Read by Louisa Gummer
On Monday Ez took them to the soft opening of a bar next to a public urinal in Dalston. Inevitably, post-ironically, perhaps even amusingly, it was called Pissed.
“Toilet bars are so over,” Ez explained to Amba over his Pissed Whisky Mist, in which floated novelty icecubes the colour and shape of urinal-cakes. “There's one in Chelsea for fuck's sake.” At Pissed, you could watch through mirrored, soundproof glass as the patrons of the next-door pissoir, blithely unaware of having an audience, got their cocks out and put them to the purpose God intended. Maisie and her sort-of semi-boyfriend Franky thought it was hilarious and instantly started live-tweeting it: #LOL #mentalMonday and #penis.
So basically, a standard Monday.
*
On Tuesday Maisie knew a band who were prelaunching their EP at a semi-derelict Catford cinema. “It's fucking amazing,” she said, “like Punchdrunk meets Hammer, and that's just the lift,” so they went. The band was shit but the drugs were OK, and the old orchestra-pit had been turned into a swimming-pool before the developers got bored, so Amba and Ez pushed each other in like flirtatious seven-year-olds, and Franky Instagrammed some sick snaps.
Facebooking them later, Amba thought again that she and Ez made a pretty fucktastic couple. In the three years since dropping out of art-school she'd guessed that Ez kind of liked her, but he'd never made a move, so who knew? Maybe he was afraid of rejection, but knowing Ez, he just considered it profoundly uncool to actually ask her out. Pity. He was hot, and under all the bullshit, quite nice too. He was probably hoping they'd hook up through sheer proximity. That's what usually happened, after all.
Wednesday was Amba's ex-tutor's gallery-opening, so she dragged the others along to scoff canapes and bitch about the sculptures. They went clubbing after and crashed at Ez's at five.
Thursday started with the traditional Brick Lane cocktail and curry crawl, and blanked out around 10pm near Aldgate. She'd woken up at seven, not in, but under her bed.
On Friday afternoon Ez WhatsApped them all saying his homie Duncan knew a girl who used to be a dominatrix (or maybe was a performance-artist who pretended to be a dominatrix) but anyway she was holding a lock-and-key party and they had to go. Amba immediately googled “key party” and found this example of proper usage on UrbanDictionary.
“Last night I got to take Jerry's wife Sue home from the key party for the first time. She gave me a better blowjob than my own wife Jan, but I love Jan more than anything, especially since she likes to attend the key parties with me. Jan went home with Bill and said she liked how large his penis was, but that I still make better love to her than any of her other partners.”
*
They met at Moonshine, a pop-up shanty bar above a vegan shoe-shop, but Maisie didn't seem too keen. “A key party?” she snorted. “Like in the Seventies? The guys toss their Ford Escort keys in a bowl, the girls pick one to go home with? What is this, The Good Life?”
Amba wondered if Maisie had ever watched an episode of The Good Life or just seen it referenced on an I Love The 1970s countdown, because she was pretty sure Barbara and Margo had never husband-swapped. Maybe the idea wasn't such a thrill when you were in an open-plan semi-relationship, especially with a man-tart like Franky, but what the fuck, it was a party and it was Friday. What else were they going to do? Stay home and read a book?
Ez rolled his eyes and tutted. “Sweets,” he sighed, “it's not a key party, it's a lock-and-key party. Totally different.”
“Totally different how?” Maisie asked, glitter-rimmed eyes narrowed.
Amba could tell Ez had no idea what a lock-and-key party involved, but Franky was clearly keen. “C'mon, Maze, it'll be sexy, or kitsch at least. Like that Pissed place, but with less … pissing. Probably.”
And after another round of Alabama Slammers, they all agreed to go.
*
It turned out, when they got there at an embarrassingly early 11pm, that locks were attached to the girls, and keys got handed out to all the boys. The twist was, only five of the keys worked in five of the locks: the rest were duds. Those keys also unlocked one of the five bedrooms, which were fitted with HD baby monitors for the viewing pleasure of the losers. Their dominatrix-artist-whatever hostess had really thought it through.
“Ooh!” crooned Franky as he was handed his key. “Retro sexual politics and Freudian symbolism. I love it!” The key guy, Duncan, didn't even crack a smile. Maybe the dominatrix had said not to. As Amba examined the shiny brass Yale pendant hanging around her neck, she couldn't help hoping her lock was a dud: drinking beer and laughing at mismatched couples ineptly shagging reminded her of happy teenage years spent in Maisie's bedroom watching Big Brother. Maisie sashayed up to her, shimmying the heavy chain around her slim hips.
“How come mine's round my neck and you get to wear yours as a belt?” Amba said crossly. Her chain was starting to chafe already. Maybe she was allergic to nickel?
Maisie grinned. “I slipped the lock bitch £20,” she said. “I can wriggle out any time I want and join the real party.” She nodded at the bank of spectators who were cheering the first couple to click; two indistinct figures getting down to it in Fisher-Price technicolour. “Also, this way I can check out what Franky's up to.”
Amba nodded. “Smart,” she conceded, but her heart wasn't really in it. Like everyone else she knew, she'd had so many random, meaningless sexual encounters in her short life that the prospect of another one, even with a medium-hot guy, was just kind of … meh. She was tired of that shit. In fact she was just plain tired: this week had really taken it out of her. Jesus, was she getting old? She looked around the room, checking out the partygoers. Maybe 24 was old. In the corner, Ez was arguing intently with Duncan over his bowl of keys. Probably hadn't got the brand he wanted. Was there such a thing as a trendy key? She wandered into the kitchen, cracked a Red Bull and winced. Everything still tasted like tikka: her tongue was fucked from last night – too much curry and too little sleep.
The idea seemed to be that everyone mingled as usual, keys trying locks and vice versa, until the five lucky couples found each other. Amba drifted through several conversations about ketamine, 80s cartoons, BDSM, YouPorn, Jeremy Corbyn and how painfully over Hackney was, before ending up next to Ez, whose key had just been firmly ejected by the lock of a statuesque Asian girl.
“Better luck next time,” said Amba, flicking her still-locked necklace.
Ez shrugged. “Guess it wasn't meant to be.”
Amba lifted an eyebrow. “That, or you should've brought some WD-40.”
“Oh, stiffness isn't the problem,” Ez assured her, straight-faced. “it's just the wrong fit. Here, try it.”
He lifted the key around his neck and slipped it smoothly into her lock by way of demonstration. The key turned with a slick click, and Amba's padlock opened wide. Immediately, they were surrounded by a patter of applause.
Behind them, a whip cracked triumphantly. “And that's the last pair!” cried their hostess, who Amba felt was a bit bossy, even for a dominatrix, “now you lucky pups, find a bedroom and GET FUCKING!”
“Awesome,” said Ez laconically. “You coming, Am?”
Amba stared at him. “Er,” she said, wondering if this was Fate or what. It would make a great “how we got together” story, but something bothered her. It all seemed a bit too … easy?
“Yeah, I guess … but ... don't you think it's weird?”
He looked suddenly wary. “What?”
“I mean, won't it be weird … y'know … you and me?”
His face relaxed into a wide, smug grin. “Chill,” he said, “I'm pretty good at this.”
*
They found the last bedroom, kissed a bit (OK, he was pretty good) and stripped down to their underwear. It was kind of hot but definitely weird, and not just because someone was audibly wanking outside the keyhole. No, something else was nagging at Amba, and she was pretty sure it was the fact that she'd seen Ez so deep in conversation with Duncan as he was handing out the keys – and that Maisie had bribed the lock girl.
Because what if their random pairing wasn't random at all? What if Ez, instead of asking her out like an actual person, had decided he was too cool for that, and instead slipped Duncan a note for the key to Amba's lock? He'd probably think he was being clever and romantic, whereas in fact it was bullshit. Because if Ez didn't have the balls to ask her to her face, and deal with the possibility of a knock-back, he definitely didn't deserve access to her pants. Yeah, he loved to pretend he didn't really care about anything, but she'd like to see him lose his cool for once.
She put her hands on Ez's shoulders, stifling a yawn. That Red Bull wasn't working … how much sleep had she had this week? Ten hours, twelve? God, that bed looked inviting. All crisp white sheets and chubby pillows. Maybe the dominatrix got her clients to do the rooms, dressed up like French maids?
Amba forced herself to focus. She took his key and toyed with it, then lifted the chain over his head and slipped the Yale back into her neck-lock, twiddling it suggestively.
“Ez babe,” she cooed, “This is hot and all, but it's kind of vanilla, no? Let's give them a real show. Why don't you run out there and grab us a few accessories?”
He raised a lazy eyebrow, intrigued. “Accessories? Sure … like what?”
She shrugged. “Simple stuff. A funnel, straws, maybe a buttplug, or one of those wine-stoppers if they've all gone. Lube, obviously –”
“Obviously,” he nodded, pulling his skinny-jeans on hastily. God, was he actually getting excited about something? Was that what it took?
“Oh,” she added as he slammed the door open, producing a thud and a stifled cry from the other side, “chilli-powder … and a dildo.”
He gulped, nodded and almost ran off. She waited a minute, then walked over and locked the door from the inside with his key. Then she unplugged the baby monitor from the wall, and jumped between the smooth cool sheets. The bed really was amazingly comfy.
She wondered how long it would take Ez to gather all that crap and come back to find he was locked out. He'd be pissed off, but at least he'd realise that if he wanted to hook up with her, he'd have to try a little harder. Even it it was sheer luck they'd been paired, it wouldn't kill him to have a challenge for a change.
She closed her aching eyes, drifting on crisp clouds of Egyptian cotton. Was she imagining a muffled thumping, a plaintive let me in? She snuggled deeper. Maybe she'd open the door, maybe not. She'd have to sleep on it.
(c) Sarah McAllister, 2015
Sarah McAllister works full-time, studies writing part-time with the OU, and spends the rest of the time sleeping, reading or drinking coffee. She used to live in Dalston, but she's all right now.
Louisa Gummer (left) is a Liars' League regular. Her recent voiceover work includes the "Vine in 1914" strand on BBC Radio 2, seducing Harry Enfield on a radio ad, guiding visitors around Stockholm's Moderna Museet, and giving instructions inside an MRI scanner.
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