Beneath Beautiful

by Allison Rushby

  Cassie bit her bottom lip. She didn't know. Nearby someone dropped a cup onto a saucer, and with a start, she remembered she was supposed to be somewhere. “Oh, God. I'm late. I promised my grandmother I'd meet a friend of hers for lunch. She's only in Paris for a few days, and I said I'd show her around. I must run.” She stood up.

  “Of course.” With this, Cameron brought out a business card and a pen from his pocket. He scribbled something on the back and handed it to Cassie, standing up. “My cell. Why don't you think about what I've asked you, and call me? I mean it. I'd like to make this piece, but I can't do it without you. I take my work extremely seriously. If it couldn't be precisely what I'm thinking of in my head, there's no point. Without you, there is no piece. You decide whether it comes into existence or not.”

  Cassie took the card gingerly between her fingers, feeling the thick, creamy stock. The best quality. From what she'd read about this man, this didn't surprise her one bit. “I'm going to my sister's this evening. In London. I'll be back Sunday. Thank you . . . for the coffee.” She made to leave, but at the last moment, Cameron's hand reached out and grasped hers, making her breath catch in her chest.

  He didn't attempt to draw her toward him, but his gaze was intense enough to bridge the gap between them. “Don't forget, it works both ways. Maybe I can inspire you as well.” He sat forward in his seat, his whole being intent upon her. “It's not all take. I can give you something back. Perhaps something you need. Think about that, Cassie. Think about it and call me on Sunday.”

  Later that day, Cassie inspected herself in the bathroom mirror, once again wondering what it had been that Cameron had seen—what had intrigued him. She could still feel his touch on her hand, and now she brought that hand up to her face to inspect it also. There was nothing to see, of course. Ordinary. An ordinary hand attached to an ordinary body. Or so she had thought. Until now.

  Taking one step back, and another, until she was in the doorway, she dropped her towel and stared at her naked form. Tall and long limbed, like all the women in her family. Blue eyes. Pale skin, with a spattering of light freckles across her nose and shoulders due to summers spent in Spain as a child. She reached up and unleashed her hair from its band. Shoulder-length and light brown, it tumbled down in waves, its touch of red catching in the light.

  She stared for some time, searching, searching. What did he see? What had he seen? It couldn't have been anything sexual. It couldn't have been her breasts, or her thighs—she'd had a thick coat on. And a scarf. If she remembered correctly, she hadn't even brushed her hair, and despite a slick of strawberry lip-gloss to stave off chapped lips, she'd been free of makeup. Still, he'd seen something, this artist. This man who could have . . . well, almost anyone her age, she expected.

  Still focused upon the mirror, she brought up her hands to her neck and then ran them slowly down her body. Down her breasts, the slight curve of her waist, her hips. She paused at the tops of her thighs and then, eyes never leaving the mirror, inched her right hand sideways, then sideways again, closer and closer—daring herself to do what she was thinking of doing. Slowly, she slipped one finger inside herself, wanting to see what it might be like. To be one of those people like Cameron. The sort of person who just did what they wanted, when they wanted—who slept with other people without expectation because it might be nice, and then thought nothing of it afterwards. Standing there, looking fixedly at herself, Cassie tried very hard to let go and allow herself to imagine what might have happened in the cemetery. She attempted a scene where Cameron Callahan had found a secluded spot, and his hands had made their way inside her coat and under her shirt. She hadn't been wearing a bra. It would have been so easy—there would have been no one around to see his warm hands exploring her breasts, and after a while she wouldn't have cared if anyone had seen anyway. She become wet with the thought of it—of giving herself over to him, despite the time and place. After some time, he might have moved one hand down toward the waist of her jeans and . . .

  Quite by accident, Cassie caught sight of a scent bottle of her grandmother's on the marble vanity.

  “Ugh,” she said and immediately sorted herself out—washed her hands, pulled her towel around her. Who was she kidding? She was nothing like those people. Nothing like Cameron Callahan.

  Not to mention the fact that she had a train to catch.

  “Hello, gorgeous thing!” Jeremy answered the door as Cassie's cab took off noisily behind her. “You look like you need a drink. Here, let me take that.” He took her small suitcase from her and wheeled it inside.

  “Thanks. And I do need a drink. A very, very big drink.”

  Jeremy ushered her in to the terrace house with its glossy red front door. He shook his head in disbelief, as he looked her over. “You know, I still find it hard to get my head around the fact that you're allowed alcohol. In my mind you'll always be this lanky colt-like thing with braces that I met when I first started seeing your sister.”

  “Well, you'd better get your head around it fast, because I need that bloody drink.” Cassie groaned as she closed the door behind her, and wound her scarf from her neck.

  Jeremy reached for her coat. “Man problems?”

  “More Cameron Callahan problems, actually.”

  Jeremy practically hurled her coat onto the coat rack. “Jo! Jo!” he yelled up the stairs. “Get down here. Now!”

  “Shhh!” Jo came down the stairs two at a time. “I've just put the children to bed. I haven't told them Cassie's coming. I knew it would be after their bedtime, and I thought it would be a nice surprise for breakfast. You know, when she makes us all blueberry pancakes, as proper houseguests should. Surprise, surprise, I even remembered to buy the ingredients today. Hello, Cassie, darling!” She swept over to give her little sister a kiss.

  “Cameron Callahan's back,” Jeremy said, pleased with himself for having heard the news first.

  Jo immediately pulled back. “No. No! Really? What's he done now?” A thump from upstairs caused them all to raise their heads. “Shhh . . .” Jo said once more. “Let's go into the kitchen. I've got some very good antipasto already laid out that we can gorge ourselves on, and lots and lots of lovely wine.”

  When all three of them were perched upon kitchen stools, Cassie told the story of what had happened that afternoon, the couple's eyes widening as she spoke.

  “I can't believe it.” Jo took a gulp of wine when Cassie was done. “I mean, what are you going to do? Last night, everything I said . . . well, I didn't know it might . . .” She trailed off, lost for words, which, where Jo was concerned, was saying something.

  “. . . be a reality?” Cassie finished off her sentence. “I know.”

  “Yes.” Jo nodded. “I didn't think he'd want to actually whisk you off and do odd things to you.”

  “Are you two joking?” Jeremy looked from one to the other. “Are you even entertaining the idea of saying no? God, I'd screw him, given half a chance.”

  “Jeremy!” both the women said.

  “Well, you know, not really.” Jeremy flung a hand in the air. “But what an offer! Cameron Callahan asking you to sit for him? You'd be mad to turn to it down. Mad! Isn't that the kind of memory every woman fantasizes of telling her grandchildren about? That she was a muse for a famous artist?”

  “But that's the thing,” Jo said, pointing a finger at her husband. “It's a fantasy. The reality of being a muse is rarely a pretty thing. Gosh, think of Edie Sedgwick, or George Dyer, or Kiki de Montparnasse. They all overdosed, or committed suicide, or had their heart broken, didn't they? And imagine if Daddy found out. Or worse, the papers.” Jo shuddered theatrically.

  “I had thought of that,” Cassie told her sister. “And that's why I don't want to tell Dad now. If I do, he'll just try to talk me out of doing it, won't he? I won't have any choice. He'll just do what he always does, and go on and on and on until I give in and do what he wants. Anyway, I think I'm smart enough to control who knows what when it comes to the media . . .
”

  Jeremy winced slightly. “I'm not saying you're not, but these things do have a way of getting out.”

  There was a moment or two of silence in which Jo refilled everyone's glasses to a healthy level.

  “What sort of piece did he say he was thinking of?” Jeremy finally broke the silence, tackling the taramasalata with a breadstick.

  “He didn't exactly say,” Cassie replied. “But he did say that I would always be in control. And I got the feeling that at any point I could have said this really isn't my thing and got up and walked away, and he would have been fine with that. He seemed . . . almost wary of me. Like he didn't want to overinvest if I was going to say no. If I am going to say no, I mean.”

  “So you're saying he didn't come across as a drooling, sex-addicted masturbating madman?” Jo offered.

  Cassie shook her head decisively. “No. Not at all. Both times I met him he was very . . .” She hunted for the right word through the gathering fog of the wine. “. . . respectful.”

  “Well, I say go for it,” Jeremy told her. “You're smart. You know your limits. Even if it does get out, I'm sure you won't have done anything truly despicable. Will you?”

  Cassie pulled a face. “I certainly hope not.”

  Jeremy nodded. “The main thing is if you don't, you'll always wonder, won't you? Nothing worse than that.”

  “That's what I'm worried about.” Cassie nodded. “If I say no, even if that is the smarter choice, will I torture myself forever?”

  “You are good at that kind of thing,” Jo agreed, reaching over to pat one of her sister’s hands.

  “I know I am.” Cassie sighed a long sigh, and slunk down on the seat. “God, sometimes I feel as if I were born one hundred years old. Any other self-respecting twenty-two-year-old would have stripped right off in Père Lachaise and been done with it. Anyway, I need a few days to think about it all, and I told him I'd call him Sunday evening, so I have plenty of time. Now, let's talk about something else for a while before my brain overheats.”

  “Your brain, or your groin?” Jo laughed and Cassie threw her only a look, because she could hardly deny the truth of her sister's statement.

  The weekend went as it always did—the children bouncing on her, waking her up at an ungodly hour on Saturday morning. Blueberry pancakes (her specialty) and loads of coffee. Then more coffee, in the hope of keeping her eyes open. Some shopping, and lunch with Jo while Jeremy took the children to the park. Then home again, and a gigantic G&T in the back garden with the newspapers. Despite Jo's protests about their “boring” life, Cassie loved the ever-constant rhythm of their house and of their family. Even the bickering and petty arguments gave her an odd kind of joy.

  Sunday was rainy, and though they attempted to amuse themselves with board games, the Wii, and movies, as the day wore on everyone got on each other's nerves. It was in the final few hours of her stay that Jeremy could stand the children's poking and prodding and goading one another to tears no longer, and threw everyone's coats at them. “That's it,” he pronounced. “We're all going out. You're not going to die in a bit of drizzle.”

  They bundled up, despite the many protests, and slowly made their way up to the top of Primrose Hill. In the gusty wind it proved even more difficult a feat than usual.

  Finally, huffing and puffing, all five of them made it to the top. No sooner had they caught their collective breath than the children set off down the hill again at a furious pace. “Slow down!” Jo called out in vain.

  “Oh, let them go. They've got to break something, sometime.” Jeremy waved a hand. “It's a rite of passage, isn't it? Every child breaks a bone at some point.”

  “Yes, but not their necks.” Jo rolled her eyes at him and took off after her progeny.

  Cassie wrapped her coat around her tighter.

  “So.” Jeremy turned to her. “What have you decided?”

  Cassie sighed and stared out at the grassy expanse below her, and beyond it to London. “I want to say yes, I really do. But I'm worried about what might come out.”

  Jeremy titled his head slightly. “If you mean where your father's concerned, then no, it wouldn't look good. But it would be all right. It all depends how you play it, I think.”

  Cassie considered this. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

  “Callahan has, after all, used many perfectly respectable people as models. Actors, activists, other artists.”

  “Prostitutes, drug addicts, a head he had someone steal from an anatomy lab . . .” Cassie added.

  “None of which you are,” Jeremy pointed out, making Cassie laugh. “Look, you're sensible. You know your own boundaries.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Also, Jo mentioned something else . . .”

  Cassie frowned and turned properly now to look at her brother-in-law. A piece of hair was whipped into her face by the breeze, and she reached up to push it from her eyes. “What's that?”

  “She said you've been looking for inspiration. For a while now. The thing is, Cassie, I think it might have come knocking on your door.”

  Cassie let herself into her grandmother's apartment, locked the door behind her, and immediately sank into the sofa.

  She had been all right up until now—busy saying goodbye to the children, getting to Kings Cross on time, waiting for a cab at Gare du Nord . . . But as soon as she had stepped inside the cab and started the journey back to her grandmother's apartment and the inevitable phone call, her mind had begun to wander.

  Maybe. Maybe this is how it had happened, that day in Père Lachaise.

  “Excuse me.” There was a crunch of gravel, and a couple squeezed by them. “Wait, wasn't that . . .” Cassie caught the woman's voice as they moved on. It took several moments for everything to pull together through the haze, then . . .

  “I know who you are,” Cassie said, using up the last vestiges of air in her body.

  “Who am I?” Cameron asked her.

  “You know very well.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I suppose we could go on like this all day, or . . .” Cameron stepped forward, taking Cassie by the waist, and brought her to him.

  It had taken the cab driver two “Mademoiselle!”s to rouse her from her daydream. When she had finally gotten inside, there was none of the fuss and fun of Jo's house. Only silence. Ominous silence. And the telephone, staring at her from over there in the corner.

  After some time, Cassie got up and walked over to it. She had left Cameron's card in a small bowl near the phone, not wanting it with her over the weekend. Not wanting the temptation to look at it, or to call earlier.

  The card was still there, the ink still black and perfectly legible. She picked it up, feeling the stock quality once more, and ran her fingers over the hastily scribbled number.

  “Do it. Just call. Call.” She broke the silence in the apartment by speaking out loud. “Call.” She picked up the phone. “Call,” she said even more sternly as she dialed the number.

  When it began to ring, she almost hurled the phone across the room in fright.

  “Hello?” a voice answered. His voice. Cameron. Cameron Callahan. “Hello?” he said again. Wherever he was, it was noisy. A party? A restaurant? Cassie wasn't sure. “Hello? Who is it?”

  Startled, Cassie realised she needed to speak now. “Cameron, it's Cassie.”

  “Wait a second, wait a second . . .” he said, and after a moment or two the noise died down. “Sorry about that. It's good to hear from you, Cassie. I wasn't sure you'd call.”

  “Well, here I am. Calling.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you back in Paris?”

  “Yes.” It was all she could manage.

  “Ah, I was hoping you might still be in London. That's where I am, actually. Just for a few days.”

  “Oh.”

  Quiet fell over the line.

  Cassie urged herself on. “The thing is, I wanted to say . . . that is . . .”

  �
��Yes?” he encouraged her.

  Cassie reached down and dug her nails into her jeans in order to distract herself. “The thing is, I think I'd like to say yes to your offer as long as . . .” She paused for a much-needed breath, her heart racing as if the sentence had been a marathon.

  “As long as . . .”

  Cassie closed her eyes, which was a mistake, because with his voice in her ear she immediately imagined that scene in the cemetery once more, his warm hands under her shirt. Instantly aroused, she quickly opened her eyes again and told herself to concentrate. To just say what she had to say. “As long as I'm comfortable with what's happening. You did say that. The other day. That I would be comfortable. And in control. “

  “I did. And I meant it.”

  “I just don't want to be pushed to do anything that isn't . . . well, me.”

  “Which would be pointless. I really do hope you see that. Because the thing is, it's all about you. You, and only you. And it will be amazing, Cassie. Amazing. You'll see.”

  “Do you think I could borrow your car?” Cassie asked Jo the following morning. “For a week or so?”

  “You're coming over to London again?” Jo sounded confused.

  “I think so.”

  “Wait, is this to do with Cameron Callahan?” Jo's voice quickened.

  “Maybe. Yes.”

  “Oh, God, then definitely yes. It'll put the value on the thing right up, won't it? Anyway, it will be good for it. You know it rarely gets a good outing.”

  This was true. Despite now having two young children, Jo couldn't part with her shiny red Mini Cooper S. My body might have let me down, and my brain might be going after watching too much children's TV, but I still have my cute car. Even if I can't fit half of what I need in it, Jo liked to say. “So, what's happening that you need a car? Where are you going? What are you doing, and whom will you be doing it to?”