“Ages. I think I could watch you reading all day.”
Cassie felt her face flush, and hoped it didn't show too much. As she looked up at Cameron, she wondered if there would ever be a time she felt completely comfortable in his presence. She doubted it. They would be forever dancing around each other, attempting not to stand on each other's feet. To not get too close, or too far away. To remember the steps. It was exhausting.
He smiled at her as if maybe to say he knew this, and it pleased him. “I'm sorry I kept you so long. You must be sick of being cramped up. I know I am after that meeting. Grab your coat, and let's go for a walk.”
They entered the High Line at Gansevoort St, scaling the three flights of metal stairs side by side.
“Oh, it's gorgeous.” Cassie's breath was stolen not by the stairs, or the crisp wind, but by the view on exiting. “I've never been up here before.”
She stepped to one side and turned around slowly in a full circle, taking in the trees and dense foliage, the benches that rose, seamlessly, in a curve, straight out of the floor and the surrounding glass buildings. “No wonder you built your office here.”
Behind her, Cameron emitted a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a guffaw. “The amusing thing is it is one of the reasons I chose the location. And, since we moved in, I've probably been up here . . . oh, a grand total of three times, maybe?”
Cassie gave him a knowing look as she walked over to take a closer look at some of the trees. “I know what you mean. I've been looking at apartments in Highgate in London because I love the cemetery. You know, like my grandmother lives near Père Lachaise. But then I wonder if I'd really go as much if it wasn't a novelty—if I lived there year round, I mean.”
Cameron nodded.
They walked off along the concrete path for some time in silence before speaking again. “Plum called me this morning,” Cameron finally brought up the subject they were both thinking about.
“Nice of her to keep you in the loop,” Cassie said.
“Yes, well . . .”
“What did she say?”
Cameron shrugged. “Not too much. But enough. She told me about the bar. The photographer. The newspapers. I have to say—it's a little over the top, even for her. I don't entirely understand what she thinks she's going to accomplish by this . . .” He trailed off. “And your take on the situation?”
Cassie didn't lose any time telling Cameron about Jo and Plum's shared past at university, and why she thought Plum had pulled her stunt.
“I see,” was all he said when Cassie was finished. “All I can say is that I'm sorry she did this to you. I had no idea. It's . . . unlike her to . . . well, to care really. You and your sister must really have gotten under her skin at university.”
Cassie considered telling him about the other things that had come out—that Plum's sculpture had never been completed, and that Cassie felt that she was punishing her for this, as well as the time she was spending with Cameron—but then stopped herself. At this point, she wasn't entirely sure if her own sculpture would eventuate. Not to mention, she had no idea of where she and Cameron stood, or even where she wanted to stand when it came to him.
They paused for a moment to lean against a railing and take in the view of the ever-busy city. “And how do you feel about this all coming out in the media?” Cameron asked.
Cassie huffed. “Well, my father is going to lose it, for a start. And my stepmother will be all, 'Couldn't you think about your father's career?', because obviously no one should ever think about anything but my father's career. If Plum has divulged everything about my sister to the press, she'll most likely never speak to me again because her husband, when he finds out, will never let up about the fact that his wife once had a female-on-female sexual encounter—seriously, he is going to be extremely over-excited about this—and my grandmother will give me a long, silent, thin-lipped look that will say it all. Oh, not to forget the friends who I haven't exactly lied to, but haven't told the whole truth to, either. They'll be pleased as well, I expect.”
“That was quite the mouthful,” Cameron said, with a half-smile, his head turned toward hers as they leaned forward to rest on their elbows.
“Yes.”
“And you've covered pretty much everyone you've ever met,” Cameron continued then. “But what about you?”
“Me?” Cassie frowned. “What about me?
“Yes, you!” He laughed out loud now, pushing himself upright again. “Remember you?”
“Not really,” Cassie replied, dismally.
“Here, come and sit down for a minute.” Cameron gestured toward one of the large wooden sun beds nearby.
Cassie did as she was told, moving over to sit down and lie back on one.
“Doesn't that feel better? Just like a therapist's couch. Only without the padding.” Cameron stood over her for a moment, bending down to tuck her coat and scarf in tighter before he sat down on the end of her sun bed. She kept her eyes fixed on him as he did so, wondering if this was why Plum's sculpture had never come to pass. Had it been because they had slept together?
“The thing is,” Cassie said, staring up at the grey sky now, “I'm fine with what I'm doing. It's everyone else I'm worried about.”
“Maybe you shouldn't be worried about them?” Cameron said.
Cassie lifted her head now. “That's easy for you to say.”
Cameron looked surprised. “Is it? Not really. It took a lot of experience and a broken nose before I learnt not to worry about what other people thought.”
“Someone broke your nose?” Cassie gasped, inspecting his profile.
“High school. Best years of your life. Apparently,” Cameron replied. “All through high school—and middle school as well, to be honest—I had the shit beaten out of me for being different. It sounds trite, but the one thing it taught me in the long run is that the only thing worse than being different is not being yourself. It was probably a good lesson to learn young.”
Cassie sank back into her sun bed again and thought about this. “I'm sure you're right. And whatever they all say about me, I want to keep going.”
“Are you sure?” Cameron asked.
“Yes. I'm certain. I just . . . know I need to do this. That I have to. That is,” she sat up now and looked at him, desperate to know the truth, “if you still want to.”
Cameron's eyes locked with hers for a moment or two before he replied. “I couldn't think of anything I want more right now,” he finally said. “Come on, we're going to play hooky for the rest of the day. I want to show you something.”
They returned to Cameron's studio, picked up Cassie's things and informed Marianne that they were going out. An elevator took them down to the very lowest level of the studio complex where Cameron led Cassie to his car, a black Audi.
And then they drove. An hour and a half, two hours—Cassie didn't watch the time. She guessed where they were going before they got there. When they finally did, Cameron driving further and further into an urban area, her heart sank with what she saw.
He drove slowly along a wide suburban road, house after dilapidated wooden house passing by. A few were still well kept, but many with boarded-up windows, and a large number with for sale signs that looked as if they had been there for some time.
“That was our one, though it was blue when I lived in it.” Cameron pulled the car to the curb just before a corner and pointed out a cream, double-story house with a small front porch. There was illegible red graffiti on the side of the building. “When my dad died, we moved to an apartment above a corner store.”
He didn't need to say that it was worse.
They sat, staring at the building for a while, the few people walking past taking a second look at the fancy, shiny car.
“As you might have guessed,” Cameron finally said, “the poverty rate around here is high. The illiteracy rate is high. Joylessness is high. Bit different to your childhood?”
“My childhood was . . . more pic
turesque. Though joylessness was also high,” Cassie admitted. There was something about the place that scared her, not as to her personal safety, but more a fear of being trapped. Of never being able to get out. Money didn't bring joy, but it certainly had its advantages.
“True for many, I suppose.” Cameron nodded. “Here, I'll show you the school.”
He drove a few more blocks through the weary, dilapidated neighborhood. Palings hung sadly from fences and came to rest upon patchy brown grass. Graffiti was all that seemed to be holding some walls up at all. For some reason, there wasn't a soul to be seen. The place was like a ghost town. Finally, he pulled up in front of a large brick middle school.
“This isn't your high school.” Cassie turned to him, her brow furrowed.
“It's further away. I had to take the bus to the high school. But this is where it all started. I want to vomit just looking at it, to be honest. Walking inside is worse. Nothing's changed. Even the lockers are the same.”
“You've been back?” Cassie turned her head against the leather headrest to look at him.
“I go a couple times a year. To both the middle school and the high school.” He seemed reluctant to talk about it in some way, glancing away.
“What do you do there?” Cassie asked, hesitantly.
“I speak. And I get them to pick out a couple kids who are artistic, and then I speak to them as well. Sometimes I get the high school kids in for an internship. And there are college scholarships, and so on.”
“You give out scholarships?” Cassie was impressed.
“Honestly, it's the least I can do. But the problem is unless you help them to access it, it doesn't happen. Further education is for people whose parents are good at filling out forms, and advocating for their children. That's a skill a lot of people don't have around here.” He paused to think for a moment, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “And it's not that they don't want to. They just don't know how to. Or simply can't. I have a couple of careers counselors who go in as well—try to pick out the kids who might be likely to go on to college. See what options might be available to them. But the others, the ones who aren't naturally bright . . . Christ, it's depressing.”
Cassie's throat was tight. She could only imagine what Cameron had been through to become the successful artist he was now. “And who helped you?” she finally asked.
“I'd like to say there was one fabulous teacher, or a careers counselor, or someone. But no, no one. I dragged my sorry ass to Chicago because I read that's where some of my favourite artists had gotten their start. It took me some time to get into art school on a scholarship.”
“That's a pretty amazing story,” Cassie said. “So is this to show me I had everything handed to me on a plate?” She pulled her head up from the headrest now.
“Not at all,” he told her, surprising her by reaching out to grasp her hand from where it had been resting on her thigh. “It's to show you where I came from to be who I wanted to be. You might have had things come more easily to you, as you say, but your metamorphosis is only starting now. Don't take the easy route, Cassie. It's never worth it. I'd be devastated if you settled for being a caterpillar forever.”
Cassie didn't sleep that night, instead staying up and pressing refresh on several browser windows over and over and over again until she found what she was looking for. At least three papers were carrying the story, and she knew there were probably more who weren't showing all the content online but who would be running something similar also. She scanned the pictures they had used first, of course. Unfortunately, there were more than she had expected. All ran at least one from the bar the other night, and without fail, Cassie looked to be having a spectacular time, legs astride, Plum's tongue down her throat. Each of them also had somehow procured a photo of her and Cameron from Plum's soirée, wearing the Vivienne Westwood gown, the Union Jack snaking around her body. This was, of course, the private event that there were supposed to be no photographers at, but obviously, at Plum's request, there had been after all. There were also photos of her entering and exiting Cameron's studio that she'd never even noticed had been taken.
Cassie's heart raced as she read the headlines, which were equally terrible. Fool Around Britannia, Girls Abroad Astray and, worst of all, Hunting Season for Badger and Hare. In the last headline they had superimposed one of Plum's works on top of one of Cassie's book covers, which made poor Badger and Hare look like they were starring in a Hammer Horror film. There were also pictures of some of Cameron's more lurid pieces.
As she kept reading, Cassie began to feel sick as adrenalin raced around her body. The stories were virtually the same—they covered who she was, who her father was, how she had been lured over to New York by Cameron Callahan and fallen into the clutches of fellow-Brit and fellow university chum, his ex, Plum Tarasov.
In each of them, her father had refused to comment.
By the time Alys emerged from upstairs in the morning, Cassie must have read the pieces five hundred time each.
“What's going on?” Alys yawned as she made her way down the steel stairs that hugged the wall. “Wait.” She spied Cassie's bed. “Haven't you had any sleep at all?”
“No.” Cassie looked up from the kitchen table and her laptop.
“What? Why?” Alys headed across the floor. “What's going on?”
Cassie took a deep breath as she looked at her friend through bleary eyes. “You know that thing I couldn't tell you about? I can tell you about it now. You'll only be the millionth person to know.”
“What?” Alys said again, coming to stand behind Cassie, who got up to give her her seat.
“Oh, my . . .” Alys sank into the chair, having already spied one of the photos and, obviously, one of the headlines as she squeaked, “Badger and Hare what?”
She read quickly and in silence from there on in, eyes flicking from side to side. Every so often she glanced up at Cassie, her blue eyes wide, before looking back down again. Eventually, Cassie sank into the other seat at the table to wait it out.
After taking in two whole articles and skimming the third, Alys had had enough. She pushed back from the table and stared at Cassie. “Is this true?” Her brow was furrowed with confusion. “You and . . . Plum Tarasov?”
“God no, of course not,” Cassie said, quickly.
“But you are sitting for Cameron Callahan?”
“Yes.”
“And that's what you couldn't tell me?”
“Yes.”
Alys's eyes widened. “And are you . . .” She crossed her fingers, unable to come out with any more words.
Cassie shook her head, no. “It's not like that. I'm sorry, Alys; that I couldn't tell you, I mean. Are you awfully angry?”
Alys thought about this for a moment. “No, jealous mostly. But I am confused. Why couldn't you tell me?”
Cassie sighed. “Initially, I wanted to tell as few people as possible because of my father. And then also because it's been . . . well, a precarious thing. I didn't want to tell anyone if it wasn't going to happen, you know?”
But Alys only shook her head. “I still don't understand about this Plum Tarasov business.”
“Me either,” Cassie replied. “You remember the other night? When I came home early from the bar I'd been out to?”
Alys nodded.
“It sounds stupid, but she tricked me. One minute I was sitting on a bar stool, turning to look at something. When I turned back, I suddenly had Plum Tarasov and a paparazzo all over me.” Cassie shuddered as she remembered. “And then she helpfully informed the media about . . . well, everything.”
“But why? Why would she do this?” Alys replied, gesturing toward the laptop screen.
Cassie groaned. “The thing is, she had a thing, for Jo at university. Jo put an end to it all, and it seems Plum has never forgiven her.”
“Are you serious?”
Cassie nodded.
“Wow. She's got a long memory. And have you spoken to your father y
et?”
Cassie shook her head. “I keep getting his voicemail. It's not going to be pretty when it happens. I'm dreading it.” She looked on at her friend's creased brow. “Alys, I really am sorry I couldn't tell you before.”
“I still can't believe you're sitting for Cameron Callahan.” Alys shook her head in shock. “You're so lucky. What's he really like?” She sat forward in her chair.
Cassie struggled to find the right words and could, in the end, come up with only one that seemed to fit. “Very . . . intense.”
Alys raised an eyebrow. “So you're not . . .” She crossed her fingers once more. “But are you . . .” She mimed stripping off.
“No.” Cassie spent a few minutes explaining how they'd met, and what sitting had been like, including demonstrating her pose. “I'll introduce you to him, of course. It's not that I didn't want to.”
But Alys had already moved on, her hand rising to her mouth as she gasped. “I only just thought about it. You! You got James the interview, didn't you? I take it he didn't know?”
Cassie shook her head.
“What did he say when he read all of this?”
“He hasn't contacted me yet. It is early . . .”
Alys gave her a look. “Don't be insane. Of course he's read everything. With his contacts? Trust me, he's seen it. All of it.”
“Yes,” Cassie said, miserably. “I figured as much.”
“But he hasn't called, or texted, or emailed or . . .”
“Anything,” Cassie finished off Alys's sentence for her.
“Okay.” Alys's mouth twisted as she thought. “So what exactly is going on with you two anyway?
“I don't know.” Cassie shrugged. “It's a bit all over the place. I like him. A lot. But he'll probably never speak to me after this and . . .” She was cut off by Alys's home phone, which was ringing.
“Aha! I bet that's him now!” Alys ran over, a grin on her face, and grabbed it. “Hello?” she said, then, “Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. I'll just get her.” She turned then and Cassie saw that the color had drained from her face, and any hint of a smile had disappeared. “It's your father.” She held the phone out. “He's in New York.”
Beneath Beautiful Page 17
