Caprice by Amanda Carpenter Page A

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