Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (37 page)

‘Hey.’ It’s Will. He looks very alone without Cate by his side.

‘Hey, how are you?’ I say warily.

‘Not bad. Are you by yourself?’ he asks – and I can’t tell by looking at him if he’s seen the picture on Facebook or not.

I nod. ‘Yes. Cate’s had a bit of a . . . crisis.’

He looks perplexed. ‘One of the pictures has reappeared on her Facebook feed.’

From the shock on his face he apparently didn’t know. Beyond that, I can’t work out what’s going in his head. ‘She didn’t mean all that stuff she said the other
night, you know,’ I tell him.

‘I know,’ he says in a low voice.

A momentary silence descends on us. Then I ask: ‘Are you here by yourself?’ It couldn’t be more obvious that this is code for:
Where is Joe?

‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Joe’s had to step into a babysitting crisis.’

I feel myself deflate. ‘He’s looking after a
baby?’

‘Well, Sophie’s twelve. Joe’s sister Mel is over for a few days with her, only some big work crisis erupted yesterday afternoon and she had to fly to Dublin until this
afternoon. So Joe’s had to back out of the wedding.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’

‘I think he’s disappointed not to be here. He wanted to say goodbye to everyone properly before he leaves.’

The air seems to be vacuumed from the room. ‘Where’s he going?’ I ask, as we approach a row of chairs at the back of the ceremony room.

‘It’s meant to be confidential,’ Will says. ‘But I can tell you, Lauren. Now that the Moonlight Hotel is in the shape it’s in, he’s got a buyer lined up. His
plan is to sell, then go and manage another project.’

‘Where’s he going?’ I repeat, more urgently this time.

But as the toastmaster appears and asks for hush before the ceremony, the room quietens.

‘I’ve said too much already,’ Will whispers.

I fix my eyes on the front of the room, feeling emotion rise up into my throat as I focus on the ushers. Mike is in his tails. Even from here I can see the sweat glistening on his brow, his feet
shuffling from side to side as he tries to keep a lid on his nerves and fails entirely.

I glance at the door, awaiting the arrival of the bride, but Emily appears first. She slips into the back, looking mildly flustered as she takes the only seat left in the row behind us and
clutches her little silver bag. She’s alone as far as I can tell, though I check back a few more times afterwards to see if Nick turns up. But all that happens is she catches my eye and gives
me a stiff smile.

Then the string quartet at the side of the room open with the Bridal March. The guests turn round and after a few beats, Stella appears with her dad, three bridesmaids and a flower girl with
nail varnish so glittery it could be seen from Outer Space.

Stella’s dress is gorgeous, a vintage ivory gown that’s fitted at the waist, with delicate, chiffon sleeves. It’s demure and angelic and a little bit sexy all at the same time.
Her face lights up with excitement and nerves, before she starts walking up the aisle faster than she should, until her dad gently tugs her by the elbow. She giggles and slows down, clearly
reminding herself that it isn’t a race.

When she reaches her groom and turns to look at him, the light in their eyes makes the back of my neck tingle. Stella’s younger brother James stands up to deliver a reading, telling the
guests with a slight croak in his voice that it was written by Bob Marley. It begins: ‘He’s not perfect . . .’ It’s a lesson in the art of loving. It’s simple and
beautiful and perfect. And I can hardly bear to listen to it.

As the ceremony unfolds, I think about Joe’s letter to me, the gazebo, the feelings he very clearly had for me. I didn’t just let him slip through my fingers. I didn’t even
just push him away. I banged my fist on his chest like a spoiled child and hurt him in the worst way possible. And yes, I thought I was doing it for the right reasons, but the fact that it’s
too bloody late now is inescapable.

It’s not just that Joe’s not here that makes me want to cry. It’s that, after what I’ve done, he’s
never
going to be here. I’ve lost a part of my
future. And in its place is a world without Joe, one devoid of colour and music and the way he made me feel every time I danced with him. As if every bit of me was smiling.

My throat feels thick with despair as Stella and Mike take a seat to sign the wedding register and a thought kicks inside my brain:
What an almighty fuck-up you’ve made,
Lauren!

I fix my gaze on a ribbon on the chair in front of me as the registrar starts speaking again. I don’t even hear most of the words, until I’m jolted by one sentence.

‘This day will form a milestone in your lives. You will look back upon it with love and happiness, as the start of a new life together.’

I make the decision as the sentence is still hot in the air, floating over our heads. Today I need to make my own milestone – one way or another.

But it’s not until the register is signed, the happy couple are pronounced man and wife and they’re skipping back down the aisle as Pachelbel’s
Canon
rings out, that I
lean into Will and say, ‘I need to know where Joe is.’

‘What?’ He can barely hear me.

‘Where’s Joe? Is he at the hotel?’

‘Why?’ The closing music rings out triumphant, as a deafening applause launches through the room.

‘Because I need to go and find him.’

He looks at me as if I’m completely insane. ‘But you’re at a wedding.’

‘Yes, but this is important. Besides, everyone will just be milling round for a couple of hours now, while the photos are taken. Nobody will notice I’m gone. I can be there and back
in two hours.’

‘Not where Joe is,’ he tells me. ‘Not without seriously pushing it.’

‘Do you believe me yet?’ asks Will. ‘About this being a bad idea, I mean.’

We are standing underneath a ‘tree trekking’ course at one of the activity centres on the east shore of Windermere. I’m vaguely aware that it’s been here for a few years,
but it’s not the kind of place I’d normally go anywhere near. The mere thought brings me out in a cold sweat.

The course is apparently designed to test balance and endurance. I’ve never felt the need to do either – why would you? It consists of rope ladders, trapezes, zip wires and about
twenty-odd other challenges – all of which are suspended 25 feet in the air.

‘We’ve got an hour and a half before the group photos are taken, according to the Best Man,’ I tell Will. ‘So as long as we’re back before then, no one will ever
know we’re gone.’

‘The guy in the office said Joe and Sophie are in the group that’s just set off,’ Will says, and I remind myself to thank him later for indulging me in what he clearly thinks
is a ludicrous endeavour. ‘The course meanders along here then heads down to the lake. So if we follow it from the ground and keep our eyes peeled we should, in theory, be able to find
them.’

‘Great. This way then,’ I say authoritatively as I attempt to stride off, high heels a-clattering, past a family in head-to-toe North Face gear.

It’s fair to say that Will and I don’t blend in here, not today at least. The fact that we’re the only people in sight who are
not
wearing climbing boots and
waterproofs and harnesses is only the half of it; between the heels and floaty Karen Millen jumpsuit I couldn’t look more out of place if I was wearing a bowl of tropical fruit on my
head.

‘They’re there,’ Will announces as my eyes dart up, momentarily blinded by a shard of sun before I see him, straddling the two steps on a bridge that looks straight out of an
Indiana Jones movie.

‘JOE!’

It’s Will who shouts his name as both Joe and the girl in front of him – who I can only assume is Sophie – freeze. While Joe clings on and peers down, Sophie loses her step and
falls briefly into her harness, scrambling back into position with the help of her uncle.

‘What are you doing here?’ he shouts down eventually.

I realise he’s directing this at me, but find myself suddenly mute.

‘Go on then,’ Will urges me.

I clear my throat. ‘Joe, I really need to talk to you,’ I yell, as heat shoots to my face. ‘There’s so much I want to say—’

‘Excuse me, love.’ I spin round to see one of the staff marching towards me. ‘You can’t have a conversation from down here. It’s not safe. When someone’s on
that course, they need to concentrate. You’ll have to wait until they’ve finished.’

‘How long will it take?’ I ask desperately, looking at my watch.

He looks up. ‘Hmm . . . from where they are, I’d say forty-five minutes or so. If they’re quick.’

‘Oh, that’s no good,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got a wedding to go to.’

Judging by his expression, I can tell that he fails entirely to see the relevance of what I’ve got in my diary this weekend.

‘She could always meet him at the bottom of the zip wire, couldn’t she?’ Will suggests. ‘That’s halfway round the course. Am I right in saying you can pay to only
do that part of it?’

The guy shrugs. ‘Yeah, she could do that. You’d be with them in about fifteen minutes then.’

‘There you go,’ Will concludes.

‘Brilliant!’ I agree, then: ‘Sorry, but which zip wire are we talking about?’

At that moment, a hideous, ear-piercing roar echoes through the air and I look up to see a grown man above me in a harness, travelling at the sort of speed Concorde used to reach.

‘Surely to God you don’t mean that one?’ I say.

‘No, not that,’ Will laughs. ‘I mean
this
.’ He beckons me up a small pathway until we’re standing at a higher point on the hill.

And it’s there that I first set eyes on the precise zip wire he’s talking about. Only to call it a ‘zip wire’ is misleading, at least in my head; for that implies
something fun and whizzy and significantly smaller.
This
is beyond the realms of sanity. Something completely out of the question.

‘It starts at the top of the four-storey tower and runs 250 metres down to the lake,’ he tells me. Then he takes in my expression. ‘It’s fun. Whenever I’ve got
friends with kids over I recommend this.’

‘
Children
are allowed to do this?’ I clarify, feeling mildly delirious.

‘Of course. They have no fear at that age,’ he adds casually.

‘I can’t possibly do that, Will,’ I announce.

He shrugs. ‘It’s up to you. We can just go back to the wedding.’

I realise I’m chewing the side of my mouth so hard I can taste blood. I have never felt a greater urge to get something off my chest. To sort something out. The possibility of me
not
addressing this issue – right here, right now – is unthinkable.

‘Isn’t there some sort of age restriction, or height restriction, or something?’ I enquire, as we start heading back to our original point.

‘Are you over five?’ the staff member asks.

‘Yes,’ I squeak.

‘Then you’re in.’

‘Lauren!’ I look up and see Joe. ‘I’ve got to go.’

I watch as Joe disappears into the woodland above, following his niece, along with all hopes of me ever making it up to him before he disappears off somewhere. Then a sentence fires from my
mouth before I realise I’ve even thought it. ‘Right, I’m doing it. I’m definitely going to do this.’

‘I take it you have some suitable footwear before I go and get you harnessed up?’ The guy looks at my shoes. They were purchased in Kurt Geiger and have a four-inch heel and two
straps similar in consistency to dental floss.

‘I’ve got something in the boot that’ll do,’ Will offers.

We scarper back to the car and he hands me a pair of wellies, which would be an ideal choice of footwear, except for them being a size 11 and a half.

‘Who do you think I am, Bilbo Baggins?’ I ask.

‘I’ve got socks too. They’ll stay on with a bit of padding.’ And so, I pull on a pair of thick socks, followed by my giant boots and try to convince myself I am
channelling Kate Moss at Glasto, rather than a Hobbit with a limp. Then I trip over myself all the way to the office, pay £12 and, as confidently as possible through my warbling tonsils, ask
to be harnessed up for the zip wire.

The staff are polite enough not to question why I look as though I’ve raided a dressing-up box, as I climb up the four-storey tower to reach the platform for my safety check.

Will is behind me, as he has been the entire time. In amongst the gazillion thoughts whizzing through my brain is a swell of affection for a man who would have been fantastic for Cate, had her
circumstances been different. It proves to be a fleeting sensation after I turn and register that he’s suppressing a smile. ‘What’s so funny?’

He straightens his face. ‘You don’t really want me to answer that question, do you?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Seriously though – good on you,’ he adds.

‘What do you mean?’

He looks awkward, as if he’s struggling to say the right thing without offending me. ‘I just mean . . . you screwed things up with Joe. Big time. Like, irreversibly. I don’t
actually think you’ve got a hope in hell of him telling you anything other than to sling your hook. Sorry.’

I listen to this with my eyes stretched, as I suddenly find myself at the front of the queue being strapped up on to the zip wire.

‘Is this supposed to be a pep talk?’ I grunt, as the instructor performs safety checks and my heart nearly flies out of my chest.

‘The point I was about to make is this: you’re still giving it a go.’ Will grins. ‘You’re a true romantic, Lauren. Hat’s off to you.’

I look into his eyes one last time and say: ‘I’m not sure I’m a true romantic. I think I’m just like you. I know that some people are worth fighting for.’

He doesn’t answer.

I spin around to find myself facing a wooden board that appears to be controlled by some sort of lever. I am in a harness, with so many clips and contraptions securing me to the line that I know
– of course I know! – that I am safe. Statistically, the chances of me being the first person to die a hideous and gruesome death in this way are probably fairly slim.

But while the sensible part of my brain keeps repeating that, another instinctive part can only focus on the fact that I am miles from the ground. That if that rope broke, I’d be face
first in a field of mud with my knees twisted at a right angle around my ears.