Scrambling about in my handbag, pinching my lips closed to suppress a scream, I manage to flick the phone onto silent just as the screen lights up with the call. From farther down the hallway, I hear Maude leaving me a message explaining Jasper’s lost his phone and he’s off on a training exercise all day, but that she’ll get him to call me about the bag as soon as he returns.
With the phone-ringing/death-by-poker emergency averted, I have a few moments to digest the fact that Jasper is a volunteer; the guy just gets better and better the more I hear about him. He has a flat in London—great for a potential relationship with me, since, well, I live there. He’s called Jasper—such a hot name and he rescues people from the sea. He must have quite muscular upper arms if he hauls people out of the water all day. An image of Ted’s arms springs unbidden to my mind, as he stripped off his sea-soaked T-shirt, that understated, muscular definition, strong but lean—
Through my musing about the sexiness of upper arms, I hear Keith’s and Maude’s footsteps across the hall again and tuck myself farther back behind the coats. This really is a very deep coat alcove; you could fit a short bowling alley in here.
“So, when am I giving you your birthday present?” Keith asks Maude.
I feel briefly indignant on Jasper’s behalf—he better not be about to give Maude the beehive. It’s supposed to be a surprise, Keith.
“Oh, you are a mischief,” says Maude, with a chuckle. “I thought there was a reason you came over today when you knew I’d be here on my own.”
“Mrs. Le Maistre, I’m shocked you would suspect me of such base motivations. I am purely here as a messenger—though if you would like a little something—you know I’m always happy to oblige.” Keith’s voice breaks into a little purr.
Then they stop talking, and I hear what sounds like kissing sounds. No! Maude and Keith? I did not see that plot twist coming. They must be in their late sixties—no one kisses like that in their sixties, do they?
“My queen bee,” says Keith, “undress for me.”
What? No! I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I dare to peep out from behind the Barbour jacket, and sure enough Maude drops her plaid knee-length skirt to the polished wooden floor. Keith stands watching, his bushy white eyebrows jumping up and down like caterpillars on a trampoline. Surely this isn’t happening, not here in the hallway. They could at least go upstairs!
“Come on then. I’ve got the gardener coming over at four thirty, so you’ll need to be quick about it,” says Maude.
“The chaise,” Keith purrs, and I hear more kissing sounds.
My eyes dart around the hall and to my horror I see a green chaise longue directly opposite my hiding place. Please no, just say no, Maude, I’m sure you’d rather have a nice comfy bed, not a quickie in the hallway.
“You only like the chaise so you can hold on to the antlers,” Maude says with a girlish giggle. Sure enough, above the chaise, I see two huge antlers protruding from the mounted skull of a stag, “If Frank only knew what his hideous family heirloom was being used for.”
Ooh, who’s Frank? Husband? Hang on, isn’t Keith married? Yes, I asked him how he met his wife at the fete—the plot thickens. Am I witnessing a clandestine affair?
“Well, my balance isn’t what it was,” cackles Keith, and I hear the sound of trousers being unzipped.
Closing my eyes, I hear my heartbeat thrumming in my ears. Should I make myself known now? It might be better to be arrested for trespassing than to witness what’s about to happen. But it’s too late. Daring to peek again, I see Maude is now sitting on the chaise, and Keith is unbuttoning her cardigan, bending down to kiss her neck. I retract my head, like a horrified tortoise. If I’m going to have to listen, I certainly shouldn’t watch.
The furniture starts squeaking, and I pull out my phone for distraction. What if Keith wrenches those antlers off the wall? What if they fall down, skewering them both like some horrific sex kebab, and I have to jump out and call an ambulance? I’m also worried about the chaise. It looked like more of an ornamental piece than something built for serious action.
If there’s any silver lining to finding myself in this horrific situation, I can’t help but be comforted that two people in their late sixties are still having some pretty satisfying-sounding sex. It gives me hope that I’ve got another thirty years to find my movie sex.
I open the “Hot Suitcase Guy” WhatsApp group and send a message to Vanya and Dee:
Laura: So, I accidentally walked into HSG’s mum’s house, and now I’m listening to her have sex with the MARRIED chairman of the bee society—in her hallway.
Vanya: WHAT?!!
Laura: No joke. It is happening now. I’m hiding in her coat alcove.
Dee: What’s a coat alcove?
Laura: Kind of like a cupboard without a door. Nice easy access to coats on your way out of the house. I think I’d like one in my forever home.
As I’m typing, a message comes through from Gran.
Gran: Laura. Sorry we keep missing each other. Trip to the dump was great success. I can talk now? At Stitch ’n’ Bitch Club tonight. Attached—picture of our latest building project. Can you guess what it’s supposed to be?
Attached is a photo of an angular building made from matchsticks, with a large tower protruding from the middle.
Dee: Send me a photo. I don’t believe you.
Laura: Of what? The live sex show or the coat alcove?
The noises beyond the coats escalate, and I prop my phone between my knees to put my fingers in my ears. Of course I’m not going to take a photo; I wouldn’t think of invading their privacy, well, any more than I already am. My phone lights up with another message.
Gran: It is not a sex show, Laura, it’s supposed to be the Tate Modern!
Confused, I scroll back, realizing I sent the message meant for Dee to Gran. Whoops, the darkness of the coat alcove and all the horrifying noises are making it difficult to WhatsApp effectively.
Laura: Sorry, Gran, glitch with my phone, I didn’t mean to send you that. I can clearly see it’s the Tate, well done! Can we chat tomorrow? Bit tied up with something just now. Xx
I do want to tell Gran about all the crazy things Aunt Monica said, but I don’t think it’s a conversation to be had over WhatsApp. Turning the phone around, I take a photo of myself in the alcove. With the flash off, the picture comes out looking a bit Blair Witch, with the whites of my eyes shiny luminous against a backdrop of tweed coats and wax jackets. I send it to Dee and Vanya.
Dee: Why are you in her house, Laura?!
Laura: Long story. Does witnessing this rule her out as a potential mother-in-law?
Vanya: Not if she’s good at sex, maybe it’s hereditary.