Seen By Candlelight. Anne Mather
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it, she knew that it was only pushed into the back of her mind, waiting to be brought into the open. And she felt convinced that all her futile defences were going to be in vain.
Still, she had committed herself and there was no going back now. She had to go through with it, see her ex-husband, for she could not discuss this over the telephone, and possibly even meet Ruth Delaney, the woman he had chosen to take her place.
Karen walked restlessly to the door. She might as well do it and get it over with.
“And … er … what if he refuses to even speak to me?” asked Karen, turning back to her mother.
“I’m sure he won’t,” replied Madeline calmly. “Paul isn’t a man like that.”
It had been a great blow to Madeline when she had had to give up giving her intimate little parties which Paul had indulged her in. He had always made sure she had plenty of money for anything she desired, and flowers and chocolates were often delivered for her. He had known all her little weaknesses, and even if a secretary carried out his instructions, Madeline revelled in the feeling of being a cosseted woman again. Karen had not known half of the money spent on Madeline, which was just as well, as she would have hated that Paul should think they were paupers.
“Well, why can’t you ring him, then?” asked Karen, making one last attempt to free herself from her obligations.
“I couldn’t, Karen. I wouldn’t know what to say. You were his wife. You know him intimately. It will be much easier coming from you.”
Karen flushed. Yes, she had known Paul intimately. She had thought that no one could possibly know anyone as she had known Paul.
“Now,” said Madeline, smiling in her victory. “Will you ring him from here?” She glanced at her watch. “It’s eleven-thirty. He may be at the office.”
“No,” replied Karen with emphasis. “I shall ring him from the intimacy of my own apartment. That is … if you don’t mind, of course.” This last she spoke sarcastically, causing Madeline to press her lips together in a thin line.
“So long as you don’t forget,” she replied curtly.
“I shan’t forget,” replied Karen heavily. “I’ll ring him when I get back. Does that satisfy you?”
“I imagine so,” said Madeline coolly. “You’ll have coffee before you go, won’t you?”
Karen shook her head. The strained atmosphere was stifling her.
“No, thanks,” she answered swiftly. “I … I’d better go. I have a lot to do.”
“Of course,” Madeline shrugged, and Karen went out into the hall to retrieve her coat. She felt nauseated and longed for the peace of her own home.
With a brief farewell, she slid behind the wheel of the Morris and drove round to Berkshire Court, the large block of apartments in a cul-de-sac in Chelsea, of which she occupied the top floor. It enabled her to have the maximum amount of light into the small studio which adjoined the flat and she had always liked it.
A lift transported her to the twelfth floor after she had put her car away in the basement garages. She walked along the corridor and inserted her key into the lock and entered the lounge of the apartment. This was an attractive room, with stark white walls which were an ideal background for the dark red three-piece suite and lusciously opulent velvet curtains of olive-green. The carpet was fitted and patterned in a variety of colours, while the remainder of the furniture was a light oak in colour. There was a small foldaway table and chairs, and a small cocktail cabinet. The essence of the room spelled elegant simplicity in design, and it suited Karen’s character. She loathed fussy rooms, overflowing with knick-knacks and ornaments of all kinds.
The rest of the flat was composed of her bedroom, a bathroom, a minute kitchen opening off the lounge, and the small studio where she worked, which also opened off the lounge. The studio had roof windows as well as wide windows in the walls and was ideal for working. Here she had her drawing-board, as most of her work was done in the silence of her home.
After her break with Paul she had been left with a lot of spare time in the evenings and had started painting pictures for her own pleasure. It was an entirely new hobby for her and she found great satisfaction in putting her thoughts into paintings. They were, as her mother so unkindly termed them, “ghastly abstracts”, and even Lewis showed little interest in them. To him they were so much wasted effort, and he bluntly told her so. Karen was a little disappointed that he should think so, for although she did not believe they were masterpieces, she nevertheless felt that they had something.
All Lewis would admit was that they made her an ideal occupation, but he advised her not to consider them a monetary proposition. As Lewis was a clever designer and knew a lot about art in general, Karen contented herself with his opinion for she did not care much either way. It was merely a means of filling in time.
Now, as she looked round the lounge, the paintings were all about her. As she liked them she had had them framed, and at least they provided a splash of colour on the otherwise bare walls.
She slipped off her overcoat and hung it over a chair, and strolling across the room she took a cigarette from her case and lit it. She thought momentarily that she was smoking far too much, but she drew on the tobacco with enjoyment.
The scarlet telephone on the low table by the couch seemed to mock her silently and she inwardly hated herself for agreeing to her mother’s blackmail, as indeed it had been. Telephone Paul or be ostracized.
But how on earth could she just pick up the telephone and speak to a man who had divorced her two years ago and whom she had not spoken to for almost four years? It was ludicrous, really. And would he be secretly amused at her for calling him? What satisfaction would it give him to have her crawling to him for help? She bit her lip angrily. Only her mother could have placed her in such a position. She was tempted to ring Lewis and ask his advice, but decided against it. He would consider her actions quite ridiculous and would most likely advise her not to go through with it.
With a deep sigh she lifted the receiver with trembling fingers and dialled the number of the Frazer building. She knew the number so well; how often had she called Paul there in the old days?
A switchboard operator answered her a few moments later, her cool voice polite and businesslike:
“Frazer Textiles, can I help you?”
“Oh, good morning,” said Karen, trying to sound aloof and composed. “Could I speak to Mr. Paul Frazer, please?”
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” replied the operator in her cultured tones. “Mr. Frazer is not in the building, for one thing. Will his personal secretary be able to assist you?”
Karen sighed in annoyance. Her hopes of getting the affair over swiftly were not going to be realized.
“No,” she replied, “it’s a personal matter, I’m afraid. I don’t suppose you could tell me where I can contact Mr. Frazer?”
“Mr. Frazer is touring the factories in Nottingham and Leeds,” replied the operator, “but I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you where he might be contacted. However, he’s expected back in London this evening, I believe he has a board meeting here in the morning.”
“Oh!” Karen frowned. Then she would have to wait until the following day. “Thank you. I’ll ring again tomorrow.”
“Very well, madam.” The operator rang off, and Karen replaced her receiver reluctantly. Now that she could not get in touch with him she felt curiously disappointed.
She stared into space for a moment and then on the offchance she dialled his apartment in Belgravia. She knew he lived there now, presumably he had sold the large house, Trevayne, when the divorce came through. He would want no memories of Karen to mar his future.
She held her breath when someone answered the telephone, but it turned out to be a manservant. He merely repeated what the switchboard operator had