Pix (Volume Book 24) (Harpur & Iles Mysteries) (8 page)

‘And the new carpet – have you chosen it?'

‘Oh, yes, to be put down when the decorating's finished.'

‘Who helped?'

‘Helped what?'

‘Who helped you choose?'

He felt like saying that Chandor or Chandor's people
didn't exactly
help
him choose but made damn sure he
did
choose, and fucking fast. ‘I picked it myself.'

‘No advice from Carmel or Lowri or Patricia?'

‘I decided something not too vivid, yet with a colour theme that impressed,' Shale replied. ‘The same sort of . . . well . . . 
mood
as the Pre-Raphaelites.'

‘Do you know what I thought, Manse, when I failed to get in?'

‘It would be confusing, I can see that,' he replied.

‘I thought, he's changed the bloody locks so I can't just roll up and catch him screwing one of those cohabit dames on the rug in front of the splendid Arthur Hughes,' Sybil said, ‘or more than one.' It angered him that she could add those last few words. His rule about one woman at a time in his home had always been totally firm. He felt insulted. Manse tried to remember whether he'd ever screwed Sybil on the rug in front of the splendid Arthur Hughes. If not, she must be second-sighted to some extent, though he'd never noticed that before. He had for definite bought the Hughes before she left him, or she would not of referred to his ‘wank women'. Shale thought it was the kind of generous thing he might of done at some time – screwed Sybil on the rug in front of the Arthur Hughes – so as to show her that regardless of the glorious Pre-Raphaelite models he still wanted
her
. But, if he had took the trouble to bang her there, it did not do the trick, did it, because she still left him for that greengrocer or psychiatrist, whatshisname?

‘It would of been an even more lovely surprise, to meet you inside the rectory, Syb – like suppose your key still worked and you'd come in and found me in my den,' Manse said. ‘Just the way things used to be.'

‘I wonder if you really want that, Mansel.'

Well, yes, he did wonder himself, and felt ashamed. There was quite an area of Manse that believed a husband
should
want to see his wife around the house, even a wife who bolted, and particularly in a rectory where the family should surely be a true solid example. He considered the behaviour by Chandor and his people had been a one-off – or a two-off, if you counted bringing the art back, taking
the body and trying to spruce up the place – yes, a one-off or a two-off, so a wife in this house probably wouldn't never come across anything shocking like that in the future. Probably, Carmel or Lowri or Patricia wouldn't, either, if he resumed them, instead of Syb, but it seemed more important for a wife not to have to put up with that sort of trouble, he didn't know why. When women took part in their wedding ceremony and made the promises, they would not expect their home to get a deado left on the stairs and all the art cleared.

Shale thought she looked excellent today and at Severalponds, no greying yet – or terrific dye – her skin youngish, eyes dark, full of fight, yet also friendly, her legs as good as Carmel's and better than Lowri's and Patricia's. He didn't think she seemed content, but he would not expect that, being over there in Wales with someone. Well, she would not of turned up now if she was content there, would she? Did him over there know she'd come?

Manse regarded as definitely possible a rug screw in front of the Hughes today, although decorators worked on the stairwell and now and then went into the kitchen to make tea. They had no need to come into the drawing room. Manse did not want dungarees and that sort of thing in the drawing room, anyway, regardless of whether he was screwing Syb on the rug. Shale would never regard himself as snobby, but he believed in decorum. Obviously an artist, when he worked on a picture, might wear dungarees, because of the splatter. But art hanging in the drawing room of an ex-rectory needed respect.

‘Which one wouldn't leave, Manse?'

‘They all get attached to the place, you know. It's understandable, maybe – the conservatory and high ceilings.'

‘I damn well don't like it.'

‘No. Awkward. Unpleasant.'

‘Proprietorial. A woman who carries on like that shows she believes she has entitlements.'

Manse said: ‘I hate being forced into measures. The locks. Against the grain. And yet what else?'

‘Her clothes and so on – did you have to put them outside?'

‘Unpleasant.'

‘And the children?'

‘What, Syb?'

‘Do they become fond of these people or, say, of one of them more than the others? These are still my damn children, you know. Oh, yes. These women, if they've captured the children by cleverness, subtlety, deviousness, well, they've captured you as well, haven't they?'

Increasingly it seemed to Manse that only by making love to her in here could he hope to ease her bad anxieties and jealousies and help her cut down on the ‘damns'. Women lived for these glowing little signs. If a woman drove here from Wales, this showed a true itch. And Mansel felt the start of a throb come on as he watched Syb there, very solemn and bullyboy in his personal chair. No, that was wrong – ‘bullyboy' – not just because it should be bully
girl
, but because he could tell that, really, she looked for love and longed to give love. Ivor didn't rate no longer? He found he could think the name now because he must be a failure instead of a menace. Kidology – that's all the dim bits of anger in Syb added up to. Her pride would not let her act sweet, not yet. ‘It's a sort of “welcome home” message,' he said.

‘What is?'

‘The redecoration and new stair carpet.'

‘Who for – this welcome home?' she said.

‘Have a guess, Syb.'

‘Well, which is due on rotation here – Patricia, Lowri or Carmel? But you've kicked one of them out and I imagine won't let her back in. So, you're down to two, or have you recruited a damn replacement?'

Manse could see, of course, that she knew he did not mean one of them girls. He would not be redecorating and getting new stair carpet for a sleep-with lodger. And if it
was
for one of them he would never say so to Syb because he'd realize it must hurt. He could feel the hope and satisfaction in her now as he smiled to show he did not
swallow her bluff – the way she pretended that she thought the only women he cared for were Lowri, Carmel and Patricia, or two of them because one had turned difficult. Oh, yes, she had undoubted picked up he meant her, Syb, when he spoke about them refurbishments and who they was in honour of.

Naturally, she could not pick up they was not really to do with
any
woman – not Sybil, nor Lowri nor Patricia nor Carmel – but only with Chandor and his sodding staff, and the disgusting mess they made of an historical rectory. Manse knew that rectories had never been blessed, the way a church building was, but rectories required decent behaviour all the same. He thought he would ask the kids not to mention the sauce story and especially not their blood story about the staining. They would probably agree to play along with that, and he'd give them a couple of twenties to make sure, with a promise of another each if they stuck to it.

‘Oh, Mansel, you're saying the new look on the stairs is for me?' Sybil said. ‘For me?'

‘They're only at the scraping-off stage, but I can show you the wallpaper sample. And I do think you'll like the carpet.' In fact, as he watched her, he decided her legs were better than Carmel's, and so better than all the girls' legs. But what did it mean, good legs in a woman? Manse faced up very square to this poser now, and thought the legs should be rounded but slim, if possible long, and clearly very ready to move apart for the right man at the right time, disclosing that fine invitation-only treat and worthy of it. This was the chief point, in Manse's opinion – the legs should be worthy of it. Where legs became thighs, they began to reach their full duty, in his opinion. Thighs should have some bulk, yes, but not too much, just so they could offer a frame and protection. Women's thighs was tricky. If they was too fat you wondered if you would ever find anything, through overhang. If they was skinny, they made you feel coarse and brutal getting between them. Sometimes, he wished he didn't have this need to ponder
matters but instead could just go ahead like so many men probably did.

Sybil said: ‘A welcome home – how could it be a welcome home when you don't know whether . . . what I mean, Manse, is I live somewhere else? A welcome? It doesn't make sense. You could not even know I'd ever be inside the rectory again.'

‘ “Make sense”? I think it made sense because . . . well, because I could
sense
something, Syb.'

‘Sense what?'

‘At Severalponds. I could spot a wish. I could spot regret. This is not boasting.'

‘It's a settled, adequate thing I've got with Ivor.'

So, Manse crossed the room and bent down alongside what would usually of been his own chair by tradition. She turned her head away, which he reckoned was part of that game she had to go on with, because of dignity. He put a hand gently on her cheek and pushed her head around towards him. He kissed her on the lips. She was ready for that, keen for that, Manse could tell. He did not mind the rigmarole, the suggestion that she had not arrived here for this. That was a delicacy thing, and he approved of some delicacy in women. For instance, Manse hated to hear a woman belch although some did these days as a sign of equality and heartiness, and thoroughly enjoying their grub in a healthy style. Without taking her lips from his, she stood, so she could put her arms around him properly and get her body hard against his. When the kiss ended he said: ‘That was
such
an idea of yours, Syb.'

‘What?'

‘On the rug in front of the Hughes.' He wondered if he should say ‘On the rug
again
in front of the Hughes,' in case they
had
done it there before, but decided this would be dangerous, because if they had
not
done it there before, Sybil would think he was mixing her up with one of the girls, or more than one, and this would be deadly injurious. Holding each other they stepped over towards the rug. It had black, silver and yellow leaf-like patterns. Afghan. He sat down first and then she lowered herself
beside him. He considered it important to be first so that she could see his excitement and would not have to blame herself for being pushy when she set up the idea of having it off beneath the Hughes, or
thinking
she set up the idea of having it off beneath the Hughes.

And he really was excited and eager. That throb stuck with him, the way a throb ought to, and she let the back of her hand brush sort of accidentally across his zip to check it was there and had not gone into malfunction because of her and Ivor. ‘You could give it more,' he said.

‘More what?'

‘Knuckles.'

‘Oh, that,' she said, and made the sweep with the back of her hand again, then turned it the other way so she could take a proper, meaningful hold on him through his trousers and pants. One of his own hands was up her skirt, giving a happy rub to those spot-on thighs and dawdling over the triangle of thong pouch. Manse did not care about the laid-down procedures of foreplay, starting high and progressing down, like through an agenda. He believed in priorities and today's priority was that tufted, tucked-away area, but not tucked away from him. He eased the bit of silken cloth to the side and tenderly slipped two fingers into her enthusiasm. She smiled, and her eyes had no fight in them now, only hormone response. Could women turn that on, or was it just Nature, like the juice? In other words, would Ivor get it sometimes in Wales? Often?

The screech sounds of the wall work on the stairs did not bother Manse, nor the occasional talk between the men and some whistling – quite old tunes, mostly, like ‘It's Not Unusual' and ‘Yellow Submarine'. These noises let him know things went ahead all right and they would not be coming to him with queries. Luckily, he'd got the locksmith to take care of internal security and when he stood to take his clothes off he went to the end of the drawing room and turned the new key. Vertical slat blinds covered the windows and prevented any spying from outside.

Sybil did not undress. That was normal. Always when they used to make love somewhere other than in bed she
liked Manse to strip her. He had found quite often that tough, domineering women wanted things to go this way during rough sex. They seemed to like switching off all the control and trouble-making they usually went for and become offerings to be unwrapped, like weak and past resistance. Patricia was the same and Cordelia Matin-Domo, who had a lot of personality and drive and often went on street protest marches, sometimes with her husband, the famous ITV man, sometimes not, depending which cause. She liked blouse buttons not just to be undone by Manse but made to pop off through clawing. God knows how she explained the wrecked garment when she got home.

Manse did not mind taking care of Syb's kinks. Although he was very ready now, he made a grand, slow ritual of removing each item, as she had taught him when they were together. That sort of coaching he knew he would never forget. As garments came off, she did some very noisy, passionate-growl breathing which Manse felt could be genuine. Tragically, he did not have any women's underwear fetish, a terrible lack in the kind of programme under way now because it would of brought extras to something already brilliant. He wished bra cups and strapping got to him or knicker gussets. Manse believed in fullness of experience, and he knew life had many aspects, besides artistic works.

He tugged a cushion from one of the armchairs and jammed it under Sybil's hips because although they was on the Afghan rug it might not be comfortable for her otherwise and a cushion helped with angle. Then he started to give it to her, slowly to start, as slow as undressing her, and she came up to meet him and force him deep with the same natural rhythm. She deserved steady, unhurried loving after a long drive from Wales, across the Severn Bridge, and then having such a rotten shock with her key. The whistle performance outside went even further back, to ‘Stardust', occasionally moving into a short croon session of the words. Manse loved that song and it seemed right as they began to quicken beautifully together,
reminding him to a useful extent of days ‘when our love was new', as ‘Stardust' said, and no Ivor anywhere in fucking sight, not any need of him.