Then there’s Cate and the money she’s given to Robby, something I feel more and more uneasy about. Even if he does disappear to France, and those pictures are never to be seen again, I can’t shake a sense that the bad guy has won.
But more than any of those things, I cannot stop thinking about Joe.
Beautiful, kind, generous Joe who wasn’t even remotely doing the dirty on Emily when he tried to kiss me. Gorgeous Joe, who built me a gazebo and made me fall in love with him . . . only for me to throw it away like a piece of dirt.
I have no idea how I can ever show my face in front of him again. I wanted him to hate me – and that’s exactly what I made him do. I finally plunge into a dreamless sleep at around 4.30 a.m., but even then it’s not for long. When my eyes flutter open, sunlight pushing its way through my window, the clock reads 8.14 a.m.
So, I flip off my sheets and push myself up, feeling a need to at least repair one of the relationships in my life right now. It might not be the most important one, but it’s a start.
The woman who answers Edwin’s door is tall and fine-boned with a silk scarf caressing her neck and a long suede coat in a violent shade of purple. I don’t need her to introduce herself as Edwin’s mum – they’re so alike.
‘Can I help?’ she smiles, clearly wondering if I’m selling something.
‘I’m a friend of Edwin’s,’ I announce. ‘I’ve just come to say goodbye before he leaves.’
‘Oh!’ she exclaims. ‘You must be Sarah.’
‘Um . . . no, I’m—’
‘Gillian!’
‘Er, no.’
‘Diane?’ she tries.
‘I’m Lauren.’ Not even a flicker of recognition passes her face.
‘Oh, Mum, there’s a crockery set here.’ Edwin arrives behind her and looks at me. ‘Oh.’
‘Hi,’ I say, smiling uncomfortably.
‘Come in, come in,’ he says, beckoning me. ‘Mother, this is Lauren.’
‘I know, I can’t keep up!’ she hoots, as he reddens slightly around the ears. ‘Darling, I’m going to leave you now – but you’re coming over for breakfast before you go, aren’t you?’
‘I will, Mum,’ he says, kissing her on the cheek.
‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Blaire,’ I smile.
‘You too, Lisa,’ she says, closing the door behind her.
Edwin looks at me. ‘Just a little going-away gift,’ I say, handing over my present: the art deco hip-flask I bought him months ago. ‘You can open it now if you like.’
He doesn’t exactly crack a smile, but beckons me over to the sofa, where he proceeds to unwrap the gift. I can tell he likes it, even before he says so.
‘I’m sorry about the way things turned out,’ I say.
‘There’s no need to be, Lauren. There really isn’t. Things have worked out fine.’
‘I know I’ve let you down over the flatmate thing – that I’ve left you in the lurch.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ he tells me. ‘I’m not going to Singapore either. Fiona and I are back together.’
I feel my eyes bulge. ‘Really?’
‘After everything that happened, it made me realise that excitement isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’ For a man whose idea of a wild night is getting drunk in front of The Great British Bake Off, this strikes me as quite a statement. ‘Fiona isn’t the most thrilling woman on earth, she’d be the first to admit that. But she and I . . . I think fundamentally we’re made for each other.’
‘Wow.’ It’s all I can manage.
‘So we’re moving to Hampshire, to be closer to her family. I’m going to do some supply work and see how it goes. But I think I’ve really discovered what I want in life.’
Six months ago if he’d told me this, I’d have been devastated. Now, I’m so relieved I could weep. Edwin and Fiona are back together and it feels as though some equilibrium is restored in this world.
‘You know what, Edwin, I hope you’re really happy together. I genuinely mean that.’
He smiles. ‘Thanks, Lauren. Or should I say . . . Tiger.’
I look at him blankly.
‘That’s what you asked me to call you that night. Tiger.’
‘Oh! Oh, of course I did. Ha! Well, it was . . .an experience, wasn’t it?’
‘It certainly was.’ He adjusts his trousers and sighs.
‘Well, I’d better be going,’ I say, standing up. ‘You’ve still got a lot of packing to do, by the look of it.’
‘I have,’ he says, showing me to the door. We embrace in a suitably brief manner, before releasing each other. I turn to leave when it occurs to me to ask him something.
‘Edwin, who are Sarah, Gillian and Diane?’
He shrugs. ‘Oh, no one. Just . . . people on Tinder.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Tinder?’
‘Nothing ever came of any of them,’ he reassures me. ‘And I never did anything with them. Not like you and I did. But it was all very time-consuming at one point.’
I finally realise why getting a date with Edwin was harder than getting an audience with the Pope. He was a serial dater. ‘Anyway, Lauren. I really appreciate you coming over here. And, for the record, that night we spent together . . . I honestly don’t think I’ll ever forget it.’
I haven’t got the heart to tell him I don’t think I’ll ever remember it.
Chapter 53
Emily has lost the baby. It happened a few hours after her hospital visit, something confirmed by a scan this morning. She tells me in my living room, as she clutches a cup of untouched tea later in the afternoon.
I knew she was coming over because she texted en route to say Nick was dropping her off, but that still didn’t prepare me for the broken figure on my doorstep, the one whose pale skin seems to cling to her cheekbones. As she’d rightly guessed, the A&E couldn’t give her a definitive answer last night, so she had to wait to go to the maternity department this morning, where her darkest fears were confirmed.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say helplessly. But the words don’t seem big enough.
‘I just feel . . . sick. I can’t believe this has happened. This was a baby I never even knew I wanted.’ The words scratch at the back of her throat. ‘Now, I’d give anything – literally anything – for her to have lived.’
I lower my eyes. Emily had no way of knowing the sex of her baby, but she’d obviously convinced herself she was having a daughter.
‘This doesn’t change anything between Nick and me though,’ she continues. ‘He knows I need him more than ever.’
I pick up my tea, but can’t bring myself to drink it. ‘Nick’s definitely leaving Jenny then?’
She stiffens at the use of his wife’s name. Then she looks down. ‘Tonight.’
I can’t think of a thing to say that’s appropriate.
‘He loves me, Lauren. And I know there’s a child involved, but from what Nick tells me, Tom is a sensible little boy. I’m certain this can all be done without disrupting anyone too much.’
She pulls her legs up tight on to the sofa, pressing them against her chest.
‘How do you feel?’ I ask, which is a silly question to ask someone after a miscarriage, but she misinterprets my motive anyway.
‘A little nervous, I must admit. But I’ll be glad when he’s done it. This whole thing has been kept quiet for so long, I’ll feel relieved when it’s out in the open. When we can be a normal couple. Stella’s said it’s OK for me to bring someone to the wedding.’
My head jolts up in surprise.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she frowns. ‘There’s no sit-down meal or anything. It’s a very relaxed affair, that’s what she keeps telling us.’
‘I know, sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .’
Her jaw tenses as she takes in my expression. ‘You think this is wrong, don’t you?’
‘I’m worried about you,’ I confess. ‘About this. And, yes, I’ll admit it – I can’t stop thinking about poor Tom.’
She cle
arly doesn’t appreciate the statement. ‘Marriage breakdowns happen all the time, Lauren. It happens to loads of kids.’
‘I know,’ I say gently, conscious of what Emily’s just been through. ‘I’m just not convinced this won’t have any effect on Tom. He knows something’s been going on. He’s told me.’
A pulse appears in her neck. ‘What does he know?’
I don’t tell Emily the whole story. The last thing I want is to upset her further today. But I tell her enough. Enough to make it clear that this is not the victimless situation she’s convincing herself it is. That this is not something she can shrug her shoulders about and say, ‘no harm done’.
‘What’s Tom like?’ she asks eventually. I have no idea if the question has only just occurred to her, but I can only answer honestly.
‘He’s lovely. Funny, very sweet, full of personality. One of my favourites, actually.’ I wonder if I’ve gone too far.
She sighs. ‘You don’t think Nick should leave, do you, Lauren? You don’t approve of any of this. I knew you wouldn’t.’
‘It’s not for me to approve or not approve. But I suppose I can’t get out of my head that, when you’ve got a family and you’ve made a commitment to someone . . . well, I believe in the idea of sticking it out, of trying to make it work.’
‘What if he has tried to make it work? Their marriage is dead.’
‘If that’s the case, then yes, you’re right. If it’s dead, there’s nothing can be done.’ I pause before speaking again.
‘Although . . .’
‘Although what?’
I have no idea if I’m right or not to say my next words: ‘Jenny told me that, although they were having difficulties, they were making a go of it.’
‘When did you speak to her?’
‘Tom was wetting himself at school. He’d heard them discussing divorce.’
She swallows. ‘That’s surely all the more reason to end it. She must realise that Nick doesn’t love her any more.’
I can feel the inside of my lip between my teeth. ‘It’s just that he’d bought her a diamond ring. She’d thought it was a way of proving he loved her.’
Part of me expects Emily to throw back another protestation, but she looks momentarily crushed.
I suddenly wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Yet, I feel the need to explain myself, digging myself into a deeper hole.
‘I think the problem is that he’s leaving them after meeting you,’ I say. ‘If Nick’s marriage had broken down without someone else being around – without you being around – well, of course, these things happen sometimes. A ten-year marriage is never going to be as thrilling as a brand new romance – but that doesn’t mean you just throw it away. Not when there’s a child involved. Nick might ultimately decide that that’s the only option open to him, but if so, he ought to come to that conclusion himself, without you being ready to leap in with both feet.’
Then she starts to weep. And I’m hit by an overwhelming wish that just sometimes I could keep my big mouth shut.
Chapter 54
In the following few days, I’m consumed by the question of what to do about Joe.
When I’m thinking straight, I’m certain I’ve been so spectacularly awful to him that there’s no going back. And the idea of being brazen enough to attempt to approach him makes me cringe so much that I almost shrinkwrap myself onto the sofa.
Despite this, I clutch on to the pathetic hope that something I could say or do might make him forgive me, even if I can’t imagine what it could be. The fact that he’s a guest at Stella’s wedding, this Saturday, leaves a rather odd set of possibilities open.
The first is to do nothing and say nothing. Ever. Just keep my head down, let him think I’m a nutcase and get on with his life. Which is the option I’d ordinarily be most comfortable with, on the grounds that I feel sick every time I think about what I said. And it would work if it wasn’t for something else: I think I’m in love with him. I really think it’s happened. I’ve totally fallen for a man who now despises me.
The second option is to wait until the wedding, hope he’s drunk enough to engage in conversation, then fall to my knees and beg forgiveness, even if he might by rights ask why I’d waited until then.
Which brings me to the final possibility: to seek him out now and do everything within my power to tell him that I am, categorically, an arsehole – and that he is, categorically, the most incredible man on earth. Which doesn’t make us a match made in heaven, I admit. But it’s all I’ve got.
So, I spend the days before Stella’s wedding trying to take the third option. Trying being the operative word.
I turn up at salsa night in the vague hope that he was bluffing about calling it quits. Only, he’s not there. I end up attempting Marion’s trickiest routine – the cuddle left turn, ladies’ right turn, back-to-back and reverse wrap – with Frank. The results would be hilarious if I was even remotely in a laughing mood.
The next morning I decide to text him.
But deciding this and knowing the right thing to say are two different matters. I compose, then re-compose my message so often it’s a wonder my fingertips aren’t bleeding. My first text is so long my phone instructs me to turn it into an email. But an email feels like the wimp’s option, so instead I determine to say something face to face.
I open a blank text again and write: I am so very sorry. And I’d like to explain why I reacted like I did, if you’d be willing to talk? x
Even that seems intensely crap, but I send it anyway and pray that he’s willing to listen, despite owing me nothing.
I check my phone on average every three minutes.
But as three minutes become six minutes, then six minutes become nine minutes and, somehow, using this bizarre counting technique, I end up hitting the three days mark, I am forced to come to a devastating conclusion.
He is never going to text me back. He really does hate me.
By Friday, I am tearful and wracked with self-loathing and regret.
There’s only one thing left. I have to try, one final time.
I drive to the Moonlight Hotel in a bid to seek him out.
As my car crunches up the drive, my heart is racing as if I’ve just sprinted. I park in the forecourt, and I head into reception as I realise that the hotel is finished – or as near as damn it.
‘Oh hello, madam. We’re not actually open until next week, I’m afraid. Can I help you at all?’
It’s the same receptionist who greeted Cate, Emily and me when we first started at salsa all those months ago – but a significantly new and improved version. This time, she actually smiles.
I clear my throat. ‘Um . . . I’m wondering if Joe Wilborne is available at all?’
‘I can certainly find out for you. Who shall I say is looking for him?’ she asks, before I give her my name and she radios through to another staff member.
Through a crackly blur, I hear someone offer to go and find him. And I wait, anxiety racing through my veins, before the radio springs back into life and I hear someone explain, with deliberate vagueness, that he’s tied up and won’t be able to come up to see me.
I don’t leave a message. I can’t think of anything else to say. So instead I am left to skulk out of the building, wishing I’d never come. I click open the door to my car and am about to step in when something stops me. Checking that nobody’s looking, I tentatively walk round to the lake side of the hotel, to the window that overlooks the ballroom.
I press my hands against the glass and peer in, feeling my breath leave me as I take in the sight.
It’s finished. And it’s magnificent. Every corner of it glitters in the sunshine, the walls incandescent and glorious. It looks how it used to when the place was booming. When impossibly glamorous clientele – at least in my eyes – would spill onto the terrace and summer nights at the Moonlight Hotel were the stuff of legend. I could stay there all day and just look at it. But instead I tear away my eyes and head back to my car, knowing
one thing for certain: my dad would have absolutely loved it.
As Cate gets ready for the wedding, I’m reminded of the person she used to be, when we’d dance round my bedroom during our teenage sleepovers. She even has the rollers in her hair, though this time she’s actually got somewhere to go to when they’re out, instead of just staying in my room, which was what we used to do, watching Notting Hill and trying not to crack our face packs from laughing.
This Cate has changed over the last few weeks, inevitably. But she’s no longer consumed by panic, or by despair. She turns round at one point and flashes me a small smile of recognition, before turning up the volume on ‘Groove Is in the Heart’ by Deee-lite and starting to dance around the bedroom, luminous-eyed and energetic.
As the song comes to an end, she leans into the mirror and begins filling in her eyebrows with a pencil. ‘With hindsight,’ she muses, ‘I could tell Joe only thought of Emily as a mate.’
I don’t question why she never mentioned it until I filled her in earlier today, with Emily’s permission.
‘It’s obvious he’s got the hots for you, or at least it has been lately. Poor Edwin didn’t get a look in.’
‘Poor Edwin has been through half of Tinder, from what his mother said. But . . . really? Obvious?’
‘There were a couple of nights at salsa when the two of you were virtually sizzling. And when I say “you”, I mean both of you. I suspected weeks ago that if Joe had ever had feelings for Emily, they were yesterday’s news.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ I ask.
‘Same as you,’ she shrugs. ‘Because I thought he was going out with Emily. I wasn’t going to encourage you. Besides, after a while I became too wrapped up in my own problems to even think about anything else. Sorry.’
‘Have you seen Will yet?’ I ask.
She sighs. ‘No.’
‘You know he’s going to be at the wedding?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Not sure how I’m ever going to face him though.’
I take a sip of tea and don’t need to tell her I know exactly how she feels. I decide to change the subject. ‘So how was Stella this morning? Nervous?’
Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel Page 28