Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel

by Jane Costello

  The door pushes open and two elderly women walk in to have a browse. ‘Good morning, ladies,’ Cate smiles.

  ‘Morning,’ says one of them. ‘Ooh, what a lovely shop! Look at these, Diana.’

  Over the next twenty minutes, the two ladies proceed to coo over and sniff every other flower in the place while we carry on chatting. ‘Can you still not be persuaded to come to Spain?’ Cate asks me. ‘It’s been ages since we had a holiday all together.’

  ‘There was our weekend in Dublin.’

  ‘That was three years ago,’ she argues. ‘I think I’m owed one with you before you bugger off to Australia, or Singapore or wherever you decide to go.’

  ‘Oh, come off it – you’ll spend the entire time with Will. You won’t want me there to interfere.’

  ‘You’re my best friend – your job is to interfere, so of course I do. And besides, I need a partner in crime to finally get Joe and Emily together.’

  I look at her doubtfully. ‘I don’t think you need to worry there, Cate. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.’

  At that, the ladies announce, reluctantly, that they’re leaving – this has clearly been a sightseeing tour only. ‘Nothing take your fancy?’ Cate smiles gently.

  ‘I think they’re all a bit out of our price range,’ one of them says. ‘Beautiful though – worth every penny I’m sure. What a lovely place you’ve got.’

  ‘Thank you. I think so too,’ says Cate, glowing with pride as she pulls out a few stems from a vase and starts to wrap them up for them. I knew she would somehow. But I’m still not prepared for the subsequent meltdown the ladies have before scurrying out of the shop.

  ‘You’ll never become a millionaire businesswoman if you go giving away your stock for free,’ I warn her.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ she shrugs. ‘But if you can’t put a smile on an old lady’s face once in a while, what can you do?’

  On Easter Sunday, I head to Mum’s for lunch. She lives an hour and twenty minutes away in Wasdale with her boyfriend, Barry – though ‘boyfriend’ feels an odd word, given that they’re in their mid-fifties and not prone to scratching each other’s names in their pencil cases, at least as far as I know.

  If you thought where I lived was remote, it’s like Times Square compared with this place. Personally, this would drive me insane, even if I can see its appeal: a view that gives you goose pimples, across the black abyss of Wastwater, England’s deepest lake, up towards the mountainous stretch of Great Gable and Scafell Pike. Even I recognise why people come to be outdoors here, to spread their wings, fill their lungs, reflect and breathe.

  I arrive at Fell Foot Cottage, where they’ve lived for the last five years, at 5 p.m., and step out of the car to see Mum emerging from the pub next door. She’s dressed in her ubiquitous wellies and jeans, gilet over a long-sleeved black top, and is swinging something in one hand that’s difficult to make out.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ I ask, although I am now close enough to have identified the offending item as a large, dead bird. Obviously. She comes to a halt and looks behind her, as if I’ve just alerted her to the fact that a herd of wildebeest is rampaging down the mountain towards us.

  ‘No, that,’ I gesture. ‘In your hand.’

  She lifts up her arm. ‘Oh, it’s a pheasant. I won it in a game of cards. Good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Never buy a lottery ticket, Mum,’ I sigh. ‘If you ever won a tenner it might blow your mind.’

  My mum is fifty-six and looks kind of good on it in an earthy, athletic way – with slim, strong legs and the shoulders of someone who regularly does physical stuff. The tiny thread veins blooming on her cheeks are the result of working outdoors on farms all her life, although latterly she’s been Head of Maintenance for a holiday park.

  Whatever the opposite is of pretentious, she is it: a no-nonsense, no-bull individual whose friends admire her dependability, loyalty and the fact that she can hold her booze like a sailor. She’s the most practical person I know. It’d never cross her mind to squeal if she saw a mouse, for instance – she’d just pick it up and chuck it out of the door in the way other people might deal with a leaf that had blown in.

  ‘So how’s Jeremy getting on?’ I ask, as we head inside the limewashed walls of the building. ‘Don’t you miss having the house to yourself?’

  ‘Oh, Barry and I don’t mind,’ she says. ‘Although between you and me, I think he might be feeling a bit homesick.’

  When Mum told me she was having her second cousin Helen’s twenty-year-old son Jeremy to stay over for the summer, so he could work as a farmhand to save money for his next year at Bristol University, I did wonder how that might pan out. Particularly since, from what I hear, the closest the guy’s been to the countryside before now was a trip to Center Parcs.

  I enter the kitchen as the smell of freshly roasted chicken fills the room, and Barry is standing at the Aga, stirring something with a look of intense concentration on his face. He wipes his hands on an apron, takes a sip of cloudy ale and spots me.

  ‘Lauren!’ he beams, pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose as he dabs foam from his beard and comes over to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Enjoying the Easter holidays?’

  The real answer is: No, because it’s keeping me from Edwin, but I decide not to even go down this route. ‘It’s been great, thanks, Barry. Ooh, something smells nice.’

  ‘Roast chicken. Good for the soul apparently,’ he winks.

  ‘Well, I’d never say no to a bit of that.’

  Fell Foot Cottage could be gorgeous if it were given the Ideal Home treatment, but my mum’s never been much of a fashion victim of any kind. Its charm is innate though, soaked into the old beams, the thick slate floor-tiles, the big old stove. It’s also helped along by Barry’s love of pseudo-intellectual knick-knacks, the framed Private Eye covers, old Ramones posters and ethnic rugs. Mum’s contribution to the house is more straightforward: wellies, paperback novels (thrillers mainly), and photos of Dad.

  There aren’t hundreds of them, just a few on the wall next to the stairs, nestled between other family photos – and the one on the mantelpiece in the living room that was taken in his early twenties. When I was little I never really thought of my father as cool – who does? But he unquestionably was, as the picture demonstrates; he’s leaning on the motorbike he had for a couple of years, fringe flicked upwards as a cigarette droops from the side of his mouth.

  Mum had been trying to get him to give up from the day they met, and although he loved the bones of her she never quite got her way on that one. He was too headstrong, too focused on the present to worry about what turned out to be a fragile future.

  Barry and I chat for a while as I help set the table; like me, he works with children – but as an ADHD specialist, helping kids and their families across Cumbria. Then we get on to the subject of his baking. Barry made his first batch of drop scones after episode one of The Great British Bake Off and has never looked back. Unlike other super-fans of the show I know (Edwin being one), Barry is no armchair cook, and from those humble beginnings, his ambition has known no bounds.

  ‘I’ve got a beauty today, haven’t I, Caroline?’ he asks my mum. Then he disappears into the utility room and emerges a few seconds later with his latest construct. ‘Ta-da! Can you tell what it is?’

  It is, very clearly, his attempt at a magnificent recreation of an instantly-recognisable landmark.

  Unfortunately, I haven’t a clue what it is.

  ‘It’s a cake?’ Mum offers.

  Barry rolls his eyes. ‘It’s the Taj Mahal!’

  She blinks at him. ‘But it’s brown.’

  ‘That’s because it’s made of gingerbread,’ he says. ‘You could tell what it was, couldn’t you, Lauren?’

  ‘Of course, it’s obvious,’ I reassure him, at which point the door opens and their house-guest walks in.

  I’ve only met my mum’s second cousin’s son once, at the same wedding where I wore those bridesmaids’ gloves, w
hen he was about four years old. He was sweet and shy, as I recall, with ears like two shiitake mushrooms and a long fringe that kept troubling his eyes.

  He’s scrubbed up well, particularly considering he’s spent the day dodging manure and herding livestock, and these days is unfeasibly tall and skinny, with a round face that’s kind of handsome, if slightly foppish.

  ‘Hello Jeremy,’ I say, walking over as he reaches out to shake my hand. ‘It’s been such a long time. I’d love to say you haven’t changed a bit, but I’m not sure how convincing that would be.’

  Jeremy has the sort of handshake world leaders exchange at global summits: a single, elbow-dislocating chug, accompanied by eye contact that could singe retinas. ‘Lauren. Hi. Good to see you again. You’re a teacher these days, I believe?’

  ‘That’s right, I work in—’

  ‘Hope you’re better than some of the losers we had working in our place,’ he declares, striding to the table. ‘I hated them all.’

  ‘Oh? What was wrong with them?’ I ask, carrying on laying the table. Mum starts flicking through the Westmorland Gazette.

  ‘I was predicted to get five A stars in my A levels, but as it is I . . . performed below my clear personal potential, which means I wasn’t able to get into Oxford. I was totally let down by them. Who knows where I might’ve been if it wasn’t for their fecklessness?’

  Mum glances up briefly. ‘But you might have missed out on shovelling shit all summer and staying in our box room.’ Jeremy doesn’t answer. She goes on: ‘Before I forget, Lauren – your birthday.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I need to give you my present.’

  ‘But my birthday’s in August. That’s four months away.’

  ‘I know, but Cate gave me a ring and made a suggestion, so I thought we might as well go with it. Save me having to bother in August,’ she adds.

  ‘What a lovely sentiment,’ I mutter, as she heads upstairs, from where her printer, which I suspect may be gas-powered, springs into life and creates a similar sort of racket to one of Caractacus Potts’ egg-boiling machines.

  During this time, Barry and I have a discussion about football transfers before the conversation meanders on to the issue of whether Jeremy could have been a Parisian pastry chef were it not for an incompetent Home Economics teacher who forgot to remove his macaroni cheese from the oven.

  Eventually Mum emerges with a print-out that looks as if it’s been chewed by an Alsatian. ‘Sorry – paper jam. This was the best I can do.’

  I peer at the crumpled A4 sheet, trying to make it out.

  ‘It’s a flight to Spain for this salsa holiday your friends are going on,’ she says, putting me out of my misery. ‘It was a real bargain. You’d better go home and start packing.’

  Chapter 12

  The injection of a surprise trip into the school break lifts my spirits immeasurably, even if I feel slightly wary about how much I might need to spend while I’m out there. Despite Cate repeating constantly what good value it all was, I know there’ll be a certain amount of alcoholic lubrication, which wasn’t part of the plan, given that I am still saving. And I am still saving. Because, depending on what mood you catch me in, I am either chomping at the bit to fly off to Singapore with Edwin at the start of term, or spilling over with worry that I’m setting myself up for more heartache.

  I also keep experiencing intense jolts of disappointment when I consider the prospect of not going to Australia. Which is nothing compared with the prospect of not going anywhere with Edwin, but I can’t deny the empty crunch in my stomach at the thought of relinquishing the waterfalls and surf breaks of Great Ocean Drive, the lush vineyards of the Barossa Valley.

  I suppose I just never imagined this scenario, even in my wildest dreams. Six months ago I imagined nothing but Edwin and Fiona snuggling up into cosy matrimony. So despite the fact that the salsa trip smashes my budget into tiny pieces, I actually can’t wait to get there and give my inner turmoil a holiday. Like Cate said, this is the first trip we’ve all been on for ages, and it feels like a fitting thing to do before I fly off to . . . wherever.

  We arrive at Liverpool Airport at an ungodly hour in the morning on Friday – hence the cheapo flight – as the sun is starting to rise in a beautiful clear sky. This is obviously not ideal because it is an unwritten law that any good holiday should begin by leaving behind the shittiest weather possible.

  ‘How’s the school break been for you, Emily?’ I ask, as we find a parking space.

  She throws me a look. ‘Chaos, but fantastic. I took five eight-year-olds ghyll scrambling yesterday. Brilliant fun, although I was very glad to deliver them back to their parents afterwards . . .’

  Em’s always been as certain that she never wants to be a mum as Cate and I are that we do, which sometimes seems a bit strange given how great she is with kids.

  ‘Right, Em,’ Cate declares after we’ve pulled up in the car park and she’s dragged out her luggage. ‘Lauren and I have had a long discussion and we are going to do everything in our power to get you and Joe together on this holiday. It’s our duty. Our mission. And we have chosen to accept it.’

  ‘He hasn’t really made a move,’ Emily replies dismissively. ‘Maybe he isn’t interested.’

  ‘Of course he’s interested,’ Cate replies, then she leans in and scrutinises Em’s face so closely you’d think she was searching for blackheads. ‘You haven’t met someone else, have you?’

  ‘How on earth did you leap to that conclusion?’ Emily asks, looking alarmed, but Cate is now too busy waving to the group outside the terminal building to respond. There’s only a few of us who took up the offer of the salsa holiday; all of us, probably crucially, are single and without families. But we’re joining several other groups over in Spain so hopefully it’ll all be good fun.

  As we head towards them, it strikes me how very British our tiny gang looks. This is despite Marion’s attempts to salsa-fy matters by making us all wear bright red T-shirts that say Caution: Hot Surface! Lakeland Salsa Club (tel 015395 6393 for details). We are, collectively, the direct opposite of what salsa dancers should probably be. There are no fireballs of burning, Latin energy. With the exception of Esteban, Will and Joe, who’ve all got passable tans, most of us are on the pasty side. Marion’s perm is wilting after the strain of lifting her bag on to the trolley. Frank is eating a tuna sandwich produced from his rucksack, and even gorgeous Jilly is looking a bit flustered.

  ‘I’ve obviously only come for the T-shirt,’ Joe says, appearing next to me.

  ‘Flattering, aren’t they?’ I reply, forgetting to hate him for a second.

  He laughs. I decide to shuffle away before he gets the impression I’m prepared to tolerate him. The holiday starts in the terminal, before we get on the plane. I go to the bar and return to find that Marion has decided to launch into an impromptu group dance outside Boots.

  It’s excruciatingly embarrassing, until a security guard comes and asks us all to desist. ‘These terrorism laws have gone mad!’ Marion protests, until he explains that he just wanted to stop the children in Starbucks from crying.

  Once we’re on the plane, Joe and Emily sit together, and Cate and Will in front of them. Despite the fact that this is a budget airline – and the best they can do is a flaccid cheese sandwich and warm white wine – Cate and Will look so euphoric to be in each other’s presence they could be in First Class on a British Airways flight.

  Esteban, having been separated from Jilly during the rush for the gate, ends up sitting next to me. I’m not at all unhappy with this development – he’s good fun, a nice bloke and it’s fascinating hearing about his life back in Lima.

  But two problems become apparent the second we take our seats.

  Firstly, his biceps – which are so big that by rights they should each have had their own allocated seat – leave me with as much personal space as a family of hippos playing Sardines.

  Worse, despite Esteban being seventeen stone and built
like a brick privy, it emerges that he is terrified of flying – to the point of hysteria.

  ‘I thought I was over this,’ he whimpers, as sweat bubbles on his brow. The engine hasn’t even started yet. ‘But this . . . this is terrible . . . horrendous . . . INSANE.’ At that he begins hyperventilating.

  ‘Esteban, don’t worry. Take deep breaths,’ I reassure him, as he grabs my hand and nearly breaks three fingers.

  When the plane’s wheels lift off the ground, the noise he lets out of his mouth is not even human; it’s like the sound those creatures in Avatar make when they’ve been harpooned. And nothing I can say or do seems to help.

  ‘Hold me, Lauren!’ he implores, as Joe and Emily spin round to see what’s going on. I smile unconvincingly as Esteban throws his massive arms around my neck and trembles with terror.

  ‘Um . . . how did you get to the UK? You must have flown here?’ I mumble, my cheek squashed into his armpit, his hairs tickling my nose.

  ‘Sleeping tablets.’

  ‘Didn’t you bring some this time?’

  His eyes ping open. ‘Good idea,’ he breathes, rifling round in his bum bag, before producing a tablet the size of a nuclear warhead and washing it down with a bottle of sparkling spring water.

  It doesn’t just make him sleep. It sends him catatonic.

  He slumps into his seat, and half of mine, with a lobotomised look in his eyes as I try and interest him in reading the in-flight magazine, just to check he hasn’t slipped into an actual coma.

  Still, he settles eventually – at which point I close my own eyes, put on my headphones and flick through the music, until ‘You Send Me’ by Sam Cooke comes on. I then allow myself to drift into the most blissful dream, in which Edwin and I are sitting in the sunshine on the terrace of the Raffles Hotel, sipping Singapore Slings with a cool breeze in my hair.

  Edwin reaches over and touches my chin and is about to kiss me. His lips sink into mine as I experience a rush of warmth through my body – followed by a rush of cold on my body. My eyelids fly open as Esteban flails about, his sparkling water all over me, as it becomes apparent that he has realised we are about to land . . . and is no longer catatonic.