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.
Dee: Bee man definitely isn’t her husband?
I don’t think so. He doesn’t live here. Plus, I don’t think married couples have sex in hallways. What if Jasper doesn’t know about their affair, then when I meet him, I’ll have this secret on my conscience? Why does my perfect meet-cute have to be so bloody convoluted?
Muffled voices, and then—I release my fingers—silence, blissful silence.
“Oh, my queen,” Keith purrs.
“You are incorrigible.” Maude laughs.
“I prefer the blue sofa in your sitting room, softer cushion,” says Keith.
These two are clearly at it like rabbits, doing it in every room of the house. Most of the relationships I’ve been in have involved sex very much in bed, under the sheets, with the lights dimmed to “mood.” Apart from Australian Shayne, who couldn’t have horizontal sex on account of his back and had a preference for the stairs, but that was just a bit bumpy and uncomfortable. Oh wow, am I actually jealous of Maude’s sex life?
“Shall we have some Earl Grey in the garden? I made those buttery biscuits you like,” says Maude.
I am jealous. Especially now they’re having postcoital biscuits—those are the best kind of biscuits. Another message from Gran lights up my screen.
Gran: I agree, the Tate Tower is rather phallic. I told Pam we should have done the OXO Tower—far more distinctive. Where’s the Coat Alcove, maybe we’ll tackle that landmark next?
It takes a while for Keith and Maude to get dressed, and then, chatting away, they walk to a room off the hall, which I assume to be the kitchen. This is my best chance to escape. It’s like Shawshank Redemption, I’ve just got to hold my nose and wade through the sewer of fear to freedom. Taking a deep breath, I dart, gazelle-like, through the hall—it would be too noisy to try and open the large oak front door, but the garden door is still wide open. I run past the kitchen, pause for a split second to glance at a picture on the wall, sprint around the house, pick up the bag from behind the pillar on the porch, and then I’m off down the driveway faster than I’ve ever run in my life.