Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (31 page)

Wildly, I come up with: I have irritable bowel syndrome, which at least has the benefit of shutting her up.

I make it through the day without bumping into Edwin, and decide, on a whim, to go over to Mum’s house after school. I arrive to find her on her hands and knees at the back of the house,
attempting to unblock a drain. I won’t go into the smell, beyond the fact that I’m convinced it singes my nasal hairs.

‘Wouldn’t you be better calling a plumber?’ I ask. She looks at me as if this is as ludicrous a suggestion as hiring John Frieda himself to come round and personally apply her
Head & Shoulders.

‘Don’t be daft,’ she says, stuffing her rubber glove down further, before looking up at me expectantly, and asking meaningfully: ‘Did you want to help?’

I look round, hoping she must be talking to someone else. ‘I’m ready to give you all the moral support you need,’ I say, and she grunts. ‘How about I go and make some
tea?’

I’m in the kitchen straining the tea bags when she walks in, streaks of mud on her cheeks as if she’s about to go on a mission with Rambo. ‘There,’ I say, handing a mug
to her.

‘Cheers,’ she replies, taking a slurp. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘I just thought I’d stop by, that’s all. And . . . I thought I’d let you know that I’m no longer going to Singapore.’

I actually feel ridiculous saying it, a sensation her perplexed expression does nothing to abate.

‘I thought you were excited about going to Singapore?’ she says. ‘What happened to it “definitely being the place for you”?’

‘I made a mistake,’ I mumble.

‘Right,’ she says, in this oddly flat tone that conveys the message ‘nothing surprises me about you any more’. ‘So does that mean you’re staying here? Or that
the saving for Australia’s back on again?’

‘Australia,’ I mumble.

And although it’s been on, then off again like a defective boiler, at the moment it’s my only option. Because if Joe and Emily
do
become parents, I cannot be here to watch.
I just can’t.

‘Well, I’m not sure I understand, but there’s nothing new there,’ Mum philosophises. ‘One thing’s for sure though: Steph’ll be pleased.’

And so I stumble back into planning to save for Australia again. Although, obviously now that leaving ASAP is a priority, I also need to get a job out there, so have registered with a teaching
agency and am keeping my fingers crossed that some interviews come up soon. I am consumed with worry about leaving Cate, but it’s impossible for me to hang around here any longer.

Planning to go to Australia again feels like crawling back to an old boyfriend after you’ve betrayed him. But it’s the best option I’ve got. And it at least gives me something
to think about, something to plan for. Something to dwell on that isn’t Emily and Joe’s baby.

I’ve had a creeping certainty, ever since she told me, that Emily will decide to keep the baby. I know my friend. Emily might never have actively wanted kids, but she’s always been
the type who believes in fate, that things happen for a reason – something she actually said in one of her texts to me yesterday. I’m equally certain that, although Joe tried to
convince me his feelings for her didn’t amount to much, he’ll try to make a go of things with her. As a family.

I find my mind drifting every so often to thoughts of what Joe would be like as a father.

If you’d asked me before our kiss in the Moonlight Hotel, I’d have imagined him to be made for it, one of those guys you can effortlessly picture kicking around a football with his
young son, or hoisting his little girl on his shoulders on a sunny day. You only had to see how proud he looked when talking about his twelve-year-old niece. But that kiss made every perception
about him unravel. He’s not the fine, upstanding potential dad I believed him to be. Though, come to think of it, what do the events of the last few days make
me
?

‘Miss Scott?’ I snap out of my contemplation and find Tom Goodwin at my side, while the other children complete the self-portraits I’d tasked them with.

‘What is it, Tom?’

‘Miss, I’ve had an accident.’

I look down to see a dark patch on the front of his trousers, distress etched in his little face. ‘Oh dear. Not to worry, Tom,’ I say gently. ‘Let’s go and get you
cleaned up.’

I leave Angela in charge of the class and take Tom down to the toilets, collecting his PE kit en route so he can change into a clean pair of jogging bottoms.

‘Did you forget to go to the toilet at break, Tom?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says, under his breath. ‘It just happened.’

I’ve been teaching Tom since last September and, until two weeks ago, he’d never wet himself. Now it’s happened three times. Sometimes, with children of this age, this just
happens; there’s no particular explanation for it beyond the fact that they’re easily distracted. But I can’t help wondering about Tom, how sad he’s been lately – and
what he tells me is going on at home.

‘I want you to make sure that at the start of every breaktime you go to the toilet,’ I remind him. ‘And when you think you’ve finished, you need to squeeze your tummy
muscles to make sure there’s absolutely none left. OK?’

He nods slowly, then his eyes flick up to mine. ‘Miss?’

‘Yes, Tom?’

‘If my mum and dad get divorced, will I be the only one in our class whose dad doesn’t live with them?’

I reach out briefly to pat his little shoulder. ‘No, Tom, you wouldn’t be. I grew up without my dad around too.’

He looks up, surprised, as if it had never occurred to him that I’d have parents too, that there was a time when I was a little girl. He doesn’t answer, as I wrap up his wet trousers
in a plastic carrier bag. Then we wash our hands, he picks up his PE bag and we head into the corridor together. ‘Have you spoken to your mum like I suggested?’ I ask. ‘About what
you heard her talking about with your dad?’

He looks down and shakes his head. And I realise I’m going to have to have one conversation that’s just no longer avoidable.

Jenny Goodwin, Tom’s mum, is chatting to another mum at home-time. She looks thinner than when I last saw her, her wisps of blonde hair brushed back from her pale, pretty
face. I wave at her through the throng of parents and when she spots me she comes straight over.

‘Hello, Miss Scott. Everything all right?’ she asks.

‘I wondered if I could have a quick chat before I send Tom out.’ Her expression becomes anxious. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

Mrs Goodwin and I find a quiet corner of the assembly hall while Tom plays in the after-school club room with the other children. ‘What is it?’ she asks immediately, clearly not
buying my ‘nothing to worry about’ line.

‘I wanted to let you know that Tom wet himself again today. And I thought I ought to tell you about a conversation I had with him.’ It’s impossible not to feel awkward.
‘He was upset afterwards. He didn’t really want to tell me why, but he referred to some . . . changes that were happening at home.’

She bites her lip. ‘What changes?’

It takes a moment to think of the right way to say this. ‘He seems to think you and Mr Goodwin are getting divorced.’

Her breath is released in a long trail, her expression agonised. ‘Oh God . . . he must’ve heard us arguing. Children pick up so much. You think you can protect them, but you
can’t.’

‘I didn’t know whether to say anything, Mrs Goodwin – it’s really none of my business,’ I find myself blabbering. ‘And I should stress that there are other
children whose parents have divorced in the school and they’ve taken the whole thing in their stride. So it doesn’t
need
to be difficult for a child and, I mean, it’s a
fact of life these days. But I just thought I ought to mention that Tom’s aware of it, because it’s clearly on his mind.’

When she looks up at me there is a film of tears on her eyes. ‘I’ll talk to him,’ she says, her breath catching in her throat. ‘But, just so you know, we’re
not
getting divorced.’

‘Oh, right.’ I feel temporarily relieved that Tom might have got the wrong end of the stick.

‘I’m determined we’re not,’ she goes on. ‘I’m going to do everything I can to keep this family together.’

I simply nod. I don’t want to know the ins and outs of what’s going on at home; I just want Jenny and Tom’s dad Nick to try and do the best for their little boy.

‘We’ve been going through a rough patch, that’s all,’ she tells me. ‘But Tom’s dad and I, we’re still in love. We’ve made amends.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ I conclude, but she wants to convince me.

‘He gave me this at the weekend.’ She holds out her hand and displays a diamond ring. I’m no expert, clearly, but it doesn’t look cheap. ‘You don’t give that
to someone if you think nothing of them, do you?’

‘No, I don’t think you do,’ I reply.

She pushes her hand into her pocket. ‘I know what you’re probably thinking. This is just a thing. But it means more than that to me. And I think it does to him too. I love my husband
and son more than anything else on earth. And I know Nick loves me too. It’ll take more than a rough patch like this for him to break up our family.’

I nod. It’s time to end this conversation.

‘Well, like I say, I just thought you’d want to know about Tom. So maybe you could have a chat with him?’

‘I will,’ she says hastily, clutching her bag into her chest. ‘And thank you.’

That night, Steph Skypes me. Which I’m glad about because I’ve been putting off sloping back to her with my tail between my legs to tell her my trip’s back
on. Contrary to Mum’s prediction, she doesn’t greet the news with unrestrained joy.

‘I believe you’ve decided to come,’ she says, with mealy-mouthed satisfaction. ‘Well, the flat I’d earmarked in Bondi has gone. We might end up with somewhere away
from the beach. Somewhere quiet, where hardly anything’s going on. No all-night parties. No tattoo parlours. No
fun
.’

‘I’m sure we can make our own fun. Or just walk to all those places, don’t you think?’

Her expression softens. ‘So . . . you’re definitely coming?’

‘Looks that way.’ I smile tentatively.

She is briefly silent, before exploding into peals of laughter. ‘Oh, Loz! OK, I’ll admit it. It’s been shit since you said you were backing out. I mean, I’ve met people
here, but it’s not the same as family. Or friends – real friends. You had me worried. I thought I was going to have to go to all these beach barbecues by myself. Or at least with Jimbo
here,’ she grins, hooking her arm round a thick, tanned neck and planting her lips on its owner’s cheek.

The guy pulls back. ‘It’s Jason,’ he corrects her.

‘Whatevs,’ she replies, jumping on him again and clicking shut her laptop.

I don’t go to salsa the following evening; nor does Cate, nor Emily, all of us absent for different but equally horrible circumstances.

The following day after work, I’ve pulled up in front of the house when the phone rings and I glance down to see Joe’s number. My heart trebles in speed as I consider for a moment
not answering it. But before I can think enough to stop myself, I pull on the handbrake and press the green button.

‘Hello, Lauren,’ he says, clearly surprised I picked up.

The roof of my mouth feels like a sandpit. ‘Hi.’

‘I know you said you didn’t want to talk, but I need to explain a few things. How things have been with Emily, for example and . . . well—’

‘I
know
how things have been with Emily,’ I interrupt fiercely, not wanting to hear him try to justify his actions by explaining he’s somehow gone off her. ‘I
don’t need you to explain anything at all.’

He doesn’t answer at first. Then, when he speaks, my chest contracts, as if my heart is physically breaking. ‘What you don’t know is what I feel for
you
, Lauren. You
can’t possibly know.’

Tears gather in the rims of my eyes as I answer with the weakest excuse in the world. ‘I’m sorry, Joe, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got stuff to do.’

‘Lauren, please,’ he begins, but I put down the phone before I have to say another, strangled word.

It’s the weekend before I get a chance to cancel my flight to Singapore. That makes it sound like a straightforward affair, though it’s anything but. Although
I’d gone for a ‘flexible’ fare, what they don’t tell you is that the flexibility required seems to be from
you
: you’ve got to jump through more hoops than a
performing seal to get your cash back.

Still, I feel a lot better once there’s an email in my inbox confirming that the money has landed back in my account at teatime on Saturday, just before Cate and Emily come over. There
isn’t time to book my Australia journey until the morning, but I’ve found it and have it saved on my browser: an Emirates flight to Sydney, via Dubai, leaving at 7.45 p.m. on 20th July,
four weeks from now.

It’s evident as soon as Cate arrives that she’s not on what you’d describe as peak form. Which is no surprise; she looks worse every time I see her. Emily, meanwhile, seems
better. Tired still, slightly lost, but at least her smile when I open the door is a genuine one – even if the thought of what’s behind it makes sweat gather on the nape of my neck.

As the only person in whom she’s confided about the pregnancy, I know she needs me right now, and that in itself makes my betrayal weigh heavier on me than I can possibly describe.

Nevertheless, after a few drinks and a good chat, there are moments when I could close my eyes, take a bite of a Dorito, and imagine things are exactly the same as they used to be, long before
any of this stuff happened to us.

‘I must admit, I’m as surprised as Edwin is that you’ve gone off him,’ Emily says as she curls up her knees on the sofa, taking a sip of the elderflower water I’ve
surreptitiously put in her glass each time she needed topping up. It seems to have done the trick because Cate hasn’t commented on why Emily is the only one not drinking and has assumed
it’s the same cheeky Sauvignon that she’s knocking back. ‘Although how he thinks ranting at you about it is going to help is anyone’s guess.’