Screaming Yellow. Rachel Green
I let you reach an orgasm.”
She looked up to see the same half-smile she’d fallen in love with over the internet.
* * * *
The White Art was beginning to fill as the locals finished work and dropped in for a pint on their way home. Father Brande was respected enough to be granted an easy passage through the throng, reaching the bar without difficulty.
“Good evening, Father.” Mike Chapman had owned the hotel for ten years and knew everybody. “What can I get for you?”
Simon grinned. “Nothing actually, Mike. I was wondering if you’d seen Richard Godwin.”
“Have you come from his stepfather?” Mike leaned in closer. “Only I can’t remember if I’ve seen him or not.”
“Robert doesn’t even know he’s in town,” Simon said. “I’m here as a friend.”
Mike nodded. “I’ll ring his room then. Can I get you a drink while you wait? On the house.”
Simon smiled. “That’s good of you Mike. I’ll have an Earl Grey.”
* * * *
Meinwen checked her email over a soothing cup of chamomile tea. Her hands felt chapped and raw from the physical labor and she mentally kicked herself for not asking Dave to stay over for a day or two, just while the donkey work needed doing. There was no way she could afford a gardener and her blisters already had blisters.
She yawned as she glanced out of the window at the gathering clouds. Was six o’clock too early to go to bed?
* * * *
“Father Brande.”
Richard slipped into the nook seat opposite Simon. “Mike said you wanted to see me?” He reached across and shook hands with the priest. Simon had a firm grip.
“I do. What’s all this about you getting engaged to Mary Markhew? You’re too young to get married yet.”
“I thought you’d approve.” Richard grinned and hunched forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I thought all good Catholics were supposed to get married as soon as they could?”
“Supposed to, yes, and expand the glory of the Church.” Simon laughed. “It’s not so likely these days, though, is it?”
“Maybe not.” Richard drew circles in the coffee spill on the table. “Will you promise not to tell my stepfather that I’m here and not in London?”
Simon nodded. “I was a friend of your mother’s for many years, Richard. You can trust me.”
“Aye, I know that.” Richard’s phone beeped and he glanced at the incoming message before dismissing it. He dropped his voice. “Robert and I have had a lot of problems lately. Fights and that. I’ll do anything for a quiet life.”
“Even marry Mary against your better judgment?” Simon asked. “Or carry on with someone else at the same time?”
Richard shook his head. “You’ve known me all my life. You should know I’m not the kind of man to cheat on the woman he loves.”
Chapter 9
“They’ll be here soon.” Robert Markhew trailed his fingers down the rigid body, taking delight in the wild-eyed panic of the submissive woman bound in hemp rope before him. “What do you think they’d say if they found you like this?”
She grunted through the ball gag, the leather strap so tight the skin of her cheeks was white underneath it. Her breasts stood pert and hardened, confined within twin whorls of rope.
“What’s that?” Robert smiled. “I couldn’t quite hear you.” His fingers ran across her nipple and down over the bound torso, trailing over her mound. He could go no farther, for to prolong her agony and force himself to be patient, he had bound her legs, preventing access to that most precious area of her body.
She grunted again.
“It is indeed.” Whether Robert could distinguish her meaning remained unclear but he gave the appearance he had. Acceding or denying any request she might make was part of his enjoyment.
The alarm on his cellphone rang and he smiled.
“Time’s up,” he said. “We’ll continue this at another time.” He circled the woman, taking a last moment of pleasure from her discomfort before pulling out the thick rattan cane holding the ropes in place. They fell off her, pooling around her feet like a shoal of eels.
“Get your clothes on.” He straightened his bow tie in the mirror. “You need to be serving aperitifs as soon as they arrive. I need to get a bit more work done.”
* * * *
“They’ll be here any minute.” Jean said as she opened the study door to leave. “You don’t have time for any more playing on your computer.”
“I know. I’ll be out shortly.” Robert Markhew tapped his status to “away” and pulled another photograph onto the graphics program. Robert considered himself old school and composed his work in the camera but was not averse to digitally cropping and enhancing the colors of his masterpieces. His last show at the Downstairs Gallery had been an acclaimed success and he’d sold forty thousand copies of his book Palimpsests after the review of it in The Times.
He zoomed in to ten-times magnification and edited out a slight blur on the ink used to write page thirteen of Joyce’s Ulysses across the naked torso of his model for the day. All in the best possible taste, of course, soft lighting and sepia filters and close-up shots of tonal skin.
He pressed a shortcut for his voice recorder. “Nicole, please remind me to talk to Amanda about inking the models. Today’s page had bled. Check what ink he’s using. She’s using, I mean.”
He zoomed out again and saved the file. “Page thirteen stored and completed with file name jay-jay-you-oh-one-three-see. Mark up and transcribe. Single plate, left.” Nicole Fielding, his secretary could access his dictation files on the network and transcribe his notes in the morning. He turned off the recorder just as the doorbell rang.
“Time’s up,” he said to himself, disconnecting the camera, and standing. “Be pleasant to the parish priest and his lovely sister.” He crossed to the mirror and adjusted his bow tie, brushed off his beard and rubbed a spot of ink from his cheek.
* * * *
“Here we are.”
Jennifer indicated to turn into the wide drive of The Larches, waiting for the approaching car to pass. She was a careful driver, having treated herself to a new Mercedes when her first book topped the million sales mark. At seven years old it looked as good as it did when she’d bought it.
“It was kind of you to drive.” Simon adjusted his tie in the passenger vanity mirror. “It means you can’t have a drink.”
Jennifer smiled. “I’d rather stay teetotal than turn up to The Larches in that battered old thing the church lets you drive.”
She turned into the driveway but had to slam on the brakes as a blue Vauxhall shot out of the drive and into the road, heedless of either the Mercedes or any other traffic that might have been passing. Simon caught a glimpse of a tear-stained face at the wheel.
“That was Susan Pargeter.” Simon stared after the car. “I’m sure she was crying.”
“Really?” Jennifer’s mind was racing. “Perhaps Robert’s kicked her out of his harem.” She slipped back into gear and eased forward.
“That’s not very kind.” Simon returned his attention to the gravel drive. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her quite so upset. I wonder what’s happened.”
Jennifer parked the car in the wide turning circle and stood back while Simon knocked on the door, waiting