Page 70 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘Did you know Ro once shagged a Latvian bloke who was into vomiting?’
Danny closes his eyes, like he’s wondering how on earth that would have come up in everyday conversation.
‘C’mon,’ he gestures. ‘We’ll look like a proper pair of idiots stood here on their drive.’
Danny grabs my hand. It’s a strange gesture, one we rarely have the opportunity to do given our hands are usually hijacked by little people. I forget he’s the firm grasp and handshake sort. This speaks volumes about people, I feel. No one likes a weak hold. Our feet shuffle over gravel and we get up to the front door. Danny rings the bell. The lights are on in the hallway and front room, but nothing.
‘Can you hear music?’ asks Danny.
I nod. I can. It sounds like Lionel Richie. Danny curls his hands around his eyes, looks through the front window and knocks again at the front door.
‘Are you sure he said today? Weren’t someone taking the mick? Could have been a prank?’ Danny bends down and opens the letterbox. ‘EY UP, ANYONE HOME?’ I cringe at his lack of reserve. It’s then that we hear it.
‘MRS MORTON! IS THAT YOU?’ shouts a voice, hesitantly, from somewhere in the house.
I push Danny out of the way of the letterbox. ‘YES!’
Danny looks at me, confused. Why aren’t they coming to the door?
‘IF YOU JUMP THE GATE, THE BACK DOOR IS OPEN. LET YOURSELF IN!’
Danny and I look at each other. What the hell is going on here? This is a trap. I’ll have my arse halfway up that gate, a dog will come at me and I’ll lose a foot.
‘What do we do? Do we go in?’
Danny shrugs. ‘Well, we’re here? May as well.’
He walks to the side of the house and puts a foot on a stone wall to lever himself over in the same way you’d imagine a late thirtysomething man might indulge in parkour. I help get his feet over the threshold and hear him land like a bag of potatoes on the other side.
‘I’ll go in and open front door,’ he whispers through the fence.
I wait, wondering what this is all about. The front door opens.
‘Now then. Fancy meeting you here,’ he mumbles dryly. ‘Just walked through kitchen, they’re not in there.’
I cross the threshold. I can still hear Lionel. I notice lines of shoes all lined up by the door, the exact opposite of what I witnessed earlier at soft play. The school shoes are all unscuffed and pristine, the trainers all have their laces undone and ready to be worn. There are no double knot situations here where people are screaming at each other because they’re going to be late.
‘Take off your shoes,’ I whisper to Danny.
‘Why are we whispering?’
‘I don’t know but looks like they’re the sort who have a thing for shoes.’
‘Oi oi.’
I push Danny playfully and we fumble with our laces, adding our shoes to the mix. There is almost something too calm about this place. I can’t quite put my finger on it. We walk past a corridor lined with studio photos of their whole family in denim and white. Darn it, they are a photogenic bunch. The sons are older but have inherited the swishy hair genes and some crazy good dental chops too. All five of them are looking at the camera too, something which we’ve failed to achieve yet as a family. No one is gurning, smiling with flared nostrils or having a meltdown. As we walk into the kitchen, Danny puts a cheeky hand to my arse. For the love of balls this is not the place Morton.
We walk through to his kitchen which is as I expected given the decor and layout of the house thus far. It’s all white and light wood with shiny appliances that don’t have handprints, and countertops not adorned with half-torn cereal boxes. Behind the kitchen is a sofa area that leads out to the garden and views over Kendal. They have monogrammed oven gloves. I now know what is missing from our lives. Danny looks at me. Are we reading each other’s minds correctly right now? This has the glow of Stepford about it though, right? There’s the smell of something coming from the oven. Danny goes over to open it and then turns it off.
‘They’re burning their lasagne.’
What the hell are we doing here? Danny points up to the ceiling. That voice from before came from upstairs, didn’t it? They’re upstairs.
‘Danny, I’m not comfortable with this. What on earth is happening? Why have they called us?’ Danny is just as shocked as me. He leaves the oven door ajar to let the lasagne breathe a little. We hear footsteps above us.
‘This is a posh house. Maybe they’ve been held to ransom and we’re the messengers and they’re going to kill us,’ I mention.
‘Maybe you watch too muchLuther.’
