Beneath Beautiful (11 page)

“So how did you meet him?” Freya asked.

“In a cemetery,” Cassie said. “In Paris. Just by chance.”

“Paris.” Freya's eyebrows jutted upwards. “Fancy.”

“Well, not really. It's just that my grandmother . . .” Cassie started, but was interrupted by the phone in the room.

Freya jumped up to get it. “Hey, Marianne,” she said, when she picked up. “Oh. Uh-huh. Yeah, okay. Great.” She hung up again.

Whatever it was, Cassie knew by the tone of Freya's voice that the news was far from great, and as soon as she turned around her expression confirmed this thought.

“Plum's here. And she's headed our way. Which is not good. She hates me.”

“Wait. Plum Tarasov?” Cassie sat up in her seat. “But they broke up.” She'd read about this too.

“They did. Ages ago. But it doesn't stop her from dropping around. Ugh. She really does hate me, you know.”

“But why?” Cassie asked. As far as she could see, Freya seemed reasonably easy to get along with.

Freya sat back down in her armchair again with a
whump
, seeming a whole lot heavier this time. “Well, I'm not like her, am I?” Freya flipped a hand. “I didn't go to a fancy college, or anything like that. But you're smart and you're English, right?”

Cassie nodded, then realised exactly what Freya had said. “I mean, yes, I'm English.”

“She'll probably love you. Be careful, though. She eats babies for breakfast.”

Cassie raised her eyebrows at this, thinking it could well be true. She knew all too well who Plum Tarasov was. In fact, they had been at Cambridge at the same time, Plum reading History of Art to Cassie's English, though Plum was finishing her degree as Cassie was starting hers.

Even at university, Plum had stood out. Half Russian, tall, with pale skin and a perfectly sophisticated dark long bob, even then she had favoured that blue-red lipstick she always wore. In hindsight, Cassie had always wondered if it were a sign of things to come, though at that point, when Cassie saw her several times per week, she hadn't yet found her niche—the one she would become famous for.

Even as a student there was no denying Plum Tarasov was special. She was a person whose very presence demanded attention. There was a kind of magnetism to her, which wasn't just about her beauty (her mother was an English model and her father, everyone said, was a Russian mafia boss, though Cassie took this with a grain of salt, considering what people said about her own father . . .). Watching Plum from afar once, Cassie remembered thinking that she reminded her of nature's cruelties—a sort of beautiful, but deadly poisonous, flower. The kind you so wanted to touch even though you knew it was a very bad idea. The galleries weren't far behind in noticing her, either. It didn't take long before she found that niche of hers and everyone started clamouring to show her work. The niche . . .?

Blood. Copper, resin, and blood.

It wasn't human blood, which was something—mostly cow's blood, apparently. From slaughterhouses. To be fair, the artworks she produced out of these three materials were stunning. Large, backlit pieces of resin, they varied from rich, deep, almost black shades of red, to bright, fresh, light reds. Supposedly they symbolized life, death and regeneration, though they mostly had the effect on Cassie that saw her wanting to turn vegetarian for at least a few days after viewing one.

“Anyway, brace yourself. She should be here any second,” Freya said.

But it was too late to do anything. The door was already opening.

“M
ind if I join the party?” Plum's dark eyes flashed between Freya and the now-standing Cassie.

Cassie wasn't aware there
was
a party. “I'm . . .” she began, before Plum interjected.

“Cassandra Tavington,” she said, closing the door behind her.

Cassie wasn't sure she had ever seen Plum this close up before. Scarily, she was even more beautiful at this distance. Not in a perfectly-matched-features kind of way, but in a dark, angular, interesting way. And that trademark lipstick that suggested everything her work stood for—it was unnerving, to say the least. But not as unnerving, it seemed, as what came next.

“I remember you from university.”

Cassie's eyes widened with surprise. “You remember me?”

“And your sister, Josephine. Well, I remember your sister better. She's my age. We . . . ran into each other more than a few times back then.”

Cassie wasn't quite sure what to say. She hadn't known Jo and Plum knew each other more than simply in passing. “Oh,” she finally answered. “Well, Jo lives in London now. She's married and has two children.”

“Yes, so I'd heard.” Plum shrugged slightly, her glossy black hair swinging slightly with the movement. “Still, thank God those university days are behind us. All that drama. I'm sure Jo would agree.”

Again, Cassie was speechless. She had quite liked university, despite the odd bit of drama, and thought Jo had, too. She was surprised to hear Plum hadn't enjoyed herself. She'd always looked quite content with her groupies. To fill the awkward conversational gap, she began to open her mouth to say something about how much she loved Plum's art, thinking she really should mention it, but then closed it again, knowing Plum would see through her in a second. Meanwhile, Freya looked on at the exchange with interest as Plum ignored her completely.

Plum shook her head slightly as she looked around the room. “Always with the white. I swear it's ruining my eyes.” She stalked over to the fridge, opened it, glanced inside, and then closed it again. “I remember your father was an M.P., or should I say
is
an M.P.?”

Cassie's heart began thumping in her chest. She took a step forward. “He is. Though I'm hoping . . .”

“That he won't find out, or that the media won't find out?”

“What's an M.P.?” Freya asked.

Plum's eyes flickered over to Freya momentarily. “Think Senator.”

“Oh, okay,” Freya answered. “Wow.”

As for Cassie, she was trying to work out whether Plum's words were meant as a statement, a warning, or some kind of threat. “Both,” she finally answered Plum's question.

“I didn't know you and your father were close,” Plum mused.

“We're . . .” Cassie attempted to explain, but then stopped, because she couldn't. Why
was
she bothering to hide this from her father and the media? Not to spare her father's feelings, that much was certain—sometimes she wasn't entirely sure he had any—no, it was because it was easier this way. Less fuss was always easier where her father was concerned. They'd always had an uneasy relationship, which boarding school and her mother's death had made even more strained. He was remarried now, but the real problem was not Cassie's stepmother—a well-groomed, well-educated brunette who knew her “place”, which was apparently supporting her husband in his every endeavor—but the fact that he had always been and would always be married to his image first and foremost. Now that she was an adult, Cassie's relationship with her father was based mostly on him bragging to journalists about his two Cambridge-educated daughters, her being an author, and his beautiful grandchildren (who truth be told he rarely saw, other than for a few hours at Christmas).

“Look,” Cassie finally told Plum, “it's not that I think I'm doing anything wrong, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything. I want to tell my father in my own time.”

On the way over in the cab, Cassie had been wondering if she should flat out ask Cameron to do James's interview in the hope that James would then simply return to London. She was worried that if he didn't get his interview soon and found out about her relationship with Cameron that he might opt for a different story entirely. Namely, hers. She'd decided not to ask, however, as she thought doing so might interfere with Cameron's work. Now, with Plum raising the idea of the media once more, she grew increasingly nervous about James's presence and her two worlds colliding. The thought of asking for his interview was raised in her mind again. It might be a good idea after all.

Plum smiled. “Believe me, I do understand. My own father was none too pleased I was hanging about with Cameron Callahan, as you can imagine. It was . . . difficult for me to stand firm. And to become the woman I needed to be.” She stood in the middle of the room now, owning it. “So, Cameron seems very taken with this idea of his. Did he tell you how pushed for time he is? He really shouldn't be adding anything in to the exhibition at this point.”

Cameron hadn't told Cassie this of course, but Cassie wasn't going to admit as much. What did Plum care, anyway? Why was she even here? She and Cameron weren't an item. Why was she worrying about what he did with his time and exhibition?

The phone rang once more and Cassie, for one, was glad for the interruption.

“Cameron's ready and waiting,” Freya said, after speaking to someone on the other end of the line for a moment or two. Marianne, most likely.

“Right. I'd best be heading back out then,” Cassie said, surreptitiously wiping her hands on her jeans. “I'll, um, see you again soon, I expect. Thanks for the drink, Freya.” She glanced toward the untouched container.

“Yes, let's catch up soon, Cassandra. We've so much to talk about.” Plum gave her one last long look as Cassie escaped as fast as humanly possible through the door.

“A
nd now the beautiful Cassie is with us, the madness truly starts,” Cameron said theatrically as Cassie entered the large room. His attention immediately made her feel as if a spotlight were upon her. The walls were painted white, as they were downstairs and large, thick glass windows showcased a view of the High Line outside. In various parts of the room, several assistants scrabbled about, furiously sorting and moving things.

“I hear we're under some time pressure.” Cassie began to walk toward Cameron, but then her eye caught some of the items the assistants were placing on a steel table against a wall. “They're my things!” She walked swiftly over to the table. And they were. Her scarf. Her coat. Her book. She touched the items in turn. “But how did you . . .?” She glanced back over at Cameron.

“I didn't. They're not yours.”

“Yes they are.” She picked up her coat, knowing there was a small hole in the inside right pocket. Turning the coat inside out, she began to search for it, but on closer inspection it wasn't there. The book and her scarf were the same, as were the pair of jeans and the shirt. “I don't understand.” She looked up.

“We sourced them.”

Cassie frowned. “But why didn't you just ask me for mine?”

“Well, at that point I didn't want you to know what I was thinking of. Also, often there are things that need to be done to them. The fabric needs fibers taken out of it, things need to be cut up,” Cameron explained.

Cassie
hmpf
ed, feeling as if her privacy had been invaded. “Can't you just clone me and get on with things?” She eyed Cameron from across the room.

Cameron laughed. “It might be a good idea. You were just mentioning the time pressure, after all . . . Still, I've been told I have exactly two weeks to tell everyone what it is that I want.”

The truth was, Cassie was amazed Cameron's assistants had been able to source such items. The coat was at least three years’ old, and the book had originally been her grandfather's. To search for things that were so specific—she truly knew he meant business now. Cassie didn't break her gaze for a second.

“And what is it you want?” She was surprised to find the bold words exiting her mouth. She didn't care who was in the room, or who heard. Right now, it was just her and Cameron. And the first few sketchy pieces of the sculpture that would be.

“I know exactly what I want,” Cameron answered her, standing quite, quite still. “Exactly.”

The door to the room opened. “Are we right to go?” someone asked, breaking the spell.

Cassie turned her head to see a group of three people, one with a very large camera indeed, one with some folded items of linen, and one with a box of small metal instruments, and what looked like tiny plastic containers and miniature plastic bags.

Cameron followed her eyes. “Don't worry. We're not going to pull any of your teeth. Not yet, anyway. Watch out for that around day nine.”

“H
ow do I look?” Cassie twirled around after changing into the simple, shapeless white tunic and skin-colored underwear she'd been handed. “New York Fashion Week, here I come.”

“It's not the most glamorous piece of clothing, I know,” Cameron offered.

“It's fine,” Cassie replied, shaking out her hair that had been loosened from its high ponytail. “You've probably noticed I'm not the most glamorous dresser anyway. Sure you've got enough lights on there?”

She came over to the corner of the room everyone was busy in, the one that had been lit to a bright, white light while she was getting changed. A large wooden box had been placed squarely in the middle.

Suddenly, Cassie knew exactly what Cameron had in mind. It was the height of the box, combined with the copies of her personal items that she'd viewed only minutes before that gave it away. Without asking, she walked over to the box and sat on top, her arms outstretched, holding a book that did not exist