“I
t's going to be fine. I think. I hope . . .” Cassie paused in diving through boxes to turn her head to look at Jo who was standing in the doorway of the spare room.
“I'll pray for you,” Jo replied, only half-joking.
“I don't know what to say.” Cassie stood up properly now, seeing her sister's concern. “Only that it will be all right.”
She knew that Jo thought this was all too sudden. And it
was
too sudden. It felt like only five minutes ago that she and Cameron had driven down to Cornwall. They'd spent two nights before coming back again, making the return journey after breakfast this morning. Was that much time really long enough to “get to know each other”? Cassie didn't know. She didn't know anything anymore, except, maybe, that she needed to do this—to sit for Cameron.
“And how do you know that? That it will be all right? I mean, you'll be in New York. It's harder for me to come to your rescue in New York if I have to. . .” Jo trailed off.
“I've got Alys,” Cassie said, reminding Jo of her friend from school who was now living in New York, interning at The Met for a year (Cassie still wasn't entirely sure how much to tell her about what she was doing in the city considering a) Alys wasn't known for her fantastic secret-keeping skills, and b) she worked at an art museum). “I'm going to stay with her. Anyway, it all seems quite . . . simple. I'm going to sit for him. And that's it. Fully clothed.”
“I don't think that's how Cameron Callahan operates.” Jo leaned against the doorframe and inspected her nails. “And you know what the real problem is. If the British press find out . . .”
“They'll say I'm sitting for Cameron Callahan. So what's the problem?”
“Hmmm . . .” Jo opened her mouth as if to say something else but then the doorbell rang, forcing her to race off.
Cassie continued to fill her larger suitcase, which she'd finally dug out from underneath the bed.
“It was for you—a courier.” Jo re-entered the room and came over to give Cassie a small plastic satchel, which Cassie immediately took and ripped open. “What is it?”
“An itinerary.” Cassie slowly cast her eye over documentation. “Oh . . .”
“What is it?” Jo quickly moved behind her sister, then whistled when she saw what Cassie was “oh-ing” about. “So, the chauffer will pick you up in,” she checked her watch, “an hour and a half, and take you to Heathrow. Very nice!”
“Don't tell me you've changed your mind now—just because I'm flying first class.”
Jo laughed. “Okay, maybe a little, but actually, it's this bit that makes me a lot less worried,” she said, pointing to something on the paperwork. “It's an open return. You can come home whenever you like. Despite how much money Cameron Callahan's led you to spend on crack and male prostitutes.”
“I
wasn't entirely sure you were coming.” Cameron stood up from his armchair near the door, immediately abandoning the text he was writing on his phone.
Cassie finished making her way up to the top of the flight of stairs that wound their way from the entrance to the interior of the airline's lounge. “You do sound eager to see me. Isn't that incredibly uncool?”
“Probably.”
“Do I look first-class enough?” She had borrowed Jo's mandarin-colored Anya Hindmarch handbag and wore it over one arm. She twirled, showing off her cobbled together outfit of taupe jeans, cream oversized jumper, and a yellow- and green-flowered Orla Kiely scarf (also pilfered from Jo), that somehow brought it all together.
“You look lovely. I hate those people who have no imagination whatsoever and wear black all the time,” Cameron deadpanned.
“Why
do
you wear black all the time?” Cassie frowned, surprised at herself that she hadn't actually asked him yet. “Is it some kind of artistic statement?”
Cameron laughed. “No. It's because I'm completely lazy and have absolutely no idea about what goes with what. I used to spend ages staring like an idiot into my wardrobe, and now I don't think about getting dressed at all. It's very freeing.”
Cassie considered how long she and Jo had spent picking out an outfit that very afternoon, trying on hundreds of combinations of things. “I might try that sometime.”
Cameron glanced around them. “Now. We have a bit of time to spare. What takes your fancy? A drink? A snack?” He gestured toward the end of the room where Cassie could see some food stations.
“Maybe a . . .” She jumped as, just beyond the large plate glass windows, a plane took off. “. . . juice. Wow, that is really close.”
“I know. It's one of the reasons I choose this airline. I love sitting here. The planes take off about every three minutes. It's insane. Well, that and I also love the showers. On the plane. I'm afraid that once you've had a shower on a plane, you expect them for life. However pathetic and first-world that sounds, it's also true.”
One of the club's waiters passed by at this point, and Cameron ordered Cassie some sort of odd concoction that sounded like a juice, and himself a double shot of espresso before directing them over to sit up at the stools that bordered the window so they could watch the planes.
“A double shot of espresso. Planning on staying up late tonight?” Cassie asked as they settled in.
“I'm planning on doing some work. Getting some thoughts down.”
“About . . .?” Cassie trailed off, not wanting to suggest his every waking thought might be about her sitting for him.
“Yes, I'm talking about your piece. Don't seem so surprised.” He paused for a moment and looked out at the view before his gaze moved back to her again. “You said I was eager. And I am eager. When I get excited about a piece, I get excited about a piece. Trust me on this. I do want to do this. Very much. But also, I need you to know that you don't owe me anything. At any time. You can leave whenever you like—you have a return ticket. You can stay wherever you like—with the friend you mentioned, at my place, at whichever hotel you want to. If you give Marianne the details, she'll fix that up for you. All I need to know is that you want to sit for me.”
“Okay. That sounds . . . fair.”
“It can be an incredibly intense experience.” His gaze didn't move from hers for a second.
“So I hear.” Cassie forced her eyes to remain on his. “And I do want to sit for you. It's an exciting prospect. But maybe I . . . need to know exactly what you mean by that. In this instance. What I mean is, define ‘sit for you’.”
Cameron frowned slightly, not completely understanding. “For the sculpture.”
“Yes, I know that, but exactly what does that involve?”
“Sessions. Photographs. A lot of posing. Your time . . .”
He still hadn't mentioned what Cassie was hoping he'd get to. “And what would I be wearing?”
Cameron paused. “Clothes?”
“Oh.” Cassie flushed, especially as the waiter chose that moment to deliver their beverages. “Thank you,” she whispered as he set her juice before her.
“You don't like clothes?” Cameron brought his coffee around between them.
“No, I just . . . presumed that you meant without.”
“Well, you don't seem like you'd be happy with that.”
“I don't think I would be.”
Cameron gazed intently at her. “Only what you're comfortable with. I did say that from the very start.”
“You did.” Cassie nodded, ashamed that she hadn't believed him. She watched as he stirred his coffee, then tapped the spoon against the cup.
He grinned, then. “But, please, anytime you feel like stripping off, that totally works for me as well.”
A
s soon as the fasten seatbelt sign was switched off, Cassie saw Cameron pop over the top of her “pod” on the plane. Immediately she attempted to stop looking like a kid in a candy store, oohing and ahhing over the tiny little bar that lifted up to the right of her seat, the seat that folded out completely flat like a bed, and the fresh flowers that had been carefully placed in a tiny little holder next to the sliding door. She pressed the button that slowly retracted the bar. “So, I haven't done that 328 times already.”
“I found the answer to all your writing problems.” Cameron passed her something—a cardboard encased package.
Cassie turned it over, puzzled, until she saw some writing on the opposite side that read,
writing kit
. “Hilarious,” she said, giving him a wry look as she stood up from her seat.
“I've booked us in to the shower suite. Separately, that is. In case you were wondering.”
“I don't really need a shower . . . do I? Are you not telling me something?”
Cameron laughed. “No. And I don't either, but you've got to have one anyway, just to say that you have. There's still that eight-year-old inside me who didn't get to go to summer camp who likes to get in that shower and think yeah, I'm having a shower while I'm flying over everybody. And that completely rocks. Totally childish, of course, but so what?”
Cassie smiled. “Beats psychotherapy, I suppose.”
“And what are you going to get up to now?”
Cassie shrugged slightly. “Watch a movie, I guess. Or have you booked us into the ice-skating rink as well?”
“Sadly, no. As I mentioned before, I was planning on doing some work.” Cameron bent down and picked up a leather satchel off his seat. He opened it and brought out a large, black Moleskine notebook that had bits of paper sticking out of it, and a small metal pencil-case, battered and well-loved.
“So, the caffeine has kicked in after all,” Cassie said, staring at the tools of Cameron's trade. As she did so, a piece of paper fluttered out and she caught it. Passing it back, she saw it was a quick sketch of a woman sitting at a table.
“I would love to be able to do something like that.” She sighed as Cameron stuck it back in his notebook, and looked at her quizzically. “The thing is,” Cassie continued, “people tend to think my job is so artistic, but in many ways it's not. It's sitting down, forcing words out, working to deadlines. Most people assume I illustrate my books.” She laughed at this. “But not in a million years. Drawing for me is . . . it's scary.”
“Scary?” Cameron's brow creased.
“Okay, for example, just the other day I'd been to the park with my niece and nephew. When we got home, my niece asked me to draw a picture of a baby, crawling. Like the baby we'd seen at the park. I froze. I always freeze.”
In front of her, Cameron folded the book in half, finding a clean page, then opened up his pencil case and took out a soft pencil. “Here.” He passed them over. “Draw a baby crawling.”
Cassie took the items, resting them on top of the pod. For a moment or two she attempted to put the pencil to the paper, but then she looked up. “I can't. I just can't.” She shook her head.
“Why not? What's stopping you?”
“I don't know how to start. Where to begin,” Cassie huffed. “All I can think of is lines. Seriously, lines are all I'm capable of. Houses made out of lines. V-shaped birds in the sky . . .”
“But lines are good. Lines
are
where you begin. Here . . .” Cameron took the paper and pencil back. Very quickly, he drew several simple shapes—a circle for a head, oval limbs. And after a few seconds, Cassie could see the form of a baby on all fours emerging. “That's the basic shape done. And isn't that how you would write, really? You'd start with an outline for a story, then you'd fill in the details.” He kept scribbling. “The dialogue, the scenery . . . it's just the same as your work.” Suddenly, just like that, there was a baby crawling on the page. Cameron passed the book back to Cassie.
Cassie stared at the page, her eyes widening. She glanced up with a grin. “Can I keep it? For my niece?”
“Of course!” Cameron took the book back for a moment, ripping out the page which he handed back to Cassie, who stared at it once more.
“Amazing,” she said.
“It's really not. I think the problem is you need to let go of the image of the finished product. It's stopping you from moving forward. You see, in your mind you're thinking of that actual baby crawling, and feeling the pressure to reproduce it immediately. But it doesn't happen that way. You draw the basics and then build upon them, as I've just shown you. Surely it's the same for people who start writing a novel—you can't go in thinking about what you might have in a year's time, and trying to immediately reproduce that.”
Cassie nodded. “That's very true. I'd never thought about it like that.” She glanced up at him from the drawing, a lock of hair falling forward out of the loose ponytail it was held in.
“Now, try again.” He offered her the notebook and pencil.
Hesitantly, Cassie took them, and during the next few minutes attempted to emulate what she had seen Cameron do. First the shapes, then some fleshing in.
“Wait,” Cameron interrupted, and reached over to take the pencil from her fingers. He took her hand and gently readjusted her grip, his fingers warm on hers. “The pencil isn't going to run away. You don't need to grip it quite so hard. Try again.”
Cassie did, continuing to flesh out the shape. When she finally gave up, she was, in fact, surprised to find her attempt, while bad, wasn't quite as bad as she'd thought it would be.
“See?” Cameron encouraged her.
“Yes, I'm a regular Picasso.” Cassie glanced up from inspecting her drawing in the notebook.
When their eyes met, Cameron was already in motion. “Stop. Don't move.” He held up a finger, insistent. “Stay right there if you don't mind . . .”
Moving only her eyes, Cassie watched as Cameron found a fresh page in his notebook and began to sketch once more, though this time she could tell he was sketching something else entirely—her. As she looked on, she realised that it was all really happening. That she was on the plane now, in the air, that Cameron was sketching her, and that there was no going back. At least, not until they got to JFK. But where would they end up after that?
“That's it. Perfect. Just one more thing.” Cameron reached over the top of the pod and pushed the lock of hair back behind Cassie's ear, his fingers brushing softly against her ear. “Beautiful,” he muttered. “Perfect.”
For a moment or two, she held her breath. Then, as his hand retreated, she exhaled slowly. Yes, this was it. The start. The start of sitting for Cameron Callahan. What the end result would be, she had no idea.