‘Oh, look, Ted, people must have gone to the fete after I posted about it. Jenny sold out of jam!’
‘That’s because your broadcast was so inspiring,’ he says. I glance across at him, looking for the sarcasm, but there is none.
While I have a moment, I also message Gran and have a painfully slow back and forth with her over WhatsApp.
Laura: Is now a good time to talk, Gran?
Gran: Just heading to the tip. Mike Johnson from five down agreed to help me take my Amazon boxes. We’re getting a pasty on the way. Did I tell you about the new pasty shop on Grave’s End Road?
Laura: No. Silly question, but Mum didn’t have phobias, did she? Of the dark and seagulls?
Gran: No. Where did you get that idea?
Laura: I thought not. Don’t worry, we’ll chat later.
As we drive, Ted points things out to me, the honesty boxes at the side of the road where you can leave your money in exchange for freshly grown fruit and veg; Elizabeth Castle, the fortress in the sea I noticed yesterday. Ted tells me you can walk to the castle at low tide, but once the sea comes up, it can only be reached by boat. I love hearing these details about the island, and it seems too soon that we arrive at our destination – a large granite farmhouse on the outskirts of town.
Mill Manor is engraved on the stone gatepost, the lettering painted in gold. Through the gate, a circular drive winds around an old stone cider press, filled with orange dahlias. The house itself has wisteria and white roses covering half of the front wall.
‘Right, this is Maude’s place. Maybe you’ll get some answers from her,’ says Ted, nodding towards the house. ‘There’s a car in the drive and the front door is open, so someone must be home. Are you impressed with my detective work?’
‘So impressed, Ted,’ I say, biting back a grin. ‘I did leave her a message, but she hasn’t called me back. Maybe I had the wrong number, maybe these Le Maistres all have some kind of phone aversion.’
‘Well, this way you can at least ask to see some photos of her son – see if this treasure hunt of yours is going to be worth the effort,’ says Ted, a mischievous glint in his eye.
‘Ha ha, I do need to get my case back, you know. This isn’t all about him being a potential—’
‘Kablammo.’
I wish I hadn’t told Ted about the kablammo.
‘It’s not all about the kablammo either,’ I say, rolling my eyes at him.
‘Sure,’ Ted nods slowly.
‘It’s not!’ I push him on the arm. ‘Do you want to come?’
‘I think I’ll leave you to dazzle your prospective mother-in-law. I need to pick up some things for Dad’s party tonight. You can walk into town from here – just take this road down the hill and you’ll end up at the harbour. Shall I meet you outside your hotel in an hour?’
‘OK, thank you so much, Ted.’
Our eyes meet again. He was so quiet at the house, but now, back in the car, on our own, he’s different again, a new energy to him. There’s suddenly so much I want to ask him; about being a doctor, why his wife left, if he’d take her back tomorrow if she came home. I like hearing him talk. No doubt it’s the journalist in me, always keen to get ‘the story’. I have to stop myself trying to bite into the core of Ted’s tale.
I get out on the drive, and watch him drive away, then I walk towards the house, the case trundling along the gravel behind me.
‘Hello,’ I call from the front step. The door opens onto a large open hallway, with several doors off each side. ‘Hello?’ I call again.
There’s no answer, so after a few minutes I decide to walk around the side of the house – maybe Maude is in the garden and can’t hear me. The lawn to the side stretches around to a beautifully kept garden, split onto terraces, flower beds laden with white roses and giant purple daisies.
‘Hello? Mrs Le Maistre? Is anyone home?’
I see the garden door is open too – she must be here. I head back to the front, put the case down next to the porch, between a stone pillar and a small triangular shrub, then take a tentative step across the threshold of the house. There is a loud noise coming from somewhere, a whirring, clattering sound.
‘Mrs Le Maistre?’ I call into the hall, while knocking again on the open front door.
Behind me, I hear a car trundle into the driveway. It suddenly feels intrusive that I’ve stepped into this woman’s hallway, and without thinking, I duck further inside the house, scooting behind Maude’s front door. I realise too late: this is the worst thing I could have done. Now I am stuck here. Peeking out through the window, I hope it might be a delivery driver who leaves quickly. But it is not a delivery driver; the man getting out of the car is Keith – Bee Man Keith from the community fete.
‘Shit!’ I mutter under my breath. Keith already thinks I’m a weirdo stalker. What if he’s here to warn Maude that some lunatic woman is trying to get hold of her, and then they both find me crouched behind the front door? That would not look good. In a panic, my eyes dart around for somewhere better to hide, and I duck down from the window.
Keith walks up to the front door and calls out just as I did. He pauses, then I hear a voice call out from above my head and I try to flatten myself against the wall like a salamander.
‘Oh, it’s you hollering, is it?’ comes a female voice from upstairs. ‘I had the dryer on, it makes a right old racket. Go on through, I’ll meet you in the garden.’
Cold sweat prickles my skin, my mouth is dry. How have I got myself into this situation? I feel like a cat burglar, a really rubbish cat burglar who doesn’t want to steal anything. I worry Keith is going to see the case sitting next to the porch, but he’s walked past it and now he’s standing in the hallway too. I slowly lower myself to the floor.
‘Do you need a hand up there, Maude?’ Keith calls up the stairs. I hold my breath, worried he is going to hear me breathing. If he closes the door, he will see me, lying on the floor like a human draught excluder. There are footsteps above us.
‘No, I’ll come down. Give me one minute,’ comes the voice, which must be Maude. I can only see one more secure place to hide, an alcove full of coats in the hall, just a few yards away from me. Keith is facing the stairs, and the dryer noise is still rumbling through the floorboards; this might be my one chance to move. Holding my breath, I get to my feet and tiptoe across to the alcove, then quietly push myself backwards into the forest of coats, pulling a brown Barbour jacket around me, as I hear footsteps on the stairs and a ‘There you are,’ from Keith. Then the clunk of the front door closing – SHIT!
Peering out from behind the coat, I see a woman in her sixties, with a grey bun and plaid skirt standing by the door next to Keith.
‘Well, this is a nice surprise,’ says Maude. ‘The sun’s out, we should sit in the garden.’ Yes, sit in the garden, then I can sneak back out of the front door undetected. ‘I just need to get my specs.’
‘Someone was looking for you at the fete this morning,’ Keith says, following Maude into one of the rooms off the hall. I should dart out now, sprint out of the back door while they’re out of sight, but I want to hear what he’s going to say about me, so I stay put. ‘This girl who said she mistakenly picked up Jasper’s suitcase from the airport. She’s under the impression he must have hers.’
Jasper! Jasper! At last, I know his name. I love the name Jasper! It’s perfect. Laura and Jasper, Jasper and Laura; that certainly has a nice ring to it.
‘I didn’t want to be responsible for giving her your details, you know. She was a bit – odd.’
Odd? Bloody Keith, dissing me, especially when my broadcast brought his fete some much-needed customers.
‘Oh yes,’ says Maude, ‘I got a rather garbled message from someone, but I couldn’t make out the number to call her back, the line was so crackly.’ They both come out of the other room and walk back across the hall – I’ve missed my chance to escape through the garden now. ‘Jasper rang me to say he’d left his personal mobile at the London
flat, so she’ll be having no luck getting hold of him. He went straight out on a lifeboat training exercise to Seymour Tower last night, so I suspect he’s completely incommunicado.’
‘He’ll be back for your birthday tomorrow, won’t he?’
‘Oh yes, I think he’s back tonight. So, he picked up the wrong luggage, did he? Oh dear. Do you have the girl’s number to hand? I should call her and explain. What made you think she was so odd?’
‘She was rather foul-mouthed, and she had wild, hysterical sort of eyes,’ says Keith.
FOUL-MOUTHED! WILD EYES? Literally, Keith heard the one time I’ve ever sworn in public.
They are out of sight now, at the other end of the hall, but I hear paper rustling, and then the clunk of a handset being lifted from its cradle. A cold bead of sweat trickles down my neck as I realise what’s about to happen – she’s dialling my number and the phone in my handbag is not on silent. It’s going to start ringing, and they will freak out when they hear it coming from inside the house. It will be like a horror film; Keith might murder me with a fire poker, and he wouldn’t even go to jail because I’m the intruder hiding behind a brown Barbour jacket in Maude’s coat alcove.
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 further down the hallway, I hear Maude leaving me a message explaining that Jasper left his phone in London 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 and Maude’s footsteps across the hall again and tuck myself further 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’d 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. 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 having 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 tip was great success. Can you 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, not 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, realising 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?
&nb
sp; 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 post-coital 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.
Just Haven't Met You Yet Page 12
