by Anne Mather
Paul nodded. “Yes, I think so. That’s why I was so impressed by your paintings. They have the same kind of stunning impact.”
“Thank you.” Karen smiled and turned her gaze to the small dais where a five-piece band played low music that formed a background to the buzz of conversation. There was a small cabaret floor and a microphone, and she assumed there would be guest artists later. The floor formed a small dance floor as well, and although there wasn’t much room, she supposed people managed. After all, people didn’t move much when they were dancing nowadays.
She returned her eyes to Paul, who was studying the wine list. He was unconscious of her gaze at the moment and she could study him unobtrusively. He looked as handsome as usual, his hair shining and his shirt sparkling whitely against the tan of his skin. A tan which he must have acquired earlier in the year, at winter sports, perhaps. He looked vitally masculine and she felt her heart contract painfully. How could she have left him those years ago? How did people drift into these things so that there was no going back? Pride was little comfort at times like this.
Was Ruth to be the guiding factor in his life from now on? Could she stand it to happen? Remembering Ruth’s almost too-sweet features, she shivered involuntarily. Ruth could not make him really happy, she felt convinced of that. She was too young and babyish, too dependent, too clinging. Paul needed a woman who could meet him half-way. Who could talk to him as well as listen.
Suddenly she realized that he was aware of her scrutiny and the ready flush stained her cheeks. He always seemed to catch her out in embarrassing situations, and she tried to make light of it by saying:
“You don’t change much, Paul.”
He looked cynical.
“I suppose I can take that as a compliment,” he said, amused. “It could have a double meaning, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”
Karen felt small again. It had been ridiculous making such a pointless remark. He must be conscious that she had been trying to distract his attention from herself.
Leaning back in his seat, he said: “Tell me, have you done any more painting?”
She shook her head. “No. Why?”
Paul frowned. “Well, actually, I’ve thought a lot about them this week,” he replied surprisingly. “And I should like a friend of mine to take a look at them. Aaron Bernard. Have you heard of him?”
“Aaron Bernard!” exclaimed Karen in astonishment. “But you must know he’s one of the world’s foremost art critics?”
“Precisely,” said Paul easily. “He is also interested in discovering new talent. I think he would be fascinated by your work.”
Karen looked sceptical. She remembered Lewis’s comments and said:
“Oh, but Paul, Lewis knows a lot about art and he has no faith in me at all.”
Paul’s eyes grew cold.
“Indeed. And you would trust his word above mine, I suppose? If you want my opinion, I think Martin places far too much emphasis on his own judgment. What is he, after all? A textile designer with aspirations over and above his capabilities.”
Karen’s eyes widened.
“That’s not exactly true, Paul. Lewis has been very helpful to me ever since … the divorce.”
“And beforehand, no doubt,” retorted Paul angrily. “God, Karen, don’t try to sell the man to me! I have nothing to thank him for. It’s only by a great effort of self-control that I force myself to even look at him. Believe me, he and I have nothing in common. I think I hate the man.”
Karen sighed. “All right, Paul. I can understand your antagonism towards him, but speaking strictly objectively, he has quite good ideas usually.”
Paul shrugged. “I still say he’s wrong. And how in hell’s name can I be objective about a man who has … well … seduced my wife?”
Karen flushed scarlet. “Oh, Paul, you surely don’t still believe that he and I were once lovers!” she exclaimed.
Paul’s face darkened ominously. “And why not? My God, Karen, I divorced you on that assumption. It was adultery, remember? If it wasn’t true, why didn’t you defend the suit?
Karen bit her lip. “And if I had? What good would it have done? Would you have believed me?”
“At that time, I think one grain of hope would have convinced me,” he muttered harshly. “If you had once shown you wanted to come back, it would have made all the difference.”
Karen clasped her fingers together. Why, oh, why had he said that? It made everything so awful; so senseless.
She was relieved of any need to answer when the soup was brought and although she now felt little like food she made a pretence of eating it. Paul did not seem very interested in the delicious-smelling consommé either, and when the waiter had departed again, he said:
“You forget that I was neatly supplied with proof. It seemed conclusive. Your silence made it so. Apart from anything else, Martin admitted it was true, every word of it.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Karen furiously. “Lewis wouldn’t say a thing like that. And if he did, how could you possibly be sure?”
“I had a lawyer, remember?” remarked Paul dryly. “Everything is cut and dried to them. It was a simple enough case. What more was there to say? Anyway, forget it. It’s not a pleasant topic to discuss with your dinner.”
But Karen didn’t want to forget it. Any of it. How could Lewis have admitted such a thing when they had never been anything more than friendly with each other? She was confused. She had thought Lewis was such a loyal and true friend, but within a short time he had been reduced to … what? A liar? A strange and frightening menace?
She shrugged such thoughts away. There must be an explanation. He must have thought he was helping her by defending her. Had he said it was all his fault to exonerate her from all blame? And yet she was still unsatisfied. It was perplexing and frightening, and without Lewis there was no one to whom she could turn. No one to tell it all to … to ask advice from …
She determined to have it out with Lewis himself. After all, he might have a reasonable explanation. And if he denied it? Well, she would take that hurdle when it arose. Perhaps Paul had mistaken his meaning. Perhaps he had implied something that Paul had accepted as a fact because he expected it? She was searching wildly now. Clutching at straws as they say. but there had to be a reason. There was always a reason for everything.
She was silent for so long that the meal was far advanced before she spoke again, and then it was only in answer to Paul’s words:
“Well,” he said, “do you want Aaron Bernard to look at your paintings?”
“Do I want?” Karen roused herself from her reverie. “But of course, Paul, of course I want him to come. But only if you really think he won’t be wasting his time. I think I should hate him to ridicule them once and for all. That would finish everything, and at the moment I always feel that strange hopefulness that one day I really will do something worth while. I’ve had my own enjoyment from them and if he said I really was a fool to continue then I should feel utterly depressed.”
Paul smiled, relaxing. “I wish I could be as sure of everything as I am that I’m not mistaken in you.” He sighed. “However, if he does dislike them, I myself will buy them from you.”
Karen’s eyes narrowed. “For your new home?” she asked mockingly.
“Maybe,” he replied, raising his glass of wine to his lips, and looking at her over the rim. “Does that surprise you?”
“You must be joking,” she exclaimed. “It positively astounds me. If I were Ruth I wouldn’t want another woman’s paintings in the house, especially not when the artist concerned was once my husband’s wife.” She laughed. “That sounds rather ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
Paul’s face had grown a little taut.
“A little,” he agreed slowly. “But then, Karen, you’re so much different from Ruth. She has not your, shall we say, dominating personality. You like to feel on equal terms with men; Ruth is quite prepared to remain a feminine counterpart. Intelligent, able to l
isten and understand her husband’s conversation, but nevertheless, remaining completely absorbed with the home.”
“Oh, my Gawd,” exclaimed Karen, with a broad Cockney accent, quite unable to restrain her amusement. “The typical ‘little woman’. Will she darn your socks, darling, and put your slippers by the fire for you?”
Paul’s colour heightened slightly and she knew he was angry.
“At least she won’t be interested in furthering her career,” he snapped. “Ruth has never had to work, so she won’t miss it.” His voice was harsh. “Believe me, Karen, most women enjoy being a wife and mother in the true sense of the word.”
Karen now looked embarrassed, but her words were coolly amused as he said:
“Oh, darling. I think you’re really terribly old-fashioned at heart.” She smiled wryly. “You want someone in satins and laces with frills and furbelows everywhere. I was much too depressingly plain and down to earth. And I committed the deadliest of sins, I answered back and expected to be listened to.”
Paul’s fingers were clenched round the slender stem of the wine glass, and Karen thought it was a miracle of design that it did not snap in two.
“You not only answered back,” he said with deadly calm. “You left me, Karen. Never forget that. You … left … me. Just to prove you were as utterly independent as you had always said you were. To prove you were utterly unabsorbed with the job of being Mrs. Paul Frazer.”
Karen pushed away the dish of strawberry mousse which she had not touched.
“Yes, I did that, didn’t I?” she said, laughing without humour. “Which just goes to prove that even I am not infallible.”
Paul’s face hardened.
“You don’t really believe that,” he said coldly. “I suppose it simply amuses you to taunt me.”
“Amuses me?” Karen looked astounded. “I can assure you that that episode in my life is not my most memorable, unpleasant though it was.”
“Then what was?” he asked, his curiosity overwhelming his natural restraint.
“Our honeymoon, I think.” she answered, looking down at her coffee, which was now going cold.
Paul did not reply. He merely produced his cigarette case and they lit cigarettes in silence.
“This is really quite an amusing situation, if you think about it,” Karen said suddenly. “Here we are, two divorced people, sitting here having dinner together as though we were old friends. Lord, what a distance civilization has come! We seem to have lost all the primitive emotions in the cauldron of neutrality, or should I say respectability. There’s no red blood any more. Only this kind of half-hearted tolerance which does away with healthy antagonism.”
“Profound words,” remarked Paul with a cynical smile. “Shall we go on that note?”
They accomplished the drive back to Berkshire Court in a rather strained and tense atmosphere. When Paul stopped outside the block of apartments, Karen looked reflectively at him. His profile gave nothing away, and she switched on the interior light to see him more clearly.
“Well,” she said lightly, trying to resume the rather bantering tone on which the evening had begun, “thank you for all you’ve done for me and for Mother and Sandra. You’ve proved you really are a gentleman after all.” Her voice was infinitely mocking, but Paul’s face remained impassive.
In the dull light the colour of Karen’s hair gleamed like silver against the creamy colour of the mohair coat and as she moved her head, the silky strands brushed the shoulder of his overcoat. She was so cool, so lovely and so challenging, and Paul felt his senses stirring rapidly. It was infuriating to find himself responding to her as before, particularly after all she had said, after all that was between them.
“Good night,” he said pointedly, his lean hands gripping the wheel until the knuckles grew white. He did not know how long he could control himself.
Karen, not understanding, shrugged and opened the car door.
“Good night,” she said, and slid out.
Paul did not speak again. He merely nodded, switched out the interior light and then sent the car away as fast as the wheels would take him. The rear wheels almost spun in his haste, and Karen watched him turn on to the main road before walking into the apartments. She felt alone and cold and strangely scared of the future, but what had frightened her she could not say.
CHAPTER SIX
THE following week passed slowly. Karen’s mother rang to say that Sandra seemed to be accepting the fact of going away, although she had shown very little enthusiasm. Karen was not worried. She felt sure that once Sandra was away from the influence of Simon she would revert to her old, if rather annoying, self. After all, a holiday in Spain would please anybody and Sandra was still a child whatever way you looked at it, and her emotions could not seriously be involved. It seemed that the episode was almost over, for after Madeline and Sandra left for the Costa Brava there would be no further need to see Paul. And anyway, his marriage was looming on the horizon, getting nearer every day.
She went into the office and saw Lewis, hoping he would have reverted also to his normal, amiable manner, but he still remained in that curiously half-threatening mood and Karen could not understand him. She half believed it was her own disturbed mind that was creating the impression of Lewis being different, but she seriously began thinking about taking another job.
She began studying the “situations vacant” columns in the newspapers, but nothing seemed to interest her. Still, she argued, there was no hurry, and as she had worked for Lewis for so long she could surely work a little longer.
And then, towards the end of the week, she was awakened one morning by the shrilling of the telephone. She rolled lazily over in bed, her head throbbing at the sudden rousing from the deep sleep she had been in. She had had to take a sleeping pill the night before to get to sleep at all, and the effects were hardly wearing off. She focused her eyes on the clock with difficulty. Seven-fifteen! Who on earth could be ringing her at this ungodly hour! Blinking, she sat up, shaking her head to banish the sleep from her eyes. She slid slowly out of bed, pulling on her quilted housecoat. Opening the lounge door, she walked lazily over to the telephone. Mrs. Coates had not yet arrived so she supposed it might be her ringing to say she could not come. But then Mrs. Coates would know she would still be in bed and would hardly ring so early.
Lifting the scarlet receiver, she said: “Yes, who is it?”
“Karen? Karen, is that you at last?”
Karen blinked rapidly. It was her mother’s urgent voice.
“Good lord, Mother,” she exclaimed, “who else did you expect at this address?” She sounded amused.
“Don’t be facetious,” replied Madeline promptly, her voice shaky.
“Seriously though, Mother, what goes on? Do you realize the time?”
“Yes, yes, yes, of course I do. Karen, this is very important. Pull yourself together, do.” There was a pause and Karen thought she heard her sobbing softly to herself.
“Well, go on,” she exclaimed. A cold hand was clutching her stomach. Something serious must have happened. “What is it?” she exclaimed impatiently. “Is it Sandra? Is she hurt?”
“Worse than that,” replied Madeline, her voice breaking. “She’s run away and left me a note. She says she’s going to have a baby. Simon Frazer’s baby.”
“Oh, lord!” Karen sank down on to the couch beside the telephone. “What a mess! All right, Mother, you just stay right there and relax. I’ll be straight over. It won’t take me long. Make some coffee or something.”
“All right, Karen. But be quick. I can’t bear this alone.”
Madeline rang off and Karen clasped her hands together apprehensively. What a thing to happen! Just as she had thought everything was working out nicely. The crazy little idiot! Allowing this to happen. Allowing Simon to even get that near her.
She rose to her feet restlessly. A baby! What could they do now? Simon would not be very pleased, she felt sure of that, whatever Sandra thought he felt for
her. He wanted nothing so much as freedom, and babies spelt responsibilities.
Forcing herself to act swiftly, she dressed in dark blue slacks and an Italian over-blouse of bright yellow. She pulled on her sheepskin coat and left the apartment. She drove round to her mother’s home in her own car and parked it outside.
The door was opened at her approach and her mother was waiting in the hall. She was still wearing her dressing-gown, and rollers were in her hair. She flung herself rather dramatically at Karen and there followed a paroxysm of weeping and self-recriminations before she controlled herself sufficiently to allow Karen to draw her into the sitting-room. The electric heater was burning and Liza had arranged a tray of coffee on a low table.
Karen deliberately poured two cups of coffee, handed one to her mother and then said:
“Right. What happened?” She sipped her coffee appreciatively, feeling some of the chill leaving her body.
Madeline bit her lip, restraining the ready tears.
“Well, when Sandra and I discussed this trip abroad I told you she didn’t seem over-enthusiastic, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Apparently she was planning this all the time. I assume that beast knows all about it, though.”
“Simon?”
“Who else? He must have put her up to it, leaving me, I mean.”
“That doesn’t sound like Simon,” remarked Karen dryly. “He’s hardly the type to go for this sort of thing. In my opinion, this has all been Sandra’s idea, and probably Simon doesn’t even know.”
“Who else would she tell?” retorted her mother, and Karen thought there might be some truth in that. “Oh, I told Sandra we were going abroad for me as much as for her, but she hardly believed me, I’m sure. She knew we were trying to separate her from that man and she didn’t like it. And for good reason as it turns out. Oh, Sandra!” She dissolved into tears again.
Karen lit a cigarette. Things were bad enough without her mother losing complete control of herself. Madeline composed herself after a while and went on: