would have worked with Ricky either,
and a mutual trust. Many times Caprice didn't request any as she
couldn't see the point of asking for money when she couldn't, or
didn't want to, spend it. As a consequence, for less, she ultimately got
more, in the way of her father's silent respect.
All Friday morning she'd spent visiting Liz and helping in the
kitchen, for she liked the other woman's sense of humour and
cheerful common sense. But when the afternoon rolled around, she
found herself itching to do something, and left the house for a long
car drive. The wind was too cool for anything more than cracking her
window open, and the dull sky seemed to suck all colour from the
surrounding landscape, so that everything looked lifeless, without
vitality.
For some reason, for no reason, she thought of Pierce, and she
wondered what he was doing, where he was going. Who he was
seeing. She shook her head, angry at herself. She had thought of him
entirely too often this last week. Not a day would pass but that she let
her mind wander to him.
Him. What kind of man was he, to attract her attention and hold it,
without even being present? No one else had been able to prompt that
in her. She loved to go out, and did quite often, with anybody and
everybody who was presentable enough, and who asked. She loved
men, all men: young, old, silly, wise. She could talk with them
seriously and intelligently, when she chose, but she could also flirt
with the best of them.
She liked how males looked at her, the caressing, admiring glances,
the amusement and, sometimes, the startled respect. And she never
had settled for one deep relationship, for, as she always expostulated,
why pick a book when you can have the whole library to browse
through?
Why, then, why did she remember Pierce's quiet words and angry
voice? Why did the thought of his gentleness and his sudden passion
stir her? He was just another man! Her hands slid on her steering
wheel, fingers unconsciously working. She attempted to dismiss his
image, but her mind was traitorous. A splendid, elegant figure of a
man; an intelligent, responsible man; an exciting man. But not for
her: oh, no. He wasn't her type.
Then why had it hurt so when she'd overheard someone else espouse
the same sentiments? Of course; naturally, it had been her pride that
was dented. She liked to think herself good enough for any man, as
anyone did, and it irked her to know that someone else thought
differently.
She loved to drive for long periods at a time, alone, with low music
playing over her excellent car stereo. She whiled away the entire
afternoon, driving towards the east coast with no definite goal in
mind, then turning back towards Richmond when she began to feel
tired. She had to stop for petrol, stretching her legs once she was out
of the driver's seat and suddenly longing to be going somewhere,
really going somewhere, with a destination and a goal, and an
ending.
But she was merely going home. As she pulled into the wide,
spacious drive, she noted the sleek, dark Jaguar tucked into the
parking space that shot off the main asphalt strip, leaving passage
free to the garage. As she pulled into her garage space, she mentally
ran over the families whom she knew to have such a model. There
were perhaps four she could name off the top of her head, but none
with the right colour. Of course, the Langstons owned one that
particular hue, but Jeffrey drove a convertible. She frowned, puzzled.
Could Mr and Mrs Langston have come for a visit?
She checked her watch. Almost six, and the evening meal was at
seven. Whoever it was must have been invited to stay.
She looked down at her slim legs, encased in skin-tight, faded jeans,
with diminutive Nike tennis shoes beneath. She was a mess, and Mrs
Langston always appeared to be coolly elegant. She would slip in the
back way, sneak upstairs to wash and change, and then come down to
make her appearance.
Through the
and a mutual trust. Many times Caprice didn't request any as she
couldn't see the point of asking for money when she couldn't, or
didn't want to, spend it. As a consequence, for less, she ultimately got
more, in the way of her father's silent respect.
All Friday morning she'd spent visiting Liz and helping in the
kitchen, for she liked the other woman's sense of humour and
cheerful common sense. But when the afternoon rolled around, she
found herself itching to do something, and left the house for a long
car drive. The wind was too cool for anything more than cracking her
window open, and the dull sky seemed to suck all colour from the
surrounding landscape, so that everything looked lifeless, without
vitality.
For some reason, for no reason, she thought of Pierce, and she
wondered what he was doing, where he was going. Who he was
seeing. She shook her head, angry at herself. She had thought of him
entirely too often this last week. Not a day would pass but that she let
her mind wander to him.
Him. What kind of man was he, to attract her attention and hold it,
without even being present? No one else had been able to prompt that
in her. She loved to go out, and did quite often, with anybody and
everybody who was presentable enough, and who asked. She loved
men, all men: young, old, silly, wise. She could talk with them
seriously and intelligently, when she chose, but she could also flirt
with the best of them.
She liked how males looked at her, the caressing, admiring glances,
the amusement and, sometimes, the startled respect. And she never
had settled for one deep relationship, for, as she always expostulated,
why pick a book when you can have the whole library to browse
through?
Why, then, why did she remember Pierce's quiet words and angry
voice? Why did the thought of his gentleness and his sudden passion
stir her? He was just another man! Her hands slid on her steering
wheel, fingers unconsciously working. She attempted to dismiss his
image, but her mind was traitorous. A splendid, elegant figure of a
man; an intelligent, responsible man; an exciting man. But not for
her: oh, no. He wasn't her type.
Then why had it hurt so when she'd overheard someone else espouse
the same sentiments? Of course; naturally, it had been her pride that
was dented. She liked to think herself good enough for any man, as
anyone did, and it irked her to know that someone else thought
differently.
She loved to drive for long periods at a time, alone, with low music
playing over her excellent car stereo. She whiled away the entire
afternoon, driving towards the east coast with no definite goal in
mind, then turning back towards Richmond when she began to feel
tired. She had to stop for petrol, stretching her legs once she was out
of the driver's seat and suddenly longing to be going somewhere,
really going somewhere, with a destination and a goal, and an
ending.
But she was merely going home. As she pulled into the wide,
spacious drive, she noted the sleek, dark Jaguar tucked into the
parking space that shot off the main asphalt strip, leaving passage
free to the garage. As she pulled into her garage space, she mentally
ran over the families whom she knew to have such a model. There
were perhaps four she could name off the top of her head, but none
with the right colour. Of course, the Langstons owned one that
particular hue, but Jeffrey drove a convertible. She frowned, puzzled.
Could Mr and Mrs Langston have come for a visit?
She checked her watch. Almost six, and the evening meal was at
seven. Whoever it was must have been invited to stay.
She looked down at her slim legs, encased in skin-tight, faded jeans,
with diminutive Nike tennis shoes beneath. She was a mess, and Mrs
Langston always appeared to be coolly elegant. She would slip in the
back way, sneak upstairs to wash and change, and then come down to
make her appearance.
Through the
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