Sorry if it got a bit weird last night – because I don’t want things to be weird between us. Can we have a chat? x
I compose a text back. Joe, I feel sick about what happened last night and the only way I can think of to deal with this is by staying as far from you as possible. I hope you can respect that.
As I press Send, I am reminded that I am going to Singapore in a matter of weeks. Which is good. Because that’s when my world is going to get back on track. This is what’s going to happen: I’ll end up with Edwin. And Emily will stay with Joe.
I am suddenly gripped by a panicked thought: that he might tell her what I did. What he did. Then I tell myself not to be so stupid. He’s hardly going to confess to her that he’s been unfaithful, is he? He might be a cad – and me a disloyal bitch – but neither of us are complete idiots. And neither of us, I suspect, could bear the effect this revelation could have on Emily.
I sit on one of the soft-back chairs and close my eyes, desperate to try and think for the ten minutes left before my next lesson. But as the coffee machine drips, my head just seems to spin harder – until my thoughts are interrupted by the beep of my phone. This time it’s from Emily.
Can you talk? I know you’re at work, but this is urgent. Will you give me a ring? It seems uncharacteristically blunt and unfriendly.
I hastily gather my things and head outside into the car park, where I dial her number. She answers after one ring.
‘I need to talk to you, Lauren,’ she hisses, clearly trying to keep this conversation private from whomever she’s with.
I swallow. ‘What about?’
‘It’s not something I can discuss on the phone. Can you meet me?’ Her voice is strangled.
‘Sure, when?’ I ask.
‘Straight after work?’
‘Of course, no problem at all. How about at the Wateredge Inn?’
‘OK. Good,’ she replies. ‘I’ll see you then, shall I?’
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘And Emily – is everything all right?’
She pauses. ‘No, Lauren. I can’t honestly say it is.’
Chapter 42
The rest of the afternoon is torture. All I can think about is Emily and how the conversation might unfold when I meet her. I’m so fixated on the issue that, as I dart out of work as early as I can get away with and climb into my car, I almost don’t hear my phone ring. As I register a muffled tone, I wrestle it out of my bag and see Mum’s name on the screen. I press answer.
‘I’m just phoning to see if Brian managed to fix your car?’
‘He did,’ I say, feeling too distracted to add anything further to this conversation.
‘Did he charge you?’
‘No, he didn’t, unbelievably. Thanks for putting me in touch with him, Mum.’
‘He’s a good bloke.’
‘I’ll drop him an email to say thank you again,’ I reply. ‘Listen, Mum, I’m sorry to run but—’
‘Before you go . . . I found out about the gazebo you were asking about.’
I put the key in the ignition. ‘Really?’
‘I bumped into Brenda McCullum. Do you remember her?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘She was your dad’s deputy for a while. She had a son with autism and they lived in Coniston, and—’
‘So what did she say?’
‘There was a fire, shortly before your dad became ill. It was only after she’d said it that I remembered. It wasn’t a big one, no one was hurt. But part of the gazebo was damaged and had to be torn down. Your dad had been trying to persuade the owners of the Moonlight Hotel to let him order a replacement. Then he became ill and everything overtook it.’
‘I don’t remember any of this.’
‘No,’ she says softly. ‘We had other things to worry about at the time, didn’t we?’
I arrive at the Wateredge Inn, at the apex of Windermere and, seeing that Em isn’t here, buy two glasses of wine to take outside to the beer garden. There’s a table in front of the marina, where I set down the drinks and sit, unable to stop my fingers twitching against the wood legs as I wait. There are a handful of swing benches across from me, all occupied by couples gazing across the sunlit water and suppressing smiles at the two young boys playing hide and seek behind the bushes.
A shadow appears on the table and I look up to see Emily standing above, her jaw clenched. She lowers herself on to the bench, refusing to look at me.
‘I don’t want that,’ she says flatly, gesturing at the glass of wine.
And that’s all it takes for me to be certain: she knows.
She knows what’s happened between Joe and me and she hates me for it so much she can’t even bear to share a drink with me.
I can hardly blame her.
I brace myself for the conversation we’re about to have, the confrontation and the absolute knowledge that I will get down on my knees and beg for her forgiveness. But as she starts talking, the words that tumble from her mouth feel woolly and disjointed, and it’s hard to process them.
‘You know how sometimes, you’re on your little path,’ she begins, ‘and things might not be perfect, but you’re so happy and grateful to be with someone that the thought that something might happen to throw everything into disarray doesn’t even cross your mind?’
I nod and feel tears gather in my eyes.
‘That’s how I’ve been feeling lately: head over heels in love. Knowing that this is the strongest and hardest and best I’ll ever feel about another human being. And, not even looking to the future, because I was so incredibly exhilarated by the present.’
‘Is that how you feel, Emily?’ I manage.
She looks down at the ground. ‘That’s how I felt.’
‘But something’s changed?’
She nods. ‘Everything’s changed.’
My spine seems to chill.
‘I’ve found out something and I honestly don’t know how to handle it, Lauren.’ She looks into my eyes.
‘I understand.’ I wait for her big eruption. For the drink thrown in my face. For the shouting, the screaming, the cries of what a bitch I am and how I’ve ruined her life, her relationship. All of which I’d deserve.
But when I lift up my chin, I see that she’s not doing any of those things. And as a single, salty tear slips down her face, she looks up and says the words that change everything.
‘I’m pregnant.’
I feel as though I’ve been winded. I can’t talk, but neither can Emily. She just sits, sobbing quietly as I walk round the bench, sit down and embrace her, my mind twisting and turning.
‘Does Joe know?’
She wipes away the tears. ‘Lauren, I don’t want Joe to know. Not yet. You mustn’t say anything.’
I frown, taking this in. ‘OK . . .’
‘I don’t want anyone to know. Not until I’ve decided what to do.’
It takes a second for the meaning behind her words to filter through. ‘You’re thinking of having an abortion?’ As soon as I’ve said it I wonder why I’m surprised. Emily has never wanted kids and she doesn’t have a desk job where she could put up her feet and look forward to maternity leave. She quite simply couldn’t continue to climb up mountains while pregnant.
She starts sobbing again. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. This is such a mess.’
I clutch her hand. ‘When did you find out?’
‘Last night, after salsa,’ she sniffs. ‘I’ve been puking up my guts for the last week – I can’t keep a damn thing down. Then I stopped off at Booths and bought a pregnancy test on the way home. I did it as soon as I got in the house.’
The irony hits me with a queasy punch that I could well have been kissing Joe – rolling around in the Honeymoon Suite with him, no less – while Emily was busy discovering that he had fathered her first child.
I feel sick with guilt. Sick with disgust. Sick with hatred – for Joe, but most of all for me. My treachery.
‘What am I going to do, Lauren?’<
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‘Surely . . . Joe is the first person you need to discuss it with.’
‘Lauren, no,’ she says, glaring at me defiantly. ‘Nobody can know. Not Joe. Not Cate. Not my mum. Not anyone.’
‘OK. I’ve got it.’ I take another slug of wine. She reaches for hers, then hesitates, before pushing it away. Her mind is clearly not made up on the future of this baby.
‘I want you to know this,’ I tell her. ‘Whatever you decide to do, Emily, I will be right behind you. I’ll support you. If you decide to have the baby—’
‘I can’t contemplate anything that far ahead. I just need to think.’ She reaches over and clutches my hand again. ‘Thanks for being such a good listener, Lauren. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘Don’t say that.’ This is the closest I’ve ever come to wanting to die on the spot.
‘But it’s true,’ she insists.
I look out across the lake as the two little boys find a free swing bench and start pushing it far harder than it was designed for. And one thought engulfs me: how impossible it would be to stay here – with Emily, Joe and their baby – and for me ever to be able to live with myself.
Chapter 43
I arrive at Edwin’s house forty minutes after we’d arranged and he answers the door in a state of breathless pandemonium. ‘They’re already on to the second challenge. The first was a Princesstårta.’ He shuffles me through the door urgently. ‘It’s a tart made with custard, whipped cream, marzipan and a bright green covering. Quite the thing if you’re at a Swedish dinner party. Quick – can’t miss the next one.’
He darts into the living room and leaps over the back of the sofa, in time to catch Paul Hollywood confide that he ‘prefers the big ones’, something I can only assume refers to the batch of macaroons in front of him.
As I approach the sofa, the scene is similar to the kind you’d expect from a bloke during the FA Cup Final. Only Edwin’s version is rather different. He is not surrounded by cans of Stella but there’s an empty bottle of Prosecco lying at his feet, along with half a plate of bruschette al pomodoro, garnished with rocket. I can tell before I sit next to him that he’s tipsy, and for a moment it feels nice to be the sober one after the fiasco last time I was in this flat.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he declares, taking a bite out of a bruschetta.
‘Thanks, Edwin,’ I reply awkwardly as he tears his eyes away back to the television. I have no wish to be here after what I’ve just learned from Emily, but I didn’t want to let Edwin down. Also, I thought it might distract me from the urge to throw myself under a bus. ‘Should I help myself to a drink?’
He is momentarily torn between good manners and Mary and Paul.
‘Of course. What can I get you, hun?’ he replies and, putting aside my abject shock at being called ‘hun’ by Edwin, I tell him I’ll have a glass of water but insist on getting it myself.
When I return to the sofa for the rest of the Bake Off, it’s fair to say that I’m fighting a losing battle for Edwin’s attention against seven Austrian tortes and a batch of rosemary-infused drop scones. The thing is, I don’t mind. I’m actually relieved that Edwin is so distracted, because it takes the pressure of his gaze away from me, at least until Mel and Sue say cheeri-bye and the closing credits roll.
‘Brilliant television,’ he concludes.
‘It’s a great show,’ I nod, though all I’ve done is let my eyes roll in and out of focus as I battle with thoughts of Emily, Joe, the baby . . . and last night.
He peers at my glass. ‘Oh, I forgot – I bought some fizz for us,’ he says, picking up the bottle. Confusion simmers on his brow as he realises it’s empty. ‘I must’ve spilled some. Sorry, Lauren.’
‘It’s absolutely fine,’ I reassure him.
He tuts. ‘Well, I’m annoyed with myself. I’d wanted everything to be perfect. I thought we’d do the Bake Off then chat about Singapore and . . . get to know each other even better.’ He holds my gaze. ‘Like the other night.’
‘Yes, about that . . . ’ But I can’t bring myself to go any further, even though I’d love to know what actually happened.
He leans in, gazing into my eyes, his mouth dropping as if lust and gravity are directly related. ‘Hmm.’ He focuses on my lips until he’s nearly cross-eyed.
‘I’ve been thinking about what happened,’ I cough. ‘Or what might’ve happened.’
‘I can show you if you like?’ he offers.
I freeze, engulfed by the certainty that I do not want to rediscover first-hand what happened with Edwin the other night.
It’s not even that my attraction to Edwin has diminished. It’s more than that. I am actively un-attracted to him. He is suddenly about as gorgeous as a fungal toenail infection.
If you’d told me I’d ever feel like this six months ago, when my feelings for Edwin were passionate and overwhelming – I might have almost felt relieved at being unshackled from these emotions. But I don’t. Instead, I feel terrible.
How can I not find Edwin attractive any more, just because I’ve slept with him, even if it was non-penetratively? What does this make me? A toxic female probably – because if some bloke had come along and done this to one of my friends, I’d unquestionably say that he was a commitment-phobe who loved the thrill of the chase. That he was a sad, pathetic cad who’d had his wicked way, then gone cold.
Well, here I am, doing exactly the same. And what’s worse, I can’t even remember the wicked way. All I know is that Edwin no longer sends me into fits of rapture when he looks into my eyes. He just alarms me. The manifest problems that this unravelling situation presents is enough to make my head ache. It’s not just in his flat, here and now, with him going in for the kill. It’s Singapore. It’s everything. It’s . . .
‘It’s all too much!’ I say aloud and he looks up, shocked.
‘What is?’
And although I can’t untangle the most pressing issue in my life right now, I can at least attempt to put things straight with Edwin. ‘Look, I’ve been attracted to you for quite a long time,’ I confess.
He grins. ‘I know.’
‘And . . . well, I suppose deep down part of me thought something like this would never happen between us.’
‘Well, I’m all yours.’ At that he opens his arms wide and goes to lean back on the other end of the sofa, but instead falls directly off it – and plonks, bum first, on the floor.
‘OHHH GODDD!’ he shrieks.
I scramble down to his side. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s my coccyx!’ he exclaims, and it takes a moment before I realise he’s not referring to the thing I apparently got to grips with last week. ‘It’s no end of trouble,’ he continues, clutching his lower back as he winces in pain.
I try and help him up, feeling as if I’m in a nursing home and about to give him a bed-bath.
‘I’m afraid this might put paid to anything too physical this evening. I’m so sorry.’
‘What a shame,’ I exclaim.
He does a double-take. ‘Lauren, can I ask you something?’
I cough. ‘Of course.’
‘Have you gone off me?’
Oh my God. This is my get-out clause, but suddenly saying this directly to Edwin seems horribly harsh.
‘I’m extremely fond of you, and er . . .’
‘You’ve gone off me,’ he concludes sulkily. You could never accuse Edwin of being stupid.
‘Edwin, you’ll always be my friend . . .’
‘I don’t want to be your friend, Lauren,’ he hisses. ‘I don’t want pity. You’ve led me on for two years, you do realise?’
‘I wasn’t leading you on,’ I argue.
‘I dumped my girlfriend for you!
‘I didn’t have anything to do with that!’
‘You had everything to do with that,’ he fires back. ‘I would never have looked at another woman had you not come along fluttering your eyelashes every morning and pretending you liked my mum’s baking.’
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‘I wasn’t trying to lead you on. My feelings for you were real. I felt very strongly for you.’
‘Felt? Forgive me, Lauren, for noticing your use of the past participle. Come on, tell me: What have I done wrong?’
And as I sit, self-loathing once again sweeping over me, I’m not sure I can answer that question.
Chapter 44
I try to avoid Edwin the following day, although to be honest, he is the least of my worries. All I can think about is Emily, with whom I exchange several texts throughout the day – about how she’s feeling even sicker, is in turmoil about what to do and how I mustn’t tell anyone, words she can’t seem to repeat enough.
By the time the bell goes and I drive over to Cate’s, my head is pounding with it all.
I don’t bother giving Cate an update about Edwin when she asks, I just mumble something about not feeling the same about him any more. In other circumstances, she’d have me pinned down on a chair, grilling me for information about this volte-face, but she has other things on her mind. Including wine.
I deliberately refused to bring something so she could self-medicate herself into a stupor, but now she wants a drink it doesn’t feel like the right time to deny her. The pub is out of the question, so I suggest we go for a walk to the convenience shop. I suspect it’s the first time she’s been out – and not cowering in the back of the shop or her flat – since the picture reappeared on Facebook on Tuesday.
It’s a sunny evening, but the air is heavy with moisture when we step out of her flat, and by the time we’re at the bottom of her road, the light drizzle has become heavy enough for me to push up an umbrella. The glimmer of a rainbow appears on the horizon as we turn the corner. It hardly feels appropriate to our mood. We reach the shop and Cate slows outside the window as a woman serving at the till, who looks to be in her early sixties and has blonde, bobbed hair, looks up at us. Her expression changes when she recognises Cate.
Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel Page 23