Karen looked up guiltily. Her father had been far from her thoughts just then. ‘Why – no! Of course not.’
‘That’s good, because I don’t think I could cope with two of you! For heaven’s sake, somebody had to get Jeff Pierce’s job. It could quite easily have been young Ian Halliday. After all, your father’s only got a few years to go to retirement, whereas Ian’s only in his thirties.’
Karen shrugged. ‘But Pop said he would rather it had been Ian!’
‘Don’t you believe it. If Ian Halliday had got the job, there’d have been some hard words said, believe you me.’
‘So he’d have been just as angry whoever got it?’
‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Your father’s never really cared for Howard Whitney being so successful. They were boys together here in Wakeley, and while Howard’s father owned a mill even in those days, he never made a lot of money. It took Howard’s brain and know-how to make Whitney Textiles what it is today.’
‘I see.’ Karen digested this slowly. ‘Does Pop know Howard Whitney, then?’
‘Of course he does. He visits Wakeley occasionally—’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant – did he know him well?’
Laura shrugged, lifting hot plates from under the grill. ‘Well, when they were younger they knew one another. And even after Howard got married, they used to occasionally have a drink together, that sort of thing. But then the business developed, Howard was away a lot, and eventually they moved to London. Of course, Howard’s first wife is dead now, and he’s married again. Some ex-fashion model, or something. I remember reading about it seven or eight years ago. Your father was disgusted about that, too, I remember. Howard’s wife had been dead scarcely a year at the time.’
Karen listened with interest, wishing her mother would go on. But Laura was going through to the dining-room now, putting plates and dishes on the table, and Karen had, perforce, to help her. Then, her father was called through to join them, and to her mother’s obvious relief the conversation turned to more general topics.
It was Wednesday, and Karen’s parents usually went to play bridge at the home of some friends on Wednesday evenings, so after they had gone Karen decided to wash her hair. It was snowing quite heavily now, and she didn’t think Ray would come round after all.
However, just as she was finishing rinsing her hair, the doorbell rang. Hastily wrapping a towel turban-wise round her head, she pulled on her navy quilted dressing-gown and ran downstairs. She pulled open the door to a flurry of snow, and then smiled as Ray Nichols stepped swiftly inside.
Closing the door, she exclaimed: ‘I thought you weren’t coming. Do you realize it’s after nine o’clock!’
Ray raised his dark eyebrows at her towel-swathed hair. ‘What a greeting!’ he commented, ‘although …’ He surveyed her more thoroughly, noticing the dark blue gown with approval. ‘Very nice. Very nice indeed.’
Karen pointed to the living-room. ‘Wait in there while I put some clothes on,’ she said, and Ray bent to kiss her lips before complying.
His kiss was warm and gentle, and Karen responded without effort. He was an attractive young man, a little above medium build with square muscular shoulders and dark curly hair.
‘Why bother?’ he asked, when he lifted his head. ‘I like you the way you are.’
Karen tugged the securing towel off her head, and her hair fell in wet coiling strands to her shoulders, black, and as silky soft as a raven’s wing. ‘And what do you think my father would say if he came back and found me like this?’ she demanded.
Ray shrugged. ‘Who cares? Sooner or later, he’ll have to accept it, won’t he?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean – when we’re married,’ replied Ray quietly.
Karen stared at him in amazement. ‘Are you proposing, Ray? Here? In the hall?’
‘What would you have me do? Get down on my knees?’ Ray shook her gently. ‘Karen, you know how I feel about you. It’s been obvious for months. And I think you feel the same.’
Karen’s lips parted. It was strange that this evening, which had held so many surprises already, should still hold one more.
‘I don’t know, Ray,’ she was beginning, when he put his hand over her mouth.
‘Please, Karen, don’t say anything yet. Think about it.’
Karen sighed. ‘All right.’ She glanced round awkwardly. ‘Will you – er – go into the living-room? I won’t be a minute.’
Ray hesitated, and then taking off his overcoat he slung it over the banister before opening the living-room door. Karen made her way thoughtfully upstairs. She ought not to have been surprised. She had been aware of Ray’s feelings for her for some time. All her friends had commented upon it. But for all that, now that he had proposed, now that it had actually happened, she didn’t know how to answer him.
She put up a hand to her wet hair. If she was really honest with herself, she would admit that the reason she was so unprepared for this today had little to do with Ray himself. It had to do with what had happened seven years ago, and with what her father had told them when she came home this afternoon.
She dressed in close-fitting velvet slacks and a purple sweater, rubbed her hair almost dry and left it hanging loosely about her cheeks, and then went downstairs again. In the living-room, Ray was relaxing in her father’s armchair before the blazing fire, idly watching an American film thriller on the television.
She closed the door and he looked across at her with caressing eyes. Patting his knee, he said: ‘Come here!’
Karen hesitated, and then walked slowly across to him, allowing him to pull her down on to his lap. She rested against him, and he nursed her like a child, his eyes drifting past her again to the television. Karen felt a sense of restlessness assail her. Although she and Ray had been going out together for almost two years, he had never once attempted to make love to her, other than the sometimes passionate little kisses they exchanged on greeting and parting. Not that she wanted him to seduce her, quite the contrary, but after listening to the sexual exploits of her friends she had the feeling that Ray was perhaps a little too cool. Maybe he was one of those men who didn’t need that kind of stimulation, she pondered curiously, and then half smiled. That was the trouble with this generation, she thought. They were so brainwashed by films and television that they were constantly trying to psycho-analyse themselves, instead of accepting what they had and being grateful and letting nature take its course. It was debatable whether the modern idea of discussing everything was right. To those who did not share in that free-thinking revolution, there could be restlessness and dissatisfaction, just as Karen was feeling now.
Abruptly, she sat up, and Ray looked up at her in surprise. ‘What’s wrong?’
Karen hunched her shoulders. ‘Nothing, I guess.’
Ray frowned. ‘Yes, there is. What is it? Is it what I asked earlier?’
‘Well – yes and no!’
