CHAPTER SIX
He stared at the telephone as if willing it to start ringing. The black, impersonal instrument gazed back at him silently, its gleaming deadness reflecting the blank, numbed state of Bruno's mind with appalling accuracy.
Two weeks had passed since that traumatic night in Estoril when he had burst in upon Caroline, Douglas and his wife. Bruno, after his initial outburst of rage and bitterness, had felt himself sinking into a sullen apathy; a kind of spiritual inertia which made nonsense of his earlier temper.
The situation was ludicrous: an occasion for amusement rather than histrionics, he realised. The three of them looked so absurd, lying there on the bed in that melange of twisted, naked bodies. His director's eye had given the grouping a critical, professional appraisal
