So I get straight onto the GP out-of-hours service, who dutifully provide me with a course of antibiotics and instruct me not to drink anything other than cranberry juice and water.
I’m home for five minutes when I hear footsteps outside and look out of my bedroom window to see Mum striding up the path. She’s almost at the door, when she yanks out a stray hawthorn branch with her bare hands, chucks it over the fence and wipes her palms on her trousers, before ringing the bell.
I make her a cup of tea – builder’s strength – before she asks about my preparations for Singapore, apparently having accepted that the change of plan merely reflects one of the myriad oddities about my personality.
‘Well, I hope you have a better time of it there than Steph,’ she concludes.
‘Steph? Why, what’s up with her?’ I ask.
‘From what Harry says, she’s as miserable as sin,’ Mum replies. ‘She’s not enjoying a minute of Australia.’
‘I’m sure there must be a minute or two she’s enjoyed,’ I say, thinking back to the six-pack on that junior doctor.
‘I don’t think she’s made many friends.’
‘Are you sure?’ I resist the urge to point out that she seems overflowing with ‘friends’ every time I see her.
Mum gives me a hard look. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘I’m surprised, that’s all. When I see her on Facebook, she always seems so . . . busy.’ This is the politest euphemism I can think of for the fact that she seems intent on shagging half of New South Wales.
‘It’s apparently an act,’ Mum says. ‘The pictures on Facebook are just people she drinks with. They’re not real friends.’
I lower my cup and realise that this probably is true. At best they seem to be drinking buddies or fuck buddies or buddies of any description except real ones.
‘She spent last night bawling her eyes out on the phone to Harry,’ Mum continues. ‘She’s thinking of coming home. It’s a shame. She was always a nice girl, even if she got a bit lost in recent years.’
‘Maybe something will come up and she’ll change her mind about coming home.’
Mum doesn’t look convinced. ‘I don’t think so. She’s too lonely.’
Which does nothing to make me feel any less guilty about the whole thing.
I meet Emily for lunch in the Lake Road Kitchen in Ambleside, a trendy little bistro with stripped-back floors, an open kitchen and an adventurous menu. We eat good food, laugh a lot and basically put the world to rights. Most of the time being around Emily feels like it always has done. But not always; not when I hear her talking about Joe.
‘I shouldn’t have eaten all that – Joe’s cooking dinner for me tonight,’ Emily tells me, as a waiter brings a coffee for her and a cranberry juice for me.
‘Oh, lucky you.’
‘His house is absolutely gorgeous,’ she continues, picking up her cup. ‘It must be brilliant to have such a knack for making places look good – he’s obviously a natural. I know you’re worried about it, but the hotel is going to be beautiful when it’s finished.’
‘So, is it a big house?’ I feel myself flush as I say it.
‘Not at all. Don’t ask me why, when his dad flew in by helicopter the other week. It’s only a three-bedroom cottage, a bit bigger than yours. But he’s got one of those range cookers and a free-standing kitchen – it looks rustic but modern if that makes sense. And there’s a lovely view from the garden. He’s got one of those stone benches. You could sit and watch the sunset for hours.’
I picture Joe and Emily curled up on the bench, warming each other under a stretching sky.
‘You sound smitten,’ I manage.
‘Joe’s lovely,’ she confesses. ‘But speaking of lovely guys, shouldn’t you be at home by now shaving your legs and with your hair in rollers?’
‘Why?’
‘For your date with Edwin, of course!’
‘Oh, I’ve got plenty of time,’ I say listlessly. ‘Besides, we’re only staying in.’
‘That’s even better, isn’t it? When a man cooks dinner for you, you’re in business, Lauren. You must know that, surely?’
She gestures for the bill as I hear myself asking something quietly: ‘Has Joe cooked dinner for you?’
‘Yeah, a few times,’ she grins and I take a sip of cranberry juice to hide my stricken expression.
Chapter 35
Edwin’s flat is on the top floor of a terraced house in one of the narrow, winding back streets of Windermere, and it’s fair to say it’s not what I was expecting. Considering this is a heterosexual man prepared to wear ruffles on a Tuesday night, the place is surprisingly drab.
I don’t want to overstate this, as it’s not awful. But Edwin’s fondness for iconic style – the one that’s evident at least in his taste in stationery – hasn’t quite translated into his home. If I was being unkind I’d say it was reminiscent of a two-star guest-house, with a dark blue carpet fraying at the edges, white Anaglypta wallpaper and an abundance of dusty cabinets.
He invites me to sit on his sofa, which could well be original art deco, but looks like it’s been fished out of a skip, courtesy of scratches from a cat, dog or possibly twelve gerbils. I perch on the end while I wait for him to open up the bottle of wine I brought and hand me a glass.
‘Lovely choice of wine, Lauren. Hmm . . .’ he takes a mouthful. ‘Those crisp, starchy overtones really hit the back of your throat – it’s like liquid potato. Not that I’ve got anything against that,’ he smiles, and I wonder as I force out a laugh why I’m not falling to pieces like I would have done once.
‘Whatever you’re making smells tremendous, Edwin.’
‘Hope so,’ he replies, throwing his tea towel over his shoulder. And for a second he looks as attractive as I always thought he did. Those dreamy eyes. The lovely lips. I do still fancy him as much as always, I tell myself, taking a big slug of wine.
I’m not technically meant to be drinking. But the antibiotics – and five gallons of cranberry juice – have kicked in remarkably quickly and by this afternoon, my UTI was definitely on its way out. I predict it will be completely annihilated by dawn.
Under normal circumstances I would have stuck rigidly to the medical advice not to drink alcohol – but, obviously, the doctor didn’t know the important circumstances of this evening: that I am on a Saturday-night date with Edwin. And therefore, the only option was to pop one last antibiotic before I left the house, and take it easy on the booze. The alternative – not drinking at all – isn’t an option because firstly, after the years I’ve known Edwin he’d be aware this was out of character, and secondly, now that tonight has actually arrived, I’m unexpectedly nervous.
He apologises for the fact that his music system is playing up and puts the TV on low in the background. It’s the Britain’s Got Talent final. I’m not a massive fan, but I recognise the contestant who appears on the screen as she hasn’t been out of the papers. She’s a big girl, defiantly refusing to starve herself and succumb to the pressure the world seems to exert on pop stars.
‘Blimey,’ scoffs Edwin. ‘She’s got what you might describe as an excellent personality.’
I bridle at this. ‘I think she looks lovely. Besides, she’s got a great voice and the audience love her, so that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’
‘Gosh, you’ve drained that already,’ he replies, topping up my glass.
‘I’ll never say no to liquid potato, Edwin,’ I reply, and he laughs as the phone rings.
‘Oh, that’ll be Georgie, calling about Sing.’ I never did get round to calling her myself.
‘I thought they were seven hours ahead,’ I point out.
‘She’s back in the UK for a week so I suggested she call tonight. She can’t wait to speak to you. Honestly, we’re all so excited now.’
He answers. ‘Hi, Georgie. Yup, she’s here. She’s excited too. Yep, I know.’ He grins at me. ‘I know.’ He nods. ‘I know,’ he adds, as I wonder what the hell it is he kn
ows so well that it’s worth saying three times. ‘OK, I’ll put her on.’
He hands over the phone, grinning as he mouths: ‘You’ll love her.’
I smile and take the handset from him. ‘Hello? This is Lauren.’
‘Lauren! Lovely to speak to you!’ Georgie replies, and I can’t deny she sounds really nice. For about six seconds. ‘So listen, I’m very glad you’re able to join Edwin and me in Singapore and I’m certain we’ll all get on like a house on fire.’
‘Oh me too,’ I reply.
‘But I know you’ll understand if I don’t leave this to chance. So I’ve got a few ground rules I’d like to make clear from the very beginning. Hope that’s OK?’
‘Of course.’
‘Right. All shoes to be left in the vestibule at the front of the flat to ensure no dirt is brought inside. All suncream must be removed with an exfoliating brush before entering the swimming pool. No nuts – I have an allergy. No eggs – I have an intolerance. No spray deodorant, only roll-on. No house guests.’
‘O-kay . . .’
‘I haven’t finished yet. No meat, it’s against my religion and there’s a well-stocked vegetarian supermarket down the road. Please do not leave any lights on in the middle of the night. If you need to get up to go to the toilet, use the light on your phone.’
‘OK.’
‘No music.’
I frown. ‘None?’
‘Headphones are fine, naturally.’
‘Er . . . thanks,’ I reply, but apparently this sarcasm is lost on her.
‘So do you enjoy it out there?’ I ask, deciding to make conversation before she can hit me with another rule.
‘Oh, it’s faaabbbulous! Have a look at my Facebook page – I never let anyone on who I haven’t met in real life but I’ll make an exception. You’ll never want to live in the UK again. Every Saturday we have a champagne breakfast brunch at one of the hotels – the Greenhouse at the Ritz-Carlton’s my fave. Though the W’s pretty good too and they have Veuve on tap. Have you got your padi?’
‘My what?’
‘Can you scuba dive? If not, you must learn. Everyone does.’
‘It does sound wonderful,’ I reply.
‘And you’re lucky. You’ve got a friend in tow so it doesn’t feel quite so daunting, does it? Not that you’d find it hard to make friends here, even if Edwin decided to drop you on day one.’
I scrunch up my nose.
‘Not that I think he would. He speaks quite highly of you,’ she adds, as if I’ve asked him for a reference to go and work in a shoe shop.
‘Does he?’ I say. Then I can’t resist asking the next question. ‘What has he said about me?’
‘Oh um . . . let me think. I know – he says you have an excellent personality.’
Chapter 36
The excellent personality comment resonates with me long after I’ve tried to play down its significance in my head.
I remind myself that it’s not even technically offensive, if you take it out of the context of the Britain’s Got Talent contestant. But the thought that Edwin might find me as unsexy as he apparently finds the girl belting out her own version of Cher’s ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ makes something rise up in me: determination. Determination that this man – the subject of my most vivid dreams for two years – will find me irresistible tonight if it’s the last bloody thing I do.
I arrange myself on the sofa seductively as Edwin busies himself in the open-plan kitchen. It’s only as my elbow slips off the arm that I realise I’m feeling tipsier than I’d expect after a glass and a half of wine. Normally it’d take at least half a bottle before I started misjudging the depth of soft furnishings.
As Edwin chats away about whether we should have a joint leaving do, I surreptitiously check the antibiotics in my bag to see if I’d get away with pre-loading another one, when several words leap out at me. DO NOT DRINK ALCOHOL WITH THIS MEDICINE.
I draw a sharp breath as I attempt to focus on the words. I’d known I was being slightly naughty in straying from the cranberry juice and water, but I hadn’t for one second suspected that the wine could react with the bloody medicine. Then I glance over at Edwin and tell myself to relax: I’ve already had a glass and a half and I feel really good. A little drunker than usual, perhaps, but as long as I don’t go overboard, this will all be fine.
As it happens, the whole thing becomes more and more fine the more wine I sip. That helps me stop thinking about how much I liked the sound of the champagne brunches and how little I liked the sound of Georgie herself. That helps me stop thinking about what a date at Joe’s ‘gorgeous house’ would be like. That helps me stop thinking altogether.
I don’t even care that when I open my bag I also realise I’d failed to dispose of the urine sample I took along to the walk-in centre this afternoon. I didn’t have a spare receptacle so had to wash out a bottle of Pepsi Max and put it in there. They then refused to test it because of some sort of contamination issues – as if traces of a soft drink could somehow result in me being misdiagnosed with Ebola.
The point is, as the evening progresses, I start to feel really, really happy. Ecstatic, actually. Why wouldn’t I? OK, Edwin has not galloped up on a white stallion, flung me on the back and hurtled off into the sunset, ruffles a-billowing.
But he’s spent all afternoon lovingly creating this dinner for me – seafood lasagne, which is amazing, by the way. And I decide, suddenly, that I actually like the fact that things haven’t been straightforward between the two of us. That chasing him has been part of the fun.
‘You’ve played terribly hard to get, Edwin,’ I murmur, through a flirty pout, as I put down my knife and fork. We are sitting at one of those little fold-up tables in his living room. A ventriloquist’s doll is singing ‘Uptown Girl’ in the background.
He looks at me, apparently surprised by this comment. ‘Hard to get?’
‘Don’t be coy, Edwin Blaire. You couldn’t have played harder to get if you were the size of a one-pence piece and stuck down the back of a sofa.’
He smiles, clearly enjoying the moment as he stands up to clear the plates. ‘Well, I haven’t meant to be like that.’
I roll my eyes and smirk seductively. It makes me almost fall off my chair. ‘Yes, I believe you. Millions wouldn’t,’ I add, sounding sultry.
‘Are you all right, Lauren?’
‘Yes – why?’
‘You sound a little hoarse. Would you like a Strepsil?’
I burst out laughing. ‘Oh, you’re so funny, Edwin! Let me help with the washing up,’ I volunteer, standing up.
‘I wouldn’t hear of it,’ he says gallantly, but by now I’m already up and concentrating very hard on putting one foot in front of the other as I head for the kitchen, the walls swimming in and out. ‘Honestly, Lauren, you really don’t need to.’
I place down the plates next to the sink, then spin round, throwing him a sensual look.
‘Oh, but I insist,’ I pout, grabbing the Marigolds on the drainer and snapping one on. He leaps back slightly. The scamp.
I turn to the sink, allowing him to admire my bum as I fill the bowl up with Fairy Liquid, then am mildly disappointed to see Edwin wandering back into the living room to collect the HP sauce. I turn back and find myself mesmerised by the bubbles, squashing them together between my rubber gloves then watching in fascination as I swirl the dish-cloth around the plates. My hips sway as I glance at the TV to see a small dog wearing pixie boots cartwheeling across the stage.
‘Are you quite sure you’re feeling all right?’ asks Edwin, as I put the last plate into the dish-rack. I’m vaguely aware of the concern on his face and feel the need to do something to encourage him to relax; I’ll never seduce him while he’s this tightly coiled. So I start swaying my hips, all lap-dancer loose as if my pelvis has a life of its own.
‘Shall I take those rubber gloves off you?’ Edwin offers, and I glance down, having entirely forgotten that I was wearing them.
I instan
tly recall that scene when Marilyn Monroe sang ‘Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend’ – the stunning, curve-hugging ballgown, the long, sexy satin gloves.
OK, I haven’t got the ballgown, but I have got the gloves, or the nearest thing. I put one finger on Edwin’s chest and look into his eyes like Tyra Banks looking down a camera, before teasingly pushing him across the length of the kitchen until he’s pressed against the units.
Then, finger by finger, my eyes soft and sexy, I remove the first rubber glove, then the second, flinging both over my shoulder before I turn my back on Edwin and sway into the living room.
I am momentarily aware of a delay as he scrambles around the electric hob, trying to peel off the gloves which, it appears, have melted on to one of the rings. Once he’s got them off and sprayed a little Febreze to disperse the stench of burning rubber, he emerges into the living room and looks at me anxiously.
I pat the chair next to me and murmur, ‘Come ’ere, lover boy,’ though I realise a second later that any Dirty Dancing references are entirely lost on Edwin.
‘I think you need more wine,’ I decide, grabbing the bottle and topping up his glass. Then I pick it up, put it in his hands and encourage him to sip. Which he does.
His eyes meet mine and our gaze holds for a moment. It suddenly feels like one of those staring contests we used to have when I was a little girl. He breaks the gaze first and, before I can stop myself, I pump my fist and blurt out: ‘Yess!’
‘Lauren, I’m wondering if I should get you an orange juice?’ Edwin asks. ‘You’re acting a little oddly.’
I edge closer to him and smile. ‘But I’m feeling wonderful,’ I murmur.
‘Only . . . you’re quite tipsy considering you haven’t had that much to drink.’
‘I’m not tipsy, Edwin. Just . . . in the mood.’
‘In the mood?’ he gulps.
‘For lurrrve.’
He straightens his back. ‘I see.’
Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel Page 19