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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 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.
As I’m sprinting, in flip-flops, my heart pounds against my chest: with adrenaline, with the fear of being caught, but also with excitement, because the picture I glimpsed on the wall on the way out told me something: Jasper Le Maistre is the beautiful man from the airport.
Hot Suitcase Guy is Hot Tampon Man!
Though I must not call him that.
Jasper, he is now just Jasper.
