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