Beneath Beautiful

by Allison Rushby

  Cassie's eyes welled up. She stretched a hand out to him, but he only pulled away. “I couldn't tell you. I couldn't tell anyone; don't you see? For a start, I was desperate to keep it all out of the media because of my father, which obviously didn't work, and then . . .” She drew in a deep breath, hoping to keep her tears from spilling over.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it was a very personal experience. I didn't want to share it. It was on the verge of unraveling at any moment, and I didn't want to jeopardize it any way. That might be difficult for you to understand, and I can see why, but that's how it was, James. It was something I wanted very much. For me. Just for me.” She brought her hand, the one James had shunned, to her chest. “Believe me, there were lots of times I was desperate to tell you, but I couldn't.”

  James looked away again for a moment. When his gaze returned once more, he seemed even more tired, as if Cassie had truly drained the last vestige of energy from his body. “Look, it's like I said before—I just feel like a fool. I thought I got that interview because I didn't give up. Because I'd kept at it. Because I didn't let go. But the truth is, you simply plucked it out of the air for me.”

  “James, I wanted to help you . . . What if you'd never gotten the interview? I had to ask. I had to give you that opportunity.”

  “And I'm grateful for that. Don't think that I'm not grateful for it, because I am. But for you to know him like that and just ask . . .” He shrugged, defeated.

  “I was glad I could help you, James,” Cassie said, weakly. She hugged her arms around her in the cold of the evening.

  “Yeah, me too,” James replied, sounding anything but.

  There was a long pause where Cassie wondered whether that was it. The end. However, James finally looked up once more, his gaze meeting hers directly. “I only have one other question.”

  “Yes?” Cassie said, nervously.

  “That night. On the rooftop. Was that about me, or him?”

  Not expecting this at all, Cassie opened her mouth, though no words came. The moment's hesitation was too much.

  “Yeah, I thought so,” James said, with a small shake of his head. “Bye, Cassie.”

  Another two weeks passed by in a blur.

  Despite the horrible ending with James, for the first time during her stay, Cassie was able to take a breath and look properly to the future. She spent her days enjoying the city, and making plans for what might come next. Each day, she scoured the online listings of apartment rentals in London, Jo insisting on scouting for her in the hope of finally getting her to settle somewhere close by. She was, however, picky on what she would scout. When Cassie suggested locations, there was often an audible pout that came over the telephone line from her sister. “Really? You're sure you want me to check that place out? You wouldn't prefer something a bit . . . nicer? Kensington? Chelsea? St John's Wood?”

  When Cassie suggested Shoreditch, Jo was even less diplomatic. “No. Just no. I'm not having my sister living in some awful hipster hovel. I might have banana in my hair most days and enough points on my supermarket loyalty cards to get me to bloody Timbuktu and back, but I still have some standards when it comes to where my sibling lives, you know.”

  Then, very early one morning, Cassie got the call from her sister. “I've found it. I've found it, and I've put money down. There were other people sniffing about, and I just had to do it. It's perfect. I've emailed you some photos. Go and look.”

  Cassie had scrambled for her laptop. She had been about to protest when she saw the pictures.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, it is perfect.”

  And it was. A brand new one-bedroom apartment in a converted church, it was light and bright, and even had a communal garden. Best of all, it was only a few minutes’ walk from Highgate Cemetery, and ten minutes or so drive from Jo's house.

  “It has everything,” Jo gushed. “Appliances, beautiful concrete floors with under-floor heating, storage space, high ceilings. It's just gorgeous. I'm seriously considering ditching this mothering gig and moving in myself. Oh and check out the bedroom.”

  Cassie took a closer look and saw the lovely ornate stonework arch, blending the old building with the new. It was then that she knew it was her home.

  “You can even have a cat. You've always wanted a cat, haven't you? The little pitter-patter of paws?”

  Cassie sighed. She had and Jo knew it. “How much?” she finally asked, flinching as she waited to hear the cost.

  But when Jo told her, amazingly, the price wasn't quite as bad as she’d thought it would be.

  Cassie thought about things for a moment or two. “Well, my agent has just sold Badger and Hare into a couple foreign territories, so I can probably afford it . . .”

  The truth was, she could afford the place. At the moment. But for how much longer, she had no idea. “Oh, God, go on then. Sign my life away. I'll do it. I'll take it.”

  “Well, that works out well, because I already have,” Jo told her.

  “Jeremy's taking my boxes over tomorrow.” Cassie passed the packet of orange Milanos back across the couch to Alys. “Here, take these things away from me. They're like crack.”

  Alys shrugged as she inspected the packet. “We need to keep up our fruit intake. So, you're a big city girl with your own apartment now, hey?”

  “Looks like it. When are you coming to visit? I ordered a sofa bed from IKEA. Now I somehow have to beg Jeremy to help me get it into the right position and put it together.”

  Alys snorted. “Maybe you could tell him you'll arrange a little girl-on-girl action with Plum and Jo?”

  Cassie almost choked even contemplating this for a second. “Never. Going. To. Happen.”

  “Didn't think so, but Jeremy can always dream about it.”

  Cassie laughed now. “I'm sure he has been.” Her phone beeped, telling her she had a text, and she went and grabbed it from the kitchen table. “It's James.”

  “Really?” Alys twisted on the couch, instantly turning away from the show they were watching. “What does he want? Has he finally come around?”

  Cassie shook her head. “He just wanted to let me know his piece about Cameron will be running tomorrow, and that he's arranged for it to be sent to me via email. And he says thanks, again, for setting up the interview.”

  “That's it?” Alys's forehead creased with disappointment.

  “That's it.” Cassie replaced her phone on the table.

  “I can't believe he's still acting like this.” Alys shook her head in disbelief.

  Cassie took a deep breath. “I can. He trusted me. And I lied to him.”

  “No you didn't,” Alys pointed out.

  “As good as.” Cassie flopped back onto the couch and pulled her knees to her chin. “It was a huge deal to him. And I didn't tell him the truth about why I was in the country.” She didn't mention that night, at the party. That James had felt used, and that she had taken out her sexual frustration on him. Which, in some ways, she probably had.

  “But you got him the interview! He might never have had one, otherwise.”

  Cassie turned her head to look at her friend. “But don't you get it? That's what smarts the most. That someone else got it for him. He'd done all that legwork, and then I clicked my fingers and it happened. I understand why he's angry with me. I really do.”

  Alys grunted. “Well, I don't. I think he's being a bloody big baby about it.”

  When Cassie woke up on Saturday morning, James's feature interview was waiting for her to read in her inbox. She scanned it quickly, then went back and read it thoroughly over two cups of coffee, word by word, savoring it. As she read, she could see him toiling over it, struggling with what to say and what to leave out, honing the point he wanted to make.

  Some things he said had her nodding her head in agreement. At one point, James questioned Cameron's heavy use of assistants. “At what point,” he asked, “is the work no longer the artist's work? How diluted can it be before it loses its value?”


  But Cameron had argued against this theory, saying that he was the guide, and that the sort of pieces he was now making took time and specific skills to put together. Skills he did not have, and that if he took the time to acquire, would mean he made nothing at all for years on end. Cassie saw both views.

  Most of all, Cassie agreed with James's conclusion. That he could see why people thought Cameron to be a snake-oil salesman, but that this couldn't be correct, because he believed. In his presence, you could sense this. You could almost touch it. He was honest in his work—he saw the pleasure, desire, and sexuality in each of his pieces, and he desperately wanted you to believe too. Cassie loved this, because she knew it was the truth. Cameron was an open invitation to his work, and to meet him was to instantly understand it.

  After she had finished reading, Cassie texted James.

  I loved it. So much. My neck hurts from nodding at the end of every sentence. Would love to meet up soon and share thoughts . . .

  Cassie waited, hopeful, for a quick reply.

  None came until that afternoon. Cassie had been so inspired by James's feature that she'd headed back to the New York Public Library again to do some work of her own—work sadly neglected of late. There she had sat for hours, diligently attempting once more to write down any and all ideas she could come up with. Anything she had ever vaguely thought might be interesting or entertaining to write. She brainstormed for pages and pages, searching for that truth that James had seen inherent in Cameron.

  That was the problem, she realised, with the manuscript she had sent her agent. It wasn't truthful. It wasn't her. It was what she thought people wanted to read, not what she wanted to write for them.

  She had kept her phone beside her on silent, still hopeful that James would reply, and finally, he did.

  Thanks so much. Means a lot. Again, can't thank you enough for the interview.

  Cassie's heart sank as she read the words—no mention of meeting up. So that was that. Cassie knew then that she would have to accept his decision and move on.

  She packed up her things shortly afterwards, and went to find something to eat. She was halfway through a quiche at a sweet little communal table café when another text came. Her heart in her mouth, Cassie grabbed her phone, hoping against hope that James had changed his mind.

  It wasn't James, however, but Marianne.

  If you have a moment today or tomorrow, Cameron would like you to come in and see an early version . . .

  Halfway through a mouthful of her lunch, Cassie found it difficult to swallow. So, it was ready. The sculpture was ready. Or at least, a version of the sculpture was ready for her to see. Within moments she was out the door of the café and hailing a cab.

  Marianne laughed when she saw Cassie, letting her into the studio.

  “That was quick. It usually is, but this has to be a record.” She pressed the button to close the glass door behind them. As she did so, she gave Cassie a long look. “I think you'll be pleased. Very pleased. I really like this piece. Well, the party line is I like all Cameron's work, but this is . . . special. I honestly connected with this one. I think a lot of women will. Especially younger women.”

  Cassie was so taken aback all she could do was stare. “Really?” She finally managed to get one word out as Marianne took her coat and scarf.

  “Yes, really. And I'll tell you a secret.” She moved in a step closer as she put Cassie's things over her arm. “I have not seen Cameron so excited about his work for some time. This piece is going to be big. I can feel it.”

  Cassie's mouth felt suddenly dry. “Um, wow.”

  Marianne smiled at her. “Go on, then, up you go. He's in the pink room, which . . . oh, you'll see. Just go.” She flicked her hand. “And enjoy!” she called out as Cassie took off, not needing to be told twice.

  Outside the room, Cassie knocked on the closed door, unsure whether she should just enter or not.

  “Come in!” Cameron's voice called out immediately, and she pushed the door open and entered the room.

  The first thing Cassie noticed was that the room was no longer pink and wallpapered with daisies, but pure white again. Cameron lived in a world where things like this could happen, she thought, with a small smile—today pink and wallpapered, tomorrow white. The benefit of having that tribe of assistants, she supposed.

  In front of the long wall of windows was the sculpture itself. She could see its outline—her outline—underneath the large, white sheet. There was something else protruding from the sheet at either end. As if it rested upon a plinth of some sort. At the end of the room, the large industrial lift was open, and Cassie guessed that the piece had been brought up especially for her to see.

  And there, standing beside it, was Cameron. He was quite literally grinning like the Cheshire Cat, which made Cassie laugh. She brought a hand to her chest, still standing just inside the room. “I'm really nervous.” She exhaled loudly, trying to calm herself, and took several steps toward Cameron. “Okay, really, really nervous.” She paused once more.

  “You're going to love it,” Cameron said. “I know you will.”

  “That's what Marianne said.”

  Cameron nodded. “She really likes it. I mean, really. Of course, she tells me she likes everything because she's a total suck-up, which she readily admits, but I can tell she means it about this piece. Everyone loves it. Especially the people here who've met you.”

  Cassie rolled her eyes. “Thanks. So now I don't feel nervous at all.” She could practically hear her heart thumping in the otherwise quiet of the room.

  “Come on.” Cameron beckoned her over, and Cassie came to stand beside him. “You took forever to get here. At least ten minutes. I can't wait much longer.”

  Cassie laughed, and with it, her nervousness subsided a little.

  Cameron bent down and picked up a corner of the sheet, revealing slightly more of the long plinth. Standing up once more, he turned to Cassie. “Are you ready?”

  “No.” She shook her head, wishing she had received Marianne's text before lunch, which now sat uneasily in her stomach. When Cameron began to move anyway, she grabbed his free hand and held on tight. “Wait,” she said, gulping. “Just wait a moment.” She attempted to center herself with a deep breath before turning to him. “All right,” she finally said. “Now.”

  “Oh,” Cassie said breathily, as she stared at the piece before her. “Oh. It's so . . . real.” She released her hand from Cameron's and began to circle the sculpture. “It's so incredibly real. Like a mirror.”

  It was as she had sat all those many hours, the end of the long road of tweaking and adjusting. It was also fully clothed. Scarf. Coat. Boots.

  “I love how deep in concentration you are. See the brow? And I love the sense of how it feels you're just about to turn the page—that you will at any moment. It's as if we're all waiting for it.”

  Cassie shook her head slightly. “It really is just how I was sitting that day. That is, if you put this back in the cemetery and took a photo, I would swear on my life that it was me. Really, I would.” She glanced up. “Can I touch it?”

  “Of course,” Cameron said. “Though the public won't be able to, of course.”

  Cassie nodded, stretching out her hand to touch first her hair, which felt exactly like her own, and then her coat, which was hard to the touch.

  “It's a mixture of the real coat—the sourced one—and the usual polyester resin, fiberglass and so on . . .”

  “But it looks so real.” Cassie brought her hand to her face, flustered. “And the hair?”

  “Yes, real. Dyed, though.”

  Cassie moved in slightly closer to the sculpture to see what page the book had been turned to. “Was I really up to that part?” She glanced up with a small smile. She wouldn't have put it past Cameron to have checked.

  “I actually have no idea. You were past halfway, though. Sometimes I need to take artistic liberties. I'm sure if I'd approached you and started reading over your shoulder,
you would have run off even sooner.”

  “Probably,” Cassie said, witheringly. She stepped back now to take a look from a normal viewer's perspective. It was only then that she thought to ask. “Why the long plinth? Is it to balance it out, because I'm seated? You don't usually do that, though? Your pieces are usually flush with the floor, aren't they?”

  “Nice of you to have noticed,” Cameron said. “Yes. They usually are. This one, however, is not. Because it's different.”

  Cassie turned her full attention to him instantly. “How is it different?”

  “Do you want to see?”

  Cassie paused, guessing at what was coming. “Okay, so I thought I was nervous before . . .”

  But Cameron knew what the answer would be and so proceeded anyway. He brought out of his pocket something small and white, and clicked it. And that was when everything stirred into motion.

  “Oh . . .” Cassie said again, reminding herself to breathe as the sculpture came to life.

  In one seamlessly smooth, soundless movement, her clothes pulled off to either side and retracted to the back of the long plinth, where they closed together once more in formation—her outer trappings—like a shell. Yes, she had guessed, but until she saw it in front of her, she had had no idea of how it would all work. The clothes fit together without a crack to be seen. There had been no hint of what was to come.

  And there, in front, on the plinth, Cassie was left naked, reading her book, oblivious to the world outside it.

  “Oh, God . . .” She attempted to say more, but had no words. She attempted to stem the flow of tears before they started, but there was no hope. Instead, she stood, staring at herself, her eyes brimming over, realising why she had posed naked. It was for this—this juxtaposition of self—exposed and hidden, light and shade, she oblivious, the viewer suddenly self-aware. Everything came together for her here—layers, as James had said. Layers. And we all have so many of them, Cassie thought, especially, as Marianne had said, women. Young women. They would understand this piece. And hopefully come away with something to think about. If just for one moment in their day they could be kinder to themselves, less harsh and judgmental about their lives and bodies and thoughts, she would be happy.