Lacybourne Manor (17 page)

Marian stood and felt some pain
in her knees.

“I’m too old for this,” she
complained to one of her cats.

The feline blinked at her.

Without further hesitation,
Marian went to her vials and drawers.

She had work to do.

* * * * *

What did a woman wear when she
became a whore?

Sibyl would have never thought
in a million years, with ignorant bliss at her own eventual
stupidity, that she would be asking herself that question.

Now, for fifty thousand
pounds and peace of mind for the well-being of several dozen old
people she really didn’t know all that well, she
was
asking
herself that question.

At least, she told herself, she
hadn’t sold her body to the devil, better-known-as Colin Morgan,
for, say, just the price of petrol.

However, she found herself
obsessing about whether she should have asked him for twice that,
they needed work done on the stage too. And rewiring. And decent
heating. And new furniture.

Of course, that may have
meant
four
months of anything he wanted which was an idea not to be
borne (not that her current predicament was easily tolerated, it
was just a bargain she’d made and, regrettably, had to
keep).

That might be the worst
part of it all (in a situation where it was very difficult to
assess what
exactly
was the worst part). Considering that he was a
raving lunatic with a multiple personality disorder, “whatever he
wanted” could be very much not worth getting paid fifty thousand
pounds.

Staring in her wardrobe and not
seeing anything that was “Become a Whore” worthy, she did what any
girl would do in her situation.

She called her little
sister.

“Little black dress,” Scarlett
replied instantly when Sibyl asked what to wear on a “date” (her
sister didn’t need to know any details) that she knew, at the end,
would be a sure thing.

Sibyl didn’t have a
little black dress so, mainly out of curiosity, she asked what
Scarlett would wear on a “date” that she was certain would
not
be a
sure thing.

“Little black dress,” Scarlett
repeated.

“
Scarlett, you do not
wear little black dresses on every date!” Sibyl snapped, beginning
to allow the niggling feeling of panic she’d been harbouring for
over twenty-four hours to bud out-of-control.

“Yes I do, my entire wardrobe
consists of scrubs and little black dresses,” Scarlett
retorted.

For some reason, Sibyl believed
this.

“Well, I don’t have a little
black dress and he’s going to be here in…” She looked at the clock
on her bedside table. Then she gulped before she finished, “Thirty
minutes.”

“That’s okay, keep him
waiting,” Scarlett retorted airily.

Sibyl didn’t like the
idea of what might happen if she kept Colin Morgan waiting. She
didn’t like it
at
all
.

Her sister, like her mother,
could read her mood from thousands of miles away.

“Jeez, Billie, this guy sure
has your knickers in a twist,” Scarlett noted and finally finished
helpfully. “Just tell me what you have in your closet.”

Sibyl didn’t want to think of
twisted knickers either.

Therefore, she focussed
on Scarlett’s offer of help and in great detail she recited her
wardrobe to her sister.

Luckily, she had already done
her hair (pulled it up in a severe twist at the back of her head)
and her makeup (dramatic, it suited her mood).

She’d also bought a bottle of
red wine; a bottle of white wine; three different types of beer;
champagne (did one toast their entrance into the World of Whoredom?
Sibyl was not up on the etiquette). She’d also bought brie, apples,
water crackers and made shrimp cocktail. Further, she’d prepared
platters of these as nibbles, just in case.

She might be careening
quickly down the low road (the
very
low road) but she was not
going to lose her hostessing skills in the process, her mother
would never forgive her.

He
would not be getting a plate of tasteless cheese
and a sad ham sandwich, although,
he
deserved a big bowl of
ashes.

“What was that? The last thing
you said,” Scarlett interrupted Sibyl’s recitation and her culinary
reverie (Sibyl was frantically, and possibly hysterically,
multitasking).

“Silk camisole with some
sequined beading,” Sibyl repeated.

“What colour?” her discerning
sister enquired.

Sibyl fingered the soft
material of a top she’d bought last year when a girlfriend from
Boulder was out in England for a visit. She’d never worn it. She
didn’t go clubbing or out to dinner very often and it wasn’t the
type of thing to wear to the Community Centre. The top was too
fancy and bared too much skin; she didn’t want to give the old men
coronaries. She had enough trouble with the damned minibus.

“Kind of a deep violet,” Sibyl
answered.

“Wear that,” Scarlett declared
decisively, “with a nice pair of jeans. Now, let’s talk shoes.
What’ve you got?”

And thus, ten minutes after she
hung up the phone with her sister (the call had unfortunately
included the third degree about “the guy”), and five minutes after
Colin Morgan was meant to arrive, Sibyl stood in the dining area of
the cottage wearing a dark violet, silk, sequined camisole, her
best jeans (that had gone a bit snug due to a day of stress-eating
which was now turning her stomach sickeningly) and a pair of
high-heeled sandals that consisted solely of a strip of rhinestones
across her toes and a daring rhinestone ankle strap. They were
shoes she had purchased to wear with a bridesmaid dress and she
hadn’t worn them since. She walked on them down the aisle and
immediately kicked them off at the reception because they killed
her feet.

Which they were doing now.

She thought, with fervour, that
she just might hate her sister.

But then again, at that moment,
she hated the entire world.

Most of all, she hated herself
(and, of course, Colin Morgan).

And she couldn’t shift
the feeling that something, far beyond the fact that she’d sold her
body to a man she didn’t like, was terribly,
terribly
wrong.

She just thanked the goddess
that she had a decent pedicure, complete with pale pink nail
varnish. She’d hate to enter the World of Whoredom with chipped
toenails.

And she thanked the goddess
that her mother insisted she start taking birth control at the age
of eighteen (regardless that it was unneeded at the time).

She’d chosen a scent of peony
with a hint of grapefruit and put in the dangled amethyst earrings
one of her ex-boyfriend’s had given her.

And now she decided she was
definitely hysterical because she was standing in her dining room
wondering if she should light candles and put on music. She didn’t
exactly have to strike a mood, the seduction was a given.

Bran sauntered in, his tail
twitching, then stopped and looked up at her.

Sibyl looked down at her pet
and (undoubtedly hysterically) could have sworn her cat was
watching her with grave judgement in his yellow feline eyes.

“
What are
you
looking at?” she snapped.

Bran flicked his tail once then
sat down and blinked his eyes.

“Yes, well, it’s only two
months. That’s it. He’s young, all right looking…” Bran blinked
again, this time in disbelief. “Okay, he’s quite good-looking. He
also has all of his teeth and –”

A knock sounded at the door and
Sibyl emitted a frightened, muted scream.

Then she whispered, “Oh my
goddess.”

And the immediate feeling
flooded through her that her whole life was going to change, not
just the next two months. This thought bubbled up and nearly
exploded into panic. Luckily, Sibyl had just enough strength left
to tamp it down.

Bran got up and wisely ran up
the stairs.

Mallory, on the other hand, was
already up the stairs and after a clamorous descent, he skidded on
his paws at the bottom to take the sharp turn towards the door. In
the process, he slid across the braided rugs covering the
wide-planked floors, bunching them in huge messes. She saw him stop
(because he crashed into the door) and then he barked loudly over
and over again.

She took a deep breath then
exhaled and in doing so expelled some of her panic and walked
forward.

You can do
this, you can do this, you can do this,
she repeated to herself over and over again, using her feet
to right the rugs that Mallory had dishevelled.

“Mallory, out of the way. Go
sit in the living room,” she commanded when she made it to the door
(or nearly, as Mallory was in the way).

Mallory ignored her command and
backed up enough for the door to be opened but his big dog body
stayed where it was, his tongue lolling, his tail wagging
fiercely.

Sibyl took another
breath, thinking what a cruel world it was that her dog, who hated
men since she got him as a puppy, absolutely
adored
Colin
Morgan.

She threw back the bolt and
opened the door.

Colin was standing on the
threshold looking unfairly handsome wearing a dark suit and an
electric blue shirt that was unbuttoned at the neck.

You cannot do
this, you cannot do this, you cannot do this,
her brain (or was it her conscience?) unbidden, repeated
over and over again.

“Come in,” she invited,
ignoring her brain, stepping wide and pleased her voice held no
tremor.

Colin entered and Mallory went
berserk, snuffling his hand (the way he normally only did to
Sibyl’s), his whole body vibrating with glee.

Sibyl stared out the door and
considered the very pleasant idea of running into the night (or
simply begging him to leave and never return, unless it was to ask
her out on a real date again after promising him she’d accept) but
instead she shook off these happy notions, now completely lost to
her, and closed the door behind her.

Sealing her fate.

Colin was waiting for her
patiently as she turned. He was also idly stroking Mallory’s soft,
black-faced head while the dog sat next to him in contented
silence.

And lastly, Colin was carrying
a briefcase.

She felt her knees go weak.

She lifted her arm to motion
him toward the dining table and followed him when he moved. He
still said not a word as he placed the briefcase on the table and
turned toward her.

She walked toward the
briefcase.

She had no idea what to do.
What was next? Should she say something?

Good goddess, how did women do
this sort of thing for a living?

She felt like wringing her
hands but put every amount of energy and attention into keeping
them still and tremor-free.

Sibyl was so concentrated on
this trying task, she didn’t hear him approach.

Then he was there, he was so
close that she smelled his cedar-spiked cologne. He lifted his
hands toward her head and she flinched.

His fingers found the two
carefully placed clips that held her hair up (clips it took her
twenty minutes to secure). He pulled them out and her hair tumbled
around her shoulders.

She turned stunned eyes to his
to see his were drilling intently into hers while his fingers ran
through the hair on one side of her head then on the other, pulling
its mass away from her face.

“You’ll not wear your hair up
when you’re with me.” He voiced this demand smoothly, in a calm,
even tone before he tossed the clips on her dining room table.

Her mouth dropped open and then
she could do nothing but nod because, from that moment on (or at
least for the next two months), his wish was her command.

He turned, flipped open the
latches to the briefcase and inside there were carefully arranged
twenty-pound notes. Just like in the movies.

Meg and Annie’s minibus.

Overwhelmed with relief, not
lifting her eyes from the money and not realising how strange it
would sound, she whispered a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

When she eventually looked at
him, he was staring at her quizzically.

After a brief hesitation, he
replied quietly, “You’re welcome.”

She reached out and
slapped the top of the case down. She wanted to grab it and throw
it into the night, find a deep lake and toss it into the middle,
gather all the money and fling it into his face, screaming,
“
This is not really
me!
” and do everything to make him
believe.

Instead, she just fastened the
latches.

“It warms the heart that you
don’t intend to count it,” Colin drawled.

She closed her eyes which were
still trained on the case.

She just
knew
she’d
forget something.

Then she squared her shoulders
and turned to him without a word. He was watching her so closely
and so intently it made her entire body quiver.

Then, suddenly, he asked,
“Where’s your bedroom?”

“Um… what?” Her voice was
scratchy, like she hadn’t spoken in a year.

“Bedroom?”

“It’s… my bedroom’s
upstairs.”

He grabbed her hand and in
three great strides he was at the foot of the stairs, dragging her
behind him.

“Don’t you want a drink?” she
asked in desperation, trailing after him, her feet having no choice
but to move quickly, reading his intent and terrified of it but to
her extreme unease, Colin made no response.