Screaming Yellow by Rachel Green Page A

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 several minutes for a reply.
    “We have got the right day, haven’t we?” he asked. “Robert did say tonight?”
    “Of course he did.” Jennifer leaned past him and hammered on the door until it was opened by a flustered young woman.
    “I’m so sorry.” She stood to one side to let them pass into the hall, decorated with paintings on either side of a paneled door. “I heard you knock but I was up to my elbows in entrails. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
    Jennifer smiled. “Long enough to feel the chill. It’s purgatory out there.”
    “Jennifer!” Simon’s feigned outrage was sufficient admonishment.
    “Good evening, Father, Miss Brande.” Mary trotted down the stairs with a smile almost wide enough to reach her eyes. “Amanda! Don’t just stand there! Take their coats.”
    “Hello there.” Simon shrugged off his mac and handed it to the maid. He turned to Mary. “I hear you have some good news.”
    “You’ve already heard!” She grinned even wider. “Isn’t it wonderful? I can hardly believe it myself.”
    “I’m so pleased for you.” Jennifer kissed the blushing cheek and threw a glance at Simon from behind Mary’s back. “You must tell me all about it.”
    “I admit I was surprised when Richard asked me.” She looked from Jennifer to Simon and back. “I didn’t think he had much interest in marriage, at least