Beneath Beautiful (25 page)

Cassie almost spat her tea out. “Do you have to be so dramatic? Whoring my way around the modern art world . . . Really? One forced kiss equates to whoring in your world? Goodness, that's the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?” Cassie knew it was immature, but she couldn't help but to bring up the one thing she knew would push her father to the edge.

“Don't you start in on any of that again . . .” he said, under his breath.

Everyone knew exactly what she was alluding to—the string of affairs he'd had while he was still married to Cassie's mother. As for Cassie, she watched Rose closely during this exchange. She doubted her leopard of a father had changed his spots. He never could resist anyone who gave him any attention. Especially if they were female.

Rose, however, gave nothing away and continued to sit demurely, sipping her tea. Of course, her own children never behaved like this, or so Rose liked everyone to believe.

Cassie tried to keep her voice even. “I just don't understand why I'm expected to be a paragon of virtue when you yourself can do as you please. I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm sitting for Cameron Callahan, and that is all. The papers have simply beaten it up into something else, as they always do. And now it's done, that's the end of it.”

Her father watched her closely. “Good. Then it's all over. You'll be coming home.”

“After I've finished sitting for Cameron, yes,” Cassie said. “I'm planning on getting an apartment in London.” She fixed her eyes on the uneaten sandwiches and waited for the onslaught.

“Wait.” Her father looked at her incredulously. “So you're saying you're not coming back now, but are going to continue with this farce? You're going to continue to hang around these . . . people.” He waved a hand as if he could instantly dismiss them.

“Well, around Cameron. Yes. I don't see why not. I'm doing nothing wrong. I'm hurting no one . . .”

Her father barked out a laugh here. “Hurting no one? Is that what you really think?”

“Yes.” Cassie stared back at him coolly.

“And what of my professional reputation?”

“It shouldn't be based on me in the first place, should it?”

Her father shook his head. “I honestly don't know how you can say that.”

“Because it's true,” Cassie said, firmly, “I tried my hardest to keep it all out of the media, but I couldn't. Tomorrow there will be something else going on, and it will all be forgotten. You know what the tabloids are like. It's simply sensationalist rubbish. No one will care in the morning.”

“I don't believe that for a second,” her father retorted. “I'll be hearing about it for years.”

Cassie was beginning to lose her patience. She sat her teacup back in its saucer with a resounding rattle. “Well, I'm not talking about what your golf buddies are going to rib you about, am I? I'm talking about what your constituents will remember. Do you honestly think they'll care a year from now? I seriously doubt it.”

“But it's not going to be forgotten, is it?” her father continued under his breath, his face reddening now that he wasn't immediately getting what he wanted. “If you take your clothes off for this man like a cheap slut, he'll then go ahead and show his bloody statue in art galleries all over the world, won't he? How naïve are you, for God's sake? Can't you see he's nothing more than a charlatan, tricking young women into stripping for him?”

Cassie rolled her eyes. “Well, that's probably what they told women who sat for Renoir, Goya, Picasso, and Klimt, isn't it? I'm sure their fathers called them naïve sluts and whores as well. Thank goodness they went ahead and did what they wanted to do anyway.”

Rose sucked her breath in on hearing this.

Cassie ignored her and continued. “For the first time in my life I've found one small thing I'm prepared to go out on a limb for. That I need to do for me. Something meaningful. And whatever you think of Cameron, you can't deny he is a famous artist. Hugely famous. This sculpture will last forever.”

“So you think you're the Mona Lisa now?” her father scoffed.

“No,” Cassie said, reaching down to grab her bag. “I don't think I'm the bloody Mona Lisa.” She stood up, trying not to shake as she put her bag over her shoulder. “I simply think I'm a grown woman who can make her own decisions. So thanks for stopping by, both of you, but as you can see, I'm just fine.”

C
assie didn't pause until a cab had been hailed for her and she was safely inside it, pulling away from the hotel. As they drove away, she rested her head back on the seat. She wasn't sure how much more her heart could take. She needed to take stock, to clear her head, and think about her next move. There was also something that had popped into her head during her meeting with her father that she wanted to consider further.

“To The Met, thanks,” she told the driver.

Soon enough, Cassie was standing on the steps of The Met once more, only meters from where she'd stood with James the other day. How things had changed, she thought as she selected his number from her contacts list. She wasn't surprised to get his, “You have reached . . .” message. It seemed no one answered their phones in times of crisis these days. She watched as people walked up and down the stone steps on either side of her. She knew James had read the articles, as Alys had said. Of course he had. Now, she sent him a text instead of calling back and leaving a message.

I'm so sorry, James. I wish I could have told you everything, but I couldn't. To set things straight, there's nothing between me and Plum Tarasov. I'm simply sitting for Cameron. I hope you can understand.

As she pressed
send
, Cassie knew there were a hundred other things she wanted to say to James, but she let her message fly away anyway. Then she paused, phone in hand, and thought about the other day, when James and she had stood on these steps together. In a way, like Cameron, he'd been encouraging her to grow up as well. To be truthful to herself in what she felt and wanted. Well, maybe what she'd told her father back at his hotel was a good start . . .

C
assie wasn't sure how long she sat and stared at the woman in the bathtub, but many people came and went as she sat on the wooden bench opposite the piece and gave their thoughts. She listened to what they had to say with interest. Their thoughts included, “I love it. Who hasn't done that?”, “I can so relate. I might ask her to move over”, to “They paid money for that?” and “Seriously, I always want to bring clothes for Cameron Callahan's sculptures. It's freezing in here”. Cassie almost laughed out loud at this last one—they were right. It
was
freezing in here. At least the woman in the bathtub could be forever warm under her bathwater.

She wasn't entirely sure what she was doing back here. Just that she felt a need to be surrounded by Cameron's work in this moment. To sit amongst it and imagine what she would look like as one of them—people giving comments about her. Who she was. What she meant. What they thought of her.

She still had no real idea of Cameron's entire vision for the piece, and she thought about James's key words again that Cameron had shared with him.
Layers. Electronic.
She still had no idea what he could have meant.

When her eyes began to wander, she brought out her phone once more and texted Alys.

You busy? Am downstairs moping around the Cameron Callahans.

Alys texted back almost immediately.

Will come down and tend to your wounds.

Alys, clad in the museum's loose version of a uniform, arrived in minutes, Cassie waving wanly at her as she entered the room. Just as she was about to sit down on the bench beside Cassie, a member of the public stopped her. “Excuse me,” the woman asked. “Can you tell me . . .”

“Just through that door and to the left.” Alys pointed as the woman thanked her and scurried away.

Alys sat down now, looking altogether depressed. “It's always the bathroom. Just once I'd like someone to ask me where some fabulous piece of art is. But that's the human race, I guess. So, how'd it go? Is your dad dragging you home?”

“No. I told him I'd be staying and seeing this to the end, whatever he thought. That was, of course, after he'd called me a slut and a whore. Oh, and naïve. A naïve slutty whore.”

Alys's eyes widened. “Nice. Still, it's not really about you though, is it? He's freaking out about his work.”

“Of course. It's always about him. All the time. It's the Andrew Tavington, M.P., show on the Andrew Tavington, M.P., channel, twenty-four hours per day. It always has been.”

Alys nodded. “And have you heard from James?”

“No,” Cassie replied. “I tried to call, but got his voicemail. I sent him a text in the end.”

“He hasn't answered my calls, either,” Alys shared, glumly. “Don't worry, he'll come around. He's not the kind to bear a grudge, and you
did
get him that interview. He must have realised that much.”

Cassie bit absentmindedly at a hangnail. “Mmm.”

“So, now what?” Alys continued. “You go on your merry sitting way? But wasn't there some kind of problem? You told me things might not pull off. That it was all a bit precarious . . .”

Cassie nodded, mutely.

“But why?”

This was, of course, the million-dollar question.

Cassie scanned the room once more, searching for an answer. It was only then, as she stared at each piece of sculpture in turn, that she saw clearly what was holding the piece up . . .

Her.

Cameron had said from the start it was all down to her. And she had remembered his words that evening at Plum's function. It had been so clear then. She was the muse. She had the power. She decided what would be. It was she, and only she, who decided what this sculpture would be. Not Cameron, not her father. Her. It was all down to her. What she had needed to do all along was do that digging. To find her core. To be whom she was meant to be, and be strong enough to take control. To stand up for who she was, and what she wanted.

How had she forgotten this when it had been so clear in that moment? It had been so obvious to her that night, as she had stood before Cameron in Plum's installation. She nodded to herself as she saw why—it was because she had found it so difficult to believe. She wasn't used to being the one who made the decisions. Who led. She hadn't been prepared at that point to stand behind her convictions. Well, she was now. She had to.

Cassie sprung up from her seat. “It's going to be all right. But I have to go,” she told Alys. “Right now.”

“C
assie, it's good to see you.” Marianne let her in to Cameron's studio, and took her coat and scarf. “I'm not sure Cameron's expecting . . .”

“He's not,” Cassie said. “But I do really need to see him, if it's possible.” Her heart was beating at an incredible pace, making her breathless as she considered what she was about to do.

Marianne nodded. “I think he's in his apartment. I'll ring through and check, if you give me a moment.” Having said this, she stepped over into her office at the very front of the studio.

Cassie watched as Marianne spoke on the phone, finally looking over and gesturing to her. She held up three fingers and pointed upstairs. Taking a deep breath, Cassie went over and hit the “up” button.

When Cassie exited the lift, a large, steel door, set flush in the windowless wall, greeted her. She pressed the doorbell and took a step back, and the door opened almost instantly.

“Cassie!” Cameron smiled warmly at her. “Come in. I'm making coffee. Which I'm guessing you might need.”

Cassie exhaled as she entered Cameron's apartment. “In my state, coffee's about the last thing I need.” She paused at the entryway, which opened into a large space. “Um, wow. Lucky you.”

Cameron laughed at her reaction.

“Really, it's beautiful.” Cassie turned full circle, drinking in the apartment properly. Taking up the entire top floor of the building, it was edged entirely with large, full-length glass windows, the top half seemingly able to be pushed open for air. White blinds, retracted at the moment, were available to be pulled across somehow for privacy. Along the front of the apartment ran a large wooden deck enclosed by wooden benches, whilst in the middle a square “garden” of sorts held what looked like greyish black rocks and tough, hardy grasses, that swayed in the breeze.

The apartment had a minimalist, industrial look to it, though it wasn't of the harsh, concrete-type that Cassie had never cared for. She could tell that it hadn't been “styled” as such—she detested places like that. Instead, all over the place things caught her eye that she knew had been selected by Cameron himself—pieces of art, books, and furniture that suited the setting, but was also comfortable.

“Sure you don't want a coffee? Or something else instead?” Cassie looked over to see Cameron in the kitchen, which was really a very simple stainless steel bench and appliances that ran along one wall.

“Maybe a mineral water?” Cassie asked, attempting to calm herself by breathing more slowly. It didn't work. She only felt more panicked—like a fish out of water.