ he adds.

‘Oh, that’s not true,’ I leap in, wondering how or why this man, with whom I’ve been in love for two years, needs me to beg him to come to the next class.

‘It does take a bit of practice,’ Joe reassures him. ‘We were all awful when we first got here. The first time I danced with Lauren, her shins were black and blue.’

‘Yes, you
were
absolutely dreadful,’ I reply, unable to resist the tease, even though the truth is we at least were able to move together, unlike whatever happened tonight
with me and Edwin. Only, when he laughs and our eyes connect, I realise, in this sixth-of-a-second moment, that my stomach is twisting.

I stop laughing and look firmly at Em. ‘Would you two like to join us for a drink?’ The words spill out before I can stop them; I don’t even
want
Joe and Emily to come
with us. All I wanted at the start of the night was to end up in a cosy pub with Edwin whispering sweet nothings into my ear while I smudged my lipstick on his ruffled shirt.

‘Sorry, I can’t,’ Emily replies quickly. ‘I need an early night. Big day of bouldering tomorrow.’

‘Ouch,’ I say.

Everyone looks at Joe, apart from me. I look at the floor, my heart thudding wildly as he considers his options.

‘I’ll pass, I think. I’m going to be on site at the hotel early tomorrow too. But you two have a great evening.’

After a quick drink in the Royal Oak, Edwin drives me home. And through a combination of incessant babbling and complimenting him repeatedly on his trousers, I somehow manage
to cheer him up. As a result of which, the car is filled with unspoken promise – and a big question mark over what is going to happen when we reach my house.

‘Would you mind if I stop off at the garage to fill up?’ Edwin asks. ‘I won’t get home otherwise.’

‘No problem,’ I reply.

As he steps out into the floodlit forecourt I look at his face in the wing mirror while he removes the petrol cap and starts filling it up. It’s a harsh light, but he’s still
handsome. I idly watch him replace the pump as a small tingle of possibility warms through me.

I lean back and consider whether I could seduce Edwin tonight. Whether I should throw caution to the wind, invite him in to sample my Molton Brown handwash and make myself irresistible to him. A
knock on the window nearly makes me leap out of my seat.

‘Fancy some crisps?’ he shouts through the window. ‘I’m getting some prawn cocktail ones for myself.’

I shake my head. ‘I’ll pass.’

He smiles and a swoop of affection dances through me, as a sentence bubbles at my lips.

I must not think about Joe. I must not think about Joe.

Then –

Why the hell am I even
thinking
about not thinking about Joe?

My eyelashes flutter open to see Edwin join the end of a queue inside the shop. Deciding to take the opportunity to top up my lipstick, I unstrap my seat belt and kneel up to lean into the back
seat to retrieve my bag, where I threw it when we first got in.

I’m on my hands and knees, my bottom on display through the windscreen, when I hear the click of Edwin’s central locking. This wouldn’t be an issue if it didn’t also
occur to me that he’s activated the alarm at the same time.

I don’t even get a chance to work out why he’s locked me in: my mind is too busy fretting about how I’m going to get myself from my hands and knees, doggy-style, without
setting off the alarm. I glance out of the window to see a woman in her late thirties pausing to peer in at me. I smile. She looks away and dashes to her car, clearly bewildered as to why a grown
woman is undertaking a pilates class while poised over the handbrake of a mid-range Polo.

I am about to start panicking when the lock clicks off. I scramble back in the direction of my seat and am a foot away and positioned like an Egyptian hieroglyphic, when the alarm clicks on
again. I freeze.

I dart my eyes in the direction of the garage shop and spot Edwin, fiddling with his car key and entirely oblivious to the fact that he’s pressing it on and off.

A click interrupts my thoughts. I scramble into the passenger seat. Only it happens so fast, the contents of my bag spill out into the footwell.

I decide to sit it out and remain completely immobile until he’s back. Then I glance down and realise that, not only have all my credit cards, loyalty cards, tissues, lip balm and any
other number of items hit the deck, but there is also, right on the top, a tube of athlete’s foot cream.

Edwin and I might have grown close over the last two years, but when I am teetering on the possibility of a seduction, shoving my fungal infection cream in his face is a step too far. I move
forward – an inch – before the locks click back. I freeze. They click again and I repeat the exercise. This time, I make it a foot – before the click happens again.

Over the next minute I find myself edging forward between clicks, like someone attempting ‘The Robot’ after just coming out of a twenty-year cryogenic freeze.

I am finally poised in the footwell, frantically gathering up my cards and podiatry essentials, when the car door opens and Edwin appears.

‘I took the liberty,’ he grins.

‘Oh?’ I say, realising as I sit up and attempt to look composed that I have beads of sweat gathered on my brow.

‘Wotsits,’ he replies, chucking a pack on my lap. ‘I didn’t think you’d be able to resist.’

In the event, I do resist. Largely because, having successfully negotiated this evening without revealing any unsavoury podiatry disorders to Edwin, one thing is uppermost on my mind. Namely,
whether after a two-year absence from any conjugal action whatsoever, it might be about to happen: I might get jiggy with him. Hell, I
want
to. I’m certainly not going to let any
odd, short-lived thoughts about Joe throw things off-course.

I am contemplating a subtle way of asking him in ‘for a coffee’ as he pulls up outside my house. The key with Edwin, I’m absolutely certain, is not being too obvious. And
‘coffee’ could not be more obvious if I was holding up a big neon sign saying, ‘Any chance of some sex, please?’

‘So,’ he says, switching off the ignition, before turning to me with a bright, wide-eyed look. ‘Shall I come in for a coffee?’

The question leaves me momentarily speechless. ‘Of . . . of course.’

He looks alarmed. ‘Sorry Lauren. That was so presumptuous of me.’

‘No, Edwin – it wasn’t,’ I leap in. ‘I just . . . of course, come in!’

‘You’re probably right,’ he decides, backing away. ‘It’s a bad idea. It’s late and it is only Tuesday.’

I am suddenly so hungry for Edwin to come in that I nearly grab him by the collar and drag him there. But I resolve to stay cool. Cool-ish. ‘Edwin. I’d
love
you to come in
for a coffee.’

A smile appears on his lips. ‘Would you?’

I nod repeatedly.

He turns back to the windscreen, full of quiet contemplation. ‘You know what? I think we should maybe save that for our next date. Don’t you? On a Saturday this time. Let’s do
it properly . . . a
ll of it
. Assuming you’d still like to go out on a Saturday?’

I nod again. ‘I would.’

And then it happens. The moment I’ve been waiting for. Edwin leans over and kisses me. It’s slightly awkward at the beginning because my leg is pressed hard into the gear-stick and
the handbrake prevents a full embrace. But as our lips touch, softly, my heart races in my ears and it is, unquestionably, a great kiss. A wonderful kiss. A kiss that unleashes two years of pent-up
longing.

Which is probably why, when he pulls away and gazes into my eyes, it feels over far too quick.

‘You’re an excellent kisser, Lauren Scott,’ he whispers. ‘I knew you would be.’

‘I knew it too, Edwin,’ I murmur. Then it strikes me that this sentence makes no sense whatsoever. ‘Not that
I
would be . . . I always knew that. I mean . . . no, I
didn’t mean that. I mean that I knew, or at least thought, you’d be good too. And you are.’

‘Goodbye, Lauren,’ he says.

‘See you in school tomorrow,’ I grin, holding his gaze for a moment, before sweeping out of the car and doing my best job at sauntering sexily up the garden path.

When I’m inside, I close the door behind me and lean against it as my head swirls with thoughts. Then I plod upstairs, trying to work out how I feel as I pack the Molton Brown handwash
into the cupboard. Because, although I obviously wanted Edwin to come back here, I can at least console myself with the fact that I’m now certain that something’s going to happen
between us.

I do my ablutions and, still tingling from the feel of Edwin’s lips, I pull on my pyjamas and lie staring at the ceiling as I let my mind drift, and drift . . . on to something else
entirely.

Joe.

Oh
, why
am I thinking of bloody, bloody Joe?

I don’t even want these thoughts – in fact, I actively want to be shot of them. I close my eyes, but his body, his eyes, the way he moves when he dances . . . they all push
themselves back into my head, causing such a commotion that I’m forced to think this whole thing through, to reconcile it all with myself.

It’s perfectly possible, is it not, to have a mild crush on someone – in the same way that I used to fancy Duncan from Blue – without ever believing anything will come of
it.

I feel a degree of adolescent-style attraction towards Joe, I can’t deny it.

But these are not real feelings like the ones I have for Edwin. They’re just an instinctive human reaction to a person who’s undeniably handsome, but also, I remind myself, going out
with one of my best friends.

I decide to check my phone before I try to get to sleep. I go to Facebook first, waste seven minutes of my life on cute baby videos and news articles about a threatened global Prosecco shortage,
then go on to my emails, where there’s a barrage of spam and just one of any interest – from the agency in Singapore.

I don’t know what I’m expecting as I open it – some feedback from the interview perhaps or, at my most optimistic, a message to say I’m through to the next round.

In the event I have to read it several times before it sinks in.

I have to read the words that say how impressed Ms Heng was, how she particularly liked the imagination I’d put into my lesson plans and how she was certain I’d fit in there. I keep
looking for the ‘but’, before I realise that there isn’t one.

I put down my phone with a thumping heart. I’ve actually got the job. And the prospect of moving to Singapore has suddenly become very real.

Cate looks distraught when I tell her about Singapore, the following day after work. Despite her protestations that I must go and have a brilliant time, the look in her eyes
consumes me with guilt. In only a few weeks, I will be moving nearly 11,000 miles away. Assuming I take the job.

‘Don’t look so worried, I’ll be fine,’ she insists. But she looks far from fine. She has lost so much weight, and when I went past the florist’s shop to get to her
flat today, she’d shut it early again. ‘Besides, worse things happen, don’t they? I’ve watched
Philomena
twice this week just to remind myself of that when
I’m busy deleting emails inviting me to wank off strange men.’

I take a seat on her sofa. ‘This happened to a load of celebrities a few years ago, didn’t it? I know it doesn’t make it any easier but you’re not alone.’

‘Sadly, I don’t have Jennifer Lawrence’s legal team to come down on the website like a ton of bricks.’ She logs on to her computer, then exclaims ‘Oh my
God!’

‘What is it?’ I ask tentatively.

‘I’m not sure yet . . . give me a minute.’ She starts tapping on her keyboard, frantically scanning the screen. Then she sits back in her chair and declares triumphantly,
‘She’s done it. She’s only gone and done it!’

‘What? Who? Who’s done what and where?’

She pauses and takes it all in, then begins to explain: ‘A few weeks ago I found a forum started by women who’d had exactly this happen to them. I got talking to a woman in Arizona
who’d appeared on the same site I did, and was trying to get it closed down. She had the police and lawyers involved and . . . well, I didn’t think anything of it because time went on
and it just stayed live.’