Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel (20 page)

And, although we knew nothing at all then, not officially,
I
knew. I knew just by looking at him, that the life was being sucked out of him, and that realisation came crashing down so
hard on my shoulders I had to leave the room so no one could see me crying.

The diagnosis came less than a week later, and with one sentence everything changed:
Stage 4 lung cancer
. It became a question of when, not if. It had spread like wildfire. His body,
once so strong and big, was riddled with it; it had crawled into every corner of him.

I hadn’t known anyone who’d died before. Unlike Emily, whose brother was killed in a car crash when he was a teenager, I’d gone through life blithely untouched by grief.

The whole thing unfolded so fast and hard it was like being repeatedly punched in the stomach. Within nine weeks my powerhouse of a dad was lying in a hospice, skeletal and occasionally
delirious from the medication, or the cancer, or probably both. It had reached his brain, infecting his thoughts, his ability to speak. Sometimes he didn’t even recognise me.

Nine weeks. That’s all it took.

My exams came and went and I didn’t turn up for half of them. Though on his better days, he was cross with me about that, even right at the end. I liked it when he was: I liked him having
a go at me for fucking up my English Lit exam because it was the first bit of fight I’d seen in ages and it gave me hope.

Hope that proved short-lived.

The day of that conversation, after he told me he loved me and made me swear I’d re-sit, his hand tightened briefly around mine and he whispered something to me that no daughter ever wants
to hear their Dad admit.

‘Lauren, I’m scared.’

He left us that night, in my mum’s arms.

And I sat at the end of the bed and felt my world silently implode.

Cate has seen Will twice since she first became aware that her photo was on that website. And for the few hours they spent together on Thursday night, she says she almost
forgot about the picture.

Then yesterday morning, as she rolled over in bed and checked her emails, the first one that loaded at the top of her inbox was some woman – yes, another woman! – calling her a
whore. Which just goes to show that female solidarity isn’t exactly alive and well in all quarters.

Will, she’s certain, knows something’s wrong.

It wouldn’t take a genius, given that until now they spent every waking moment together and now – on a Saturday night – she’s at home with me, watching
When Harry Met
Sally
. Which strikes me as the only way to deal with a crisis you’re powerless to stop: with romantic comedy of the finest order. The problem is, Cate spends the whole film crying, and I
don’t just mean at the bits she’s meant to.

‘Do you want a chocolate?’ I offer.

She shakes her head. ‘I might have one later,’ she says, although I doubt it: she must have lost a stone in the last week. ‘It was lovely of you to bring them. Shall we go and
get some wine?’

‘Why not? We can have a walk to the seven eleven – it’s a lovely evening,’ I suggest, deciding that encouraging her slide into alcoholism is a better option than her
hurtling towards agoraphobia.

We pull on our sweaters and head down the steps of her flat, out into the dying rays of evening sunshine. It’s one of those perfect late-May evenings when Ambleside is bathed in a golden
light and full of people returning from a day on the fells with tired legs and bright eyes.

‘I wonder how Emily and Joe got on in Ullswater today? They were going up Gowbarrow,’ Cate tells me.

‘More fools them,’ I mutter, as we start walking down the hill.

‘So tell me: why on earth is Edwin going to a wedding with his ex-girlfriend?’ she asks. ‘That’s weird.’

‘He’s just trying to be a nice guy,’ I reply, wondering why I’m defending him when ‘weird’ was the first thing I thought of too. ‘You know what
it’s like when you’ve been together with someone for a long time. It’s not just them you split up from. It’s their family and friends too. And sometimes they’re nicer
than the person themselves.’

‘If you say so,’ she sighs.

‘Well, I must admit I was a bit shocked myself, but—’

Then I become aware that she’s no longer next to me and look back to find her immobile. I follow her gaze and see who she’s looking at: Robby.

Cate’s ex-boyfriend walks towards us with the most stupid expression on his face: part-amusement, part-swagger. ‘Well, look who it is.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Cate asks.

‘I’m walking down the street,’ he replies defiantly. ‘I think I’m allowed to do that, don’t you?’

The despair in Cate’s eyes is pronounced as she begins talking. ‘You do realise that what you did with that picture is illegal, don’t you, Robby?’

He grins, which strikes me as the least appropriate response possible under the circumstances. ‘I told you, Cate. I didn’t put that picture anywhere. My phone was stolen.’

‘You told me you’d deleted those photos,’ Cate tells him.

‘I did, but my iCloud backed them up. I didn’t ask it to. The whole thing’s a pain in the ass – it clogs up space on my computer.’

I wonder for a moment if I should say anything, but I have a feeling it’d just make matters worse. So I hang back while Cate steps forward. Her demeanour changes. ‘Please,
Robby,’ she begs. ‘Please take the photo down. I’m really sorry if I hurt you, but I know you’re not this kind of person, not deep down. This is killing me. All I want is to
be able to get on with my life.’

He looks entirely unmoved. ‘I can understand that, Cate.’

‘Robby, if this is my punishment, then believe me, it’s worked. But enough’s enough. Please accept I’m sorry. Please let’s just be friends and stop all this. Come
on
.’

He holds her eye for a moment and it’s impossible to work out what he’s going to say. Then he reaches up and brushes her hair from her eyes, a gesture that’s too intimate for
comfort. She doesn’t move, though I’m certain his touch will be making her sick. ‘I wish I could help you, Cate. But I can’t. I’m sorry.’

Then he leans in and delivers a slow kiss onto her forehead, before turning round with a wave and disappearing up the hill.

Edwin arrives to pick me up at 7.44 p.m. on Tuesday night, thirty seconds before he said he would. He has literally never been late for anything in his life.

I’m consumed by nerves before he arrives and have spent the evening tidying not just my eyebrows, bikini line and general appearance, but also the house – just in case he’s so
impressed with one of my right turns that he wants to whisk me back here and ravish me until dawn. I’d hate that to happen if I hadn’t fully Dettoxed all my surfaces and had my posh,
saved-for-best Molton Brown soap dispenser in the bathroom loo (the one that’s been wheeled out on every special occasion since Christmas 2008 and is still three-quarters full).

He arrives at the door with his Volkswagen Polo parked outside, and it’s fair to say that I’m mildly surprised by his appearance when I open the door. If I was laying it on thick,
I’d go so far as to say ‘alarmed’. I know Edwin isn’t exactly a dedicated follower of fashion, but I’ve always considered him to be above all that; to have his own
style that transcends it all, like Madonna or Dr Who.

Only tonight, I realise what a fine line he treads between looking uniquely stylish and plain bonkers. A line he’s precariously close to crossing tonight. It’s difficult to know what
to focus on first, the billowing white ruffles of his shirt, or the trousers, which are such a vivid red that if he had a matching top I’d be concerned about children lining up to sit on his
knee and telling him what they’d like for Christmas.

‘Gosh, Edwin, you’ve dressed up,’ I say, as he opens the passenger door for me.

‘This is my favourite going-out outfit. You’re honoured,’ he says, and as he flashes me a smile I remind myself he could be wearing a bin bag and a set of fairy lights for all
I care. This is the man I love and I’m not shallow enough to let a pair of red trousers put me off.

‘So how was the wedding? I haven’t really had a chance to ask you about it yet,’ I say.

‘About as much fun as I was expecting,’ he says. ‘Who wants to have to hang around with an ex once you’ve split up? It’s not something I’d like to repeat, put
it that way. And Fiona’s changed.’

‘In what way?’

‘This is going to sound horribly cruel and I don’t mean it to be . . . but she was so clingy. She wouldn’t leave me alone for a minute.’

‘She’s obviously still upset about the break-up,’ I offer.

He nods solemnly.

As we drive into Bowness, I begin to get the feeling that Edwin is slightly nervous about salsa and I can’t deny that I’m a little twitchy too. I just hope he enjoys it, or
doesn’t think it’s stupid. And, more importantly, that I don’t make a complete show of myself, which is never out of the question.

My plan is to try and partner up with the better dancers in the group, on the grounds that their natural ability will carry me along. That basically means Esteban and possibly Joe –
although the second I think of him, the idea of dancing with him in front of Edwin becomes too uncomfortable to contemplate.

Em is the first person to rush in and greet us as we arrive at the restaurant.

‘Edwin, you remember Emily . . .’ If she is in any way unsettled by the ruffles, she hides it well.

‘How could I forget?’ he replies, and they shake hands.

‘It’s been a while though, hasn’t it, Edwin?’ Emily smiles enthusiastically. ‘I think the last time I saw you was at the school Christmas fair. Have you ever been
to a salsa class before?’

Edwin raises his eyebrows. ‘I haven’t. And I must admit I’m a little nervous. I warn you, Lauren,’ he says, turning to me teasingly, ‘I am no natural dancer.
There’s every chance I might show you up.’

‘Oh, you might surprise yourself,’ I reply.

Edwin leans in to Emily and says: ‘I think that’s what you call wishful thinking.’ Emily laughs. ‘No, put me on a cricket field and I’ll bowl you over. A dance
floor is a different matter. I’ll only knock you over.’

Marion calls the class to attention, before asking if there are any newcomers, then beckoning Edwin over to let him know the drill.

‘He is
so
lovely,’ Emily says to me, under her breath. ‘I’d forgotten how funny he is. He’s such a sweetheart.’ I swell with pride at this and the
trousers suddenly seem like a trifling matter compared to Edwin’s sparkling personality.

‘So how was your day with Joe on Saturday?’ I ask. ‘You two never seem to be apart these days.’

She gets this slightly reluctant look, like she always does when I ask about her blossoming relationship. ‘Great. He’s lovely.’

‘Are you two getting serious?’

She looks around and whispers, ‘Could be. Right, let’s get some drinks and go and initiate your lovely Edwin into this madness.’

Edwin is in Lulu’s beginners’ group and, as I’ve brought him here, I get special dispensation from Marion to join him initially.

There are just three beginners and we’re confined to a corner of the restaurant, which is a little lacking in atmosphere but has the benefit of privacy – a bonus when you’re
starting out. It’s obvious that Edwin is keen to do his best. I’ve always admired this quality in him; he could never be accused of failing to give something everything he’s
got.

So we begin with the basic steps, just like on the first day we arrived. Lulu talks us through it slowly, demonstrating where Edwin’s feet need to be. And even though it’s not really
been that long since I started, it all feels very elementary. I have to remind myself that I found this far from simple on my first lesson.

‘Why don’t we use Lauren and Edwin as our guinea pigs?’ Lulu suggests, leading Edwin by the hand and inviting me to stand opposite. I lift my head and catch his eye as our
fingers touch. It’s one of those moments I’ve dreamed of since I first started this class – one that, deep down, I never thought would happen. Yet, I feel surprisingly
un-flustered.

Edwin has the hint of a smile on his lips as Lulu instructs him to step back with his right foot, putting the weight on to that side of his body. It’s the simplest move there is; it barely
even counts as a dance step – it’s just a
step
.

Yet when she counts, ‘two three four’ and he’s supposed to put his right foot behind him, he unfortunately – somehow – uses his left instead and his knee jabs into
mine.

We laugh awkwardly. ‘Sorry, Lauren,’ he says. ‘I
did
warn you.’

So we repeat the exercise.

And the same thing happens.

Then we do it again – and something else, equally wrong, happens.

After the ninth or so time, it occurs to me that Edwin might be either stoned, or playing some elaborate joke on me. But he’s not laughing. In fact, he couldn’t look less amused
about the whole thing if he tried. He glares at his feet as if they’re two disobedient children who absolutely refuse to do as they’re told.

‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I say gently. ‘You’ll get it.’

Despite the less than promising start, I’m confident as I say these words. Because to
not
get it is unprecedented; even Mike managed this bit. Yet, as the evening progresses and
Edwin goes through innumerable attempts – and still fails simply to move his right leg back by six inches when instructed – I do start to wonder.

It doesn’t seem to matter if he’s with me, or Lulu or another partner – he just
cannot
master it without falling to pieces. Throughout this entire uncomfortable
episode, I keep telling myself:
Oh, but at least we can laugh!
Only it turns out we can’t.

The good grace with which I’d always associated Edwin is nowhere to be seen. He gets crosser and crosser – at this situation, at life in general and, as I discover when it’s my
turn to be his partner for the fourth time – at Lulu, who he has convinced himself is responsible for the entire fiasco.

‘She’s so bloody bossy,’ he hisses into my ear, when she’s helping one of the other students get into position.