Caprice (12 page)

'Sorry,' she said to her mother, who intensely disliked tardiness. She

fell into her customary seat, smiled a bit wanly at her father, and

looked without much interest at the serving dishes. Horrors, there

was creamed corn.

'Liz fixed you a salad,' said Irene, to her daughter's disgusted

shudder.

'I'd better get it.' She started to slide back to her feet.

'No need, sweetie.' The housekeeper came around from behind her,

set the salad by her plate, along with her favourite dressing. She

smiled her thanks as Liz winked at her, and then left.

'Yeow!' Ricky uttered, wincing extravagantly as he looked at her.

Irene looked weary. 'Is that noise really necessary?'

Her son ignored her, and leaned forward on both elbows. 'That must

have been some party,'

he observed. 'I could trip and disappear into those shadows under

your eyes. Hangover?'

'Your sympathy overwhelms me,' she said to him drily. 'But as it

happens, no. I just got a headache driving today, that's all.'

Her father subjected her to a silent, piercing scrutiny while he

thoughtfully chewed. He reached for his water glass to drink before

asking laconically, 'Have a good time?'

She pulled a face. 'Should I lie?'

'Good heavens,' said her mother, touching a napkin delicately to her

red lips. 'Whatever went wrong?'

'Nothing,' replied Caprice tersely. Everything. Unexplainable. She

bent her blonde head to her salad, and concentrated on an even

distribution of the Italian dressing, fully aware of her mother's

exasperated glance.

Irene pressed. 'There must have been something wrong. Why,

everyone knows that the Langstons' hospitality is superb! Who

chaperoned?'

'Mr and Mrs Langston. Look, the weekend went as well as could be

expected—I just didn't enjoy myself, that's all. I was bored!'

'Meet the older son?' asked her father, idly.

She felt a strange, unexpected leap in her chest, and swallowed past

something in her throat. 'Yes. Look, do we have to talk about this

now? I'm still groggy from my nap.'

Irene paused in eating and looked at her. 'For God's sake, why so

reticent about it? Come on, tell us a little about what you did, who

you met. Is the older boy as handsome as they say?'

Caprice took a deep breath, staring down at the salad she didn't want,

feeling all urge to eat it fade away. She pushed it away from her.

'He's no boy. I didn't scream when I looked at him the first time. All

we did was dance, play tennis, and swim. The weather was nice.

Jeffrey was not.' Her head angled sideways, sending a hard angry

glare to her mother. 'Would you like to know when I went to bed last

night, too?'

Irene drew in a swift breath. Then, furiously, 'Young lady, there's no

cause for such abominable behaviour. If you can't be civil to your

own family, then I suggest you leave until you can.'

'Irene,' said Richard, a low aside. 'She's tired.'

'It doesn't matter,' said Caprice in brittle tones. She stood. 'I didn't

want supper anyway.' Ricky raised his dark head to stare after her as

she swiftly exited.

She made straight for the den, where a small, yet well-stocked bar

was kept, and she mixed herself a rather careless martini, chucking in

with a liberal hand several green olives from the tiny refrigerator

below the counter. She loved olives, could sit and eat a small jar at

one sitting, puckering in sour ecstasy the whole while. Her mother

and father never had to worry about her nipping at the alcohol when

she was a curious child. But they'd had a running battle to keep any

olives stocked in the house.

Ricky slouched gracefully into the room, and threw himself on to the

nearby couch while she sat leaning forward in an armchair, rubbing

tiredly at the back of her aching neck. 'Nasty temper,' he remarked,

his manner supremely disinterested. 'Unlike you.'

'Did you follow me just to tell me that?' she marvelled sarcastically,

and drank at her martini.

'Oh, no. I was finished eating,' he assured her. 'You know she's going

to make you apologise.'

'She can take a hike,' Caprice retorted, direct on the heels of his

statement.

His head came up, and he stared at her for a few moments before

saying slowly, 'That attitude
is
not exactly conducive to a serene

home life. Are you sure you want to push principles that far?'

'Look, she's the one who pushed at me first. I didn't want to talk

about it, and I made that perfectly clear.' She set her glass down on

the table beside her, a sharp punctuating chink. 'If she wants to ignore

my wishes, then she's going to have to expect that I'll get angry about

it.'

He held up his hands. 'Hey, no argument. But you know how she

hates it when we talk back to her. She's going to be in a royal brood

for the rest of the week.'

She bowed her head, so tired, so tired, longing to go back to bed,

knowing she shouldn't. As she closed her eyes, tears stung at the back

of them, and she ran her hands through her dishevelled, fine hair. The

fingers met on either side of her neck, at the nape. Pierce had kissed

her there. 'If you can't speak your mind in your own home, then what

kind of a home is it?' she said, bitterly. She sighed heavily, her mouth

turning down, an unhappy bow. 'I'll—apologise tomorrow. I can't

tonight.'

Ricky took in her huddled posture. 'You do what you think best.'

She raised her head, and grimaced at him. 'It's not fair that you and

dad should put up with her brooding, just because of me.'

'Tell her that. No, on second thought, don't mention it.'

She grinned weakly. She watched as her brother sat, still regarding

her with his bright eyes.

'Just one thing, though,' he said softly. She raised an enquiring

eyebrow. 'What did happen, over the weekend?'

CAPRICE did apologise to her mother that very next morning, hiding

her still present resentment, putting on a
show
of sunny spirits. She

was good at putting on a
show. Irene said a few sharp words to her

bland daughter, realised how silly her pique had been, and no more

was said over the subject.

As the week melted away under the scorching sun of high summer,

Caprice's low spirits began to disappear. It had been a stupid mistake,

that weekend. She was heartily thankful it was all over with.

The weekend promised to be dismal, and wet, with leaden grey skies

looming sullenly overhead, and the weatherman forecasting dire

news. Roxanne was in a gloom because it was the end of the month

and, no matter how much pleading she did, her father obstinately

refused to advance her the next month's allowance.

The brunette simply couldn't understand the arrangement Caprice had

with her father. She had to smile whenever she thought of Roxanne's

frank envy, for no amount of explanations could convince the other

girl that their system would not work for the Cauleighs. She and

Richard would periodically sit down together to discuss the state of

her finances. Aside from a set amount already determined for the

upkeep of the Porsche, which was her responsibility, she could ask

for as much money as she wished and, as long as she could present a

logical reason for having it, she got it. The arrangement was based on

confidentiality, for it never 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 kitchen, and lightly stepping in the hall, she managed to

escape detection. With the long length of stairs ahead of her, she

prepared to leap up them quickly when Ricky appeared in the hall,

whistling tunelessly. He caught sight of her, and strolled her way.

'Hiyah,' he said.

'Ssh! I don't want Mother to know I'm here until I've had a chance to

clean up,' she whispered, and then she stared at him, for he was

wearing a peculiar smile. 'Who is it? The only family I could think of

who owns that colour Jaguar is the Langstons—is it Mr and Mrs

Langston, or both?'

'Oh, Mr Langston,' said Ricky cheerfully. 'Come on, move it or lose

it. I'm headed upstairs, myself.'

She still didn't get it, even after his odd smile and that rather devilish

twinkle at the back of his eyes. She was too preoccupied with

wondering why Jeffrey's father had come, and could make no sense