Seen By Candlelight

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 told her. Mr. Frazer was in the north of England but would be back this evening. He asked if he could take a message, but Karen said, “No, thank you,” and rang off abruptly.

She felt unreasonably angry that he could not be reached. It was absurd to feel that way, she told herself firmly. After all, he might have been out of the country. He often went to Canada and the United States. He could have been there, and then she would have had to have waited for much longer than twenty-four hours. She contemplated calling him that evening, and then vetoed the idea. To call in business hours, calling him at the office, kept things on a strictly business footing. If she rang him that evening it seemed much more personal, and she wanted to maintain the impersonal note in this.

She made herself some scrambled eggs and coffee for lunch and then rang her mother and explained the situation. Madeline Stacey was quite apologetic, but obviously pleased that Karen was doing as she had been asked so precisely and punctually.

Then Karen washed up her few dishes and left them to drain on the draining-board. She had a daily woman, Mrs. Coates, who came in and did her housework for her, but she looked after herself otherwise, making her own meals and taking her washing to the nearby launderette. Her salary was quite adequate to cover these luxuries and Lewis had often suggested that she employ a full-time housekeeper. But Karen preferred her freedom, and as her knowledge of housekeepers was limited to Liza, who ran her mother’s life as well as her home, she felt sure she was doing the right thing.

That afternoon, Karen sat staring at her drawing-board finding herself singularly devoid of any ideas. Even her casual paintings held no charm. Outside the apartment a watery sun was shining and it had turned into quite a springlike day. On sudden impulse she left her studio, pulled on her sheepskin coat and left the apartment.

Outside, the air was fresh and invigorating, and she crossed the road into the small park nearby and watched the children playing. It was a favourite spot for nannies with prams and tiny toddlers just learning to run and play with their slightly older brothers and sisters. The sight of the happy, laughing faces turned the knife in Karen’s stomach. If she had had the baby Paul had wanted, it would have been three or four years old now. Who knows, she thought dully, she might have had two or even three by this time.

She walked aimlessly across the stretch of grass, wishing the day would end and tomorrow arrive that much sooner. Until she had actually spoken to Paul her concentration was quite non-existent, and if she tried to work in such a manner, it would be a complete waste of time and energy and materials.

She stayed out for a couple of hours and then returned to the flat. She made herself a scratch meal of beans on toast in lieu of dinner, and then switched on the television. It was rarely used, but this evening she enjoyed losing herself in the exciting western and variety show which she watched.

When the television closed down for the night, Karen smoked a last cigarette before going to bed. She thought about Sandra and Simon. Sandra was just foolish enough to get herself into serious trouble. She was completely irresponsible and quite wild, due to her mother’s fawnlike adoration all these years. No matter what scrapes she had got into as a child, her mother had always helped her out of them, glossing over the facts to Karen, and consequently now Sandra did not know the meaning of the word sensibility. During Karen’s years as Paul’s wife, she had been more manageable, owing to Paul’s control over her, but after their divorce she had become worse than before.

As for Simon, he ought to have more sense. He and Julia had been rare visitors at Trevayne when Karen was married to Paul. Simon had made it plain from the outset that he favoured his brother’s young wife, and Paul had made it equally plain that if Simon came near Karen he would get his head in his hands.

Julia, Simon’s wife, had been the daughter of an impoverished earl when she met Simon, and had aroused herself from her rather languid manner long enough to get Simon to marry her. Their parents had approved and Julia, although well aware of Simon’s discrepancies, saw in him a meal ticket for life. She enjoyed the company of men, and after their marriage they each went their separate ways to a great extent. They lived in the same house, entertained jointly, but each had their own friends. It was a nauseating set-up, and Paul had avoided them quite openly.

Thinking now of Sandra, throwing herself away on a man like Simon Frazer, disgusted and appalled Karen, and she knew she would be glad if Paul would do something. Only he had the power to dictate to Simon. Paul held the family finances.

Of course, Simon probably gloated over the liaison secretly. He was getting back at Karen and Paul to some measure for having slighted him before. He was an amusing character for all his faults, and no doubt Sandra found him quite fascinating after the rather callow youths she usually associated with.

It was midnight by the time Karen crawled into bed, but sleep did not come easily. Her thoughts were too full of Paul, her mind too active to relax. She recalled how attractive he was, dark-skinned, and dark-haired and dark-eyed. Although she herself was a tall girl, all of five feet seven inches, he absolutely dwarfed her, making her intensely conscious of his overwhelming masculinity. His hair was short and cut close to his head and was always crisp and vital to the touch. His dark eyes, sometimes cynical or amused, could soften miraculously with love, and his mouth had done crazy things to her body. A man of the world before their marriage, he had known many women, but Karen satisfied him mentally as well as physically, and under his tuition she had learned all the delights and desires of her own body.

Remembering all these things disturbed her emotionally, and she moved restlessly in the bed, rolling on to her stomach to stop its churning.

She remembered the nights of the long hot summer that had followed their marriage, when, too hot to sleep, they had gone down to the pool and swum in the moonlight. They had been utterly alone, the rest of the household asleep, and they had made love, their bodies dripping with the cool delicious water.

Groaning, Karen slid wearily out of bed and padded into the bathroom. Filling a tumbler full of water, she extracted a sleeping tablet from the bottle in the cabinet and swallowed it with some of the water. She peered at her weary face in the mirror of the cabinet and frowned. Was she to look like a hag when he saw her tomorrow? Would he be glad he was no longer married to such a tired-looking creature?

She returned slowly to her bed and slid back between the sheets. Moodily, she mused that at least during her marriage to Paul she had never had to resort to sleeping tablets, at least not while they were living together. On the contrary, she had slept soundly and dreamlessly as a child in his arms, conscious of the security of those arms always.

Achingly she stared into space until the cotton wool world of the drug descended upon her and she slept.

She awoke with an aching head next morning, hearing the steady buzz of the vacuum cleaner from the lounge. She slid out of bed and pulled on a blue quilted housecoat before opening the door leading to the lounge.

Mrs. Coates, the daily, was just finishing and she smiled cheerfully at Karen. She was a small, plump woman of about fifty, with a husband and six children at home. She often regaled Karen with stories of “our Bert” or “our Billy”, and Karen found her a refreshing personality.

“I’ve made your coffee,” she said now, looking critically at Karen. She nodded towards the kitchen. “You look as though you could do with some.”

“Thank you,” replied Karen dryly, but padded willingly into the kitchen.

The percolater was bubbling merrily and she poured herself a cup of black coffee and went back into the lounge for her cigarettes.

“Are you all right, dearie?” asked Mrs. Coates, looking worriedly at her.

“Of course. Thank you, Mrs. Coates. I slept rather badly, that’s all. I’ll be all right when I’ve had this.” She nodded to the coffee.

“Right.” Mrs. Coates pulled on her mackintosh. “I’ll be off, then. See you in the morning.”

“Yes, all right, Mrs. Coates,” said Karen, managing a smile, and the woman left.

After she had closed the door, Karen stood down her coffee and walking over to the switch she turned down the temperature of the central heating. Mrs. Coates always kept the place like a greenhouse, and this morning Karen felt as though she needed air, and lots of it.

Her watch told her it was only nine-thirty, so she collected the daily papers, which Mrs. Coates always brought for her, from the kitchen and settled herself on the couch in the lounge.

She knew that Paul would not reach the office until ten o’clock at the earliest, so she read for an hour before tackling the telephone. The newspapers were full of the world crises, but for all the impression they made on her she might just as well not have bothered reading them. Her mind buzzed with the telephone call ahead of her and eventually she laid them aside and merely waited.

Today when the switchboard operator at the Frazer building answered her, Karen again asked for Mr. Frazer and was immediately put through to Paul’s office suite.

His private secretary answered her and asked in her cool, modulated voice who was calling and what it was about.

“Mr. Frazer is extremely busy this morning,” she continued silkily. “He has a board meeting in half an hour so I’m afraid I must ask you to either call back tomorrow or tell me what it’s about. I’m sure I will be able to assist you, whatever it is.”

Karen clenched her fingers round the red receiver.

“Just tell Mr. Frazer that Miss Stacey wants to speak to him,” she said coolly. “I’m sure he won’t refuse to speak to me.”

Whether the girl recognized the name herself, Karen couldn’t imagine, but after an impatient wait of about five minutes she heard a man’s husky voice saying: “Karen, is that you calling?” and she realized it was Paul.

Her heart thumped so loudly she felt sure he must be able to hear it. His voice was so familiar, even after all this time, although it was as cold as a mountain stream.

For a second her nerve almost failed her, and she thought she was not going to be able to go through with it, and then she managed to murmur:

“Yes, it’s me. Hello, Paul. How are you?”

Even to her own ears her voice sounded rather nervous and she wished she could be as confident as he sounded.

“I’m very well, thank you,” he replied flatly. “Are you?”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine.” Karen stiffened her shoulders determinedly.

“That’s good,” he said, and waited, obviously expecting her to speak and explain why she had called at all. Karen sought about for words to begin the conversation and with cold emphasis Paul said: “Karen, why did you ring me? I’m sure it wasn’t simply to ask about the state of my health.”

“No,” she agreed, sighing.

“Then why?” he asked curtly. “Come on, Karen. I’m a busy man.”

Karen gasped. How dared he speak to her like that? In that superior tone! All of a sudden her courage returned. His manner had caught her on the raw and she was damned if he was going to treat her like dirt.

“I’m afraid I cannot discuss it over the telephone,” she replied icily. She had been going to tell him a little of the matter over the phone and suggest that they meet to discuss the rest, but now she decided he could wait and find out what she wanted. “It’s a personal matter,” she continued, “I should like to see you.”

“I can’t imagine what we have to say to one another,” he replied coolly.

Karen tried to control her rising temper. She felt much better about everything now. He was just as belligerent as ever. No doubt he thought that she wanted to talk to him about Ruth.

“Paul,” she said carefully, in a controlled voice, “this matter concerns two other people, not ourselves, so don’t think for one moment that I’m trying to make an assignation with you.”

Paul sighed. “I don’t understand a word of this, Karen. Why can’t you tell me now?”

Karen sighed herself. “Good lord, Paul, just take my word that it concerns you just as much as me.”

“And when do you suggest we meet?” he asked.

“How about lunch?”

“Today? God, Karen, I only arrived back from Leeds last night. I’m absolutely up to my eyes in work.”

“Oh, dear.” Karen sounded sarcastic. “But then, even tycoons have to eat sometimes, don’t they? Or do you live on vitamin pills these days?”

Paul was silent for a moment and she heard him flicking over the papers on his desk.

“Make up your mind,” she said abruptly.

“All right,” he said slowly. “I suppose I can make it.”

“Don’t put yourself out,” she exclaimed heatedly.

He sounded almost amused. “Still the same old Karen,” he remarked cynically. “Will one o’clock at Stepano’s suit you? I have a table there.”

“Admirably,” she replied dryly, and rang off.

As she lit a cigarette she found she was trembling again. This would never do. She hated herself for becoming so emotionally involved. After all, it was only a luncheon appointment, not a visit to the torture chamber.

She spent a long time deciding what she would wear. She needed something smart but not too dressy. Certainly nothing to make him imagine this was anything other than a business engagement. On the other hand, she wanted to look her best, if only to show him how well she was managing alone.

Black was the best idea, she decided at last, and chose a close-fitting black suit which suited her very fair colouring to perfection. The neckline of the suit was low and round, and she added a string of pearls, which he had bought her for their first wedding anniversary, to complete the ensemble. She never wore a hat and her thick, straight hair needed no adornment. It tip-tilted slightly at the ends and was so soft and silky that it always looked attractive. Paul had always admired her hair, the jagged fringe straying across her wide brow and framing her piquantly attractive face.

She studied her face in the mirror for a moment when she was ready, wondering whether she had changed. Her best features were her eyes, framed by thick black lashes that needed no mascara. Her eyes were greeny-grey and very widely spaced, while her nose was small and slightly retroussé. Her mouth was full and passionate and much too big in her estimation. However, she sighed, she was as she was and nothing could change that.

She took a taxi to Stepano’s. The traffic in London at lunchtime was such that to take her own car would have been a futile effort. Besides she hated driving in the rat-race of vehicles, always conscious of the swarm of cars on her tail, ready to pounce if she made a mistake.

Stepano’s was a massive, glass-fronted restaurant in Oxford Street. Karen had never been inside before, but as she entered she was greeted by a white-coated waiter who escorted her with reverence to Paul’s table. Paul had not yet arrived and Karen ordered a dry Martini and lit a cigarette.

As she sipped her drink her eyes surveyed the large dining-room with its gleaming damask cloths, shining silver and hot-house flowers. The clientele matched their surroundings, over-indulged, expense-account fed men and elegantly jewelled women. There were some younger people, but even they were all too obviously bored by too much of everything. However, she was aware that she too was being studied and discussed. After all, this was Paul Frazer’s table and she was not the woman with whom he had been photographed so frequently lately. She wondered if any of them recognized her as Paul’s ex-wife. She felt quite amused as she imagined their comments if they did.

At five past one, the swing glass doors opened to admit, Paul Frazer. He was dressed in a camel-hair overcoat, which he removed and gave to the waiter who hovered at his side. Underneath he was wearing a charcoal grey lounge suit of impeccable cut, and he looked bigger and broader than she remembered. Even so, he did not look to have an ounce of spare flesh on him. He was big-framed and muscular, and as she watched him thread his way through the tables to his own, she was intensely conscious of the almost animal magnetism about him which had so thrilled her in the old days. He walked with a lithe, easy grace for such a big man, passing a word here and there with acquaintances he knew. His hair was still as thick and black as ever, only lightly touched with grey at the temples, which served to give him a distinguished appearance. He was still as lazily attractive as ever and at thirty-seven looked the well-dressed, assured business tycoon that he was. If he had grown a little more cynical with the years that was only to be expected of a man with his wealth and position, who knew that money could buy most things he wanted.