Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel

by Jane Costello

  ‘Here’s the money,’ Cate mutters, thrusting a ten-pound note in my hand. ‘You get the wine and I’ll wait outside?’

  ‘But don’t you want to get out of the rain?’

  ‘I’m fine with the umbrella,’ she insists. ‘And I’ve got my hood.’

  I find a bottle of white on offer and wait in a lengthy queue before I’m served, though not by the woman who recognised my apparently infamous friend. When I emerge, Cate is itching to return to the safety of her flat.

  And as we walk through the streets, I realise why: people are looking at her. Not everyone, not even most people. But you can see the occasional sideways glances; the snatched looks. Cate’s notoriety is no mere figment of her imagination.

  ‘You shouldn’t be intimidated about the idea of seeing people you know,’ I hear myself saying as we tramp back up the hill.

  She frowns at me, looking suddenly hurt, as if I don’t understand.

  ‘I completely get it, why you feel like you do,’ I add hastily. ‘I’m simply saying that you mustn’t go into hiding. You haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘I’ve come out tonight, haven’t I?’

  ‘If you count the Spar as “out”, I suppose so,’ I say gently.

  ‘And I saw Will this afternoon,’ she adds.

  I stop in my tracks, shocked that she’s only just mentioning this. ‘Good. Great, in fact. So . . . how is everything?’

  ‘Fine,’ she shrugs, taking her keys out of her pocket as we approach the flat. ‘He came over. I made him a coffee. He went.’

  ‘Is that all?’ It strikes me that they had a significant amount of unaddressed business to catch up on, not just a coffee.

  We plod up her stairs and she puts her key in the door, then her shoulders slump. ‘No, that wasn’t all,’ she says. ‘Come in.’

  We get inside and the story tumbles out. Will came over and they talked about the pictures, despite how mortifying Cate found the entire conversation. He looked confused and pitying and angry and sad. But they ended up kissing and for one sweet, fleeting moment Cate convinced herself that it was all going to be OK.

  ‘Then he went to the loo and a text arrived, from his mum.’ She lowers her head. ‘I didn’t even mean to see it, but it beeped and I just rolled over and instinctively picked up the phone.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘It said, I feel awful about upsetting you earlier, but I promise I’m only thinking of you. You need to stay away from girls like that, Will. The whole thing will come to no good. Give me a ring if you want a chat – love Mum xx.

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, Will’s obviously heard what she thinks about you and decided he shouldn’t stay away.’

  She sniffs. ‘He didn’t know I’d seen the text, but when he picked up his phone and read it, everything changed. He left shortly afterwards. I don’t blame him in the slightest.’

  ‘What makes you say that everything changed? What did he say?’

  ‘It was nothing he said. I can just tell, Lauren,’ she says, dropping on to the sofa. ‘He hasn’t been in touch since then.’

  ‘It was only yesterday.’

  ‘I agree with his mum,’ she says defiantly. ‘He could have any girl he wants, not someone the whole of Twitter is calling a slut and who can’t walk round her own town any more without knowing that every second person has seen that picture. His mum’s totally right: it can come to no good.’

  I’m about to protest, when the bell rings. ‘Do you want me to get it?’ I offer.

  She thinks for a moment, anguish etched in her forehead. ‘Don’t worry.’ She pushes herself up and heads into the hall. I can hear Will’s voice, even though I’m in the next room and the door is shut. I turn on the TV to try and drown out their conversation and give them some privacy. But as the volume rises, it’s impossible to avoid hearing the entire sorry saga unfold.

  ‘Cate, why are you pushing me away? I’ve come to try to get through to you, to tell you that I love you. To show you that I love you. What more do you want me to do?’

  ‘Not raising your voice at me would help for a start,’ she fires back, apparently oblivious that she’s significantly louder than him. ‘I don’t need you swanning in here, Will, having spent twenty-four hours clearly wondering what the right thing to do is. I can see this isn’t easy for you. But let me reassure you, I’m fine by myself.’

  ‘So I’m surplus to requirements now? There is absolutely nothing I can do – nothing at all – that is any use to you?’

  ‘Just don’t do this, Will . . . ’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You know what. Make a big thing of this. Don’t you think I’ve got enough going on in my life right now without you acting like this?’

  ‘When did I become the bad guy, Cate?’ He sounds incredulous. ‘Aren’t I the guy who’s standing here, in front of you, despite everything? Aren’t I the guy who doesn’t give a fuck what photos there are of you out there? Aren’t I the guy who’s shown nothing but loyalty and determination to get through to you that I think you’re the most amazing woman on earth? What more do you want from me?’

  ‘For you not to be standing on my doorstep yelling at me, for a start!’ she shrieks.

  And, even before the next words are out of her mouth, I know what’s happening. I can see it coming: she is about to screw this up with Will. Irreversibly.

  ‘You seem to think you’re some sort of fucking hero, Will. Well, congratulations! You’re in the “great guy” club – you’ve got a girlfriend who’s a slag and who everyone looks down on but you don’t mind! You’re not shallow enough to dump her . . . yet.’

  His silence can only be explained by disbelief. And I’ll admit I’m with him on that one.

  ‘OK, I give up,’ he says finally. ‘You win, Cate. I’m out of your life.’

  Chapter 45

  That night I am forced to think hard about an unavoidable and increasingly pressing issue: Singapore. There’s no escaping it. I might have handed in my notice at work, convinced everyone around me that it’s where my destiny lies and even booked a bloody flight there. But one fact remains. It’s the last place on earth I want to be.

  Ironically, I wish this wasn’t the case. The urge to get out of here – and away from Emily and Joe – is overwhelming. And that’s still got to happen. But it won’t be to Singapore, where there is nothing for me, except a psychotic flatmate whom I’ve no desire to meet and Edwin, who hates me.

  I set my alarm for half an hour earlier than usual so I can phone Ms Heng to break it to her that I won’t be coming to work at St Anne’s Primary School in Yishun any time soon. It’s fair to say she’s not very pleased.

  ‘A series of very, very unfortunate personal circumstances have emerged that means I’m tragically unable to take up the position,’ I begin, hoping I sound suitably distressed enough for her to not pry any further. ‘I’m terribly sorry to do this. But it’s completely unavoidable.’

  ‘Has somebody died?’ she demands.

  ‘No, not exactly – ’

  ‘Are they terminally ill?’

  ‘No. They’re really . . . family circumstances.’

  ‘A divorce?’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘So you’re ill?’

  ‘It’s not something I’d feel comfortable going into. I hope you understand,’ I reply, aiming to give this the impression that she’s hit the nail on the head but it’s too sensitive for her to delve further.

  ‘Well, you’ve let us down with weeks to go. So I hope you understand why it’s fairly important I know what the issue is. So what is it?’

  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 s
mell, 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 hom
e; 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.