Beneath Beautiful (2 page)

To be honest, Cassie was shocked to her very core that her brain was even offering up such thoughts. It wasn't that she was a prude. There had been boyfriends. Even one or two (fine, three) drunken one-night stands while she'd been at university. But nothing like this. Nothing had been at all like this. She had never met someone before and felt such an instant attraction. Never. Before now, she wouldn't have thought such a thing was truly possible. It was the stuff of soap operas and cartoons. But she couldn't deny it, because there it was. She could barely stop looking at him and had to keep reminding her eyes to dart away.

“He's this way.” Cassie shook her head, telling herself yet again to stop ogling the poor man. She pointed and took a few steps off in the right direction, her boots crunching on the gravel path lined with Chestnut trees. She glanced behind her to see him following, and waited the few steps until he caught up. “Is there anyone else you wanted to see? In case they're on the way? You really don't want to see Jim Morrison, or Oscar Wilde, or Sarah Bernhardt?”

He twisted his mouth slightly at this. “Well, there was someone . . .”

“Yes?” Cassie's eyes met his, interested. “Who?”

“The thing is, I thought better of asking you. It's a bit . . . axe-murderish, as you might say.”

“Really?” Cassie's eyebrows shot up. She stopped walking.

“Not literally. But, you see, it was Victor Noir I wanted to visit and . . .”

Cassie threw her head back and started laughing.

“See?” He laughed along with her. “How do you walk up to a woman and ask directions so you can go and rub a dead man's cock?”

“L
adies first.” Cameron gestured toward Noir's crotch.

“It's ridiculous! Honestly, it's just a . . . fold in his pants.” Cassie didn't sound convinced.

“Funny looking fold, if you ask me.”

The pair stared at the “fold” for a moment or two. It had been rubbed to a high shine by superstitious visitors to the cemetery who hoped to strengthen their sex life, or who were worried about their fertility. With such ardent attention, there was no denying its healthy gleam.

“When I die from a duel gone wrong, I'm going to request the same. Fabulous top hat, a pair of good looking boots, and a really huge boner that people travel from all over the world to rub.”

Cassie laughed. “Oh, yes. Me too.”

“Well, great minds, and all that. You're not superstitious? Don't want to stick a flower in his hat?”

“The last thing I need is a husband within the year,” Cassie snorted. She could barely work out what to have for dinner each night, let alone what she was looking for in a life partner. “Not that I think that would really happen,” she added quickly.

“All right, then. Look, how about if we touch it together? There's more than enough room.”

Cassie chuckled. “True.”

The pair crouched down, one on either side of Noir's outstretched, supine body.

“Ready?” Cassie said, after a moment or two.

“Take your time. He's not going anywhere.”

“Guess not.”

The pair reached out at the same moment, their fingers touching by accident on top of the mound giving Cassie a thrill she immediately tried to suppress, considering what they were doing.

“Farewell, old friend.” Cameron patted the verdigris-free area. “I'm sure you were loyal and true, and gave many hours of happiness to your master.”

Cassie stood up with a drawn-out sigh. “What is it with men and their dicks. Really? Someday I'd like to know. Don't you ever get over having one?”

Cameron stood up, grinning. “If you give me your email address, I'll let you know if it ever happens.”

“I won't hold my breath.”

“I'd say that's probably for the best.”

Cassie strode on in order to hide her flushed cheeks. “Now you really do sound like an axe murderer.”

“A
badger and a hare?” Cameron paused slightly in his step on the path as they continued on their way to Géricault's monument. “You know, I think I might have bought one of those for my niece the last time I went through Heathrow.”

Cassie adjusted her scarf as the afternoon cooled. “Everyone says that.” She didn't sound impressed.

“What? Don't tell me you're one of those writers who detests being sold in places like Heathrow and thinks all writing is worthless unless you're a drunk, louche, garret-living type earning nothing?”

“With TB?”

“Now you're overdoing it.”

Cassie smiled. “No, of course not. Just the opposite. It's only that I'm wary when people mention my work like that. Heaven knows I got enough flack for it all at Cambridge. You see, it's okay to write awful, depressing literature that no one understands and not make any money from it, but writing about a badger and a hare cavorting in the English countryside and selling loads of copies in airports and the like is akin to selling your soul.”

“To?”

“Well, we never really got that far. Usually they just spat upon me, ground a heel in my face and moved on.”

“Sounds civilized,” Cameron said. “But, wait.” He reached for his phone. “I must take a picture of this. For my niece.” He moved toward her, placed his arm around her waist and held up the camera. Cassie smiled automatically and waited for the click, hoping he wasn't going to make a move on her in a cemetery. Then hoping desperately that he might after all.

As Cameron pulled away and inspected the picture, he smiled. “She'll love that.” He stuck the phone in one of his large coat pockets, then moved his attention back to Cassie as they strolled away once more. “So, these books . . . Really you should have been a poor, single working mother from some London housing estate to give the newspapers a better story?”

“Exactly!” Cassie threw one arm up. “I should have been someone they could champion. And then everyone would have been happy.”

“But you wanted to write the books . . .”

“At the beginning, yes. I just wanted to . . . oh, I don't know . . .” Cassie stared down at her now dusty boots, looking for an answer. “I suppose I wanted to believe in that magical place. That place that Pooh Bear, Milly Molly Mandy, Mary Poppins and Alice might really exist in. But that place doesn't exist anymore. And it probably never will again. That England is gone.”

“No place better to try and find it than in Cambridge,” Cameron replied. “You chose wisely there, at least.”

Cassie nodded. “There are glimpses. Fleeting ones. I think that makes it more depressing, though, not less.”

“You're the last of your kind. A dying breed. As your name might suggest. Cassandra. Surely you have one of those fancy, double-barreled surnames to go with it?”

Cassie looked at him sharpishly, but then sighed. “No, I don't. But you're close enough. My surname's Tavington. Cassandra Tavington. It's embarrassingly English.”

Cameron smiled at this. “Surprisingly that works very well. A herd of buffalo, a murder of ravens, an embarrassment of Englishman. Is that what you're doing in Paris? Hiding from your Englishness?”

Cassie laughed. “You must be joking. Paris is probably the worst place in the world to hide from your Englishness. No, I'm homeless now I'm no longer a student. I'm staying with my grandmother. Well, I'm staying in her apartment while she's in the south of France enjoying the final rays of summer.”

“And you're here writing
Badger and Hare Take a Road Trip to Gay Paris
?”

“No. No more
Badger and Hare
. I've had enough.”

Cameron interjected. “Of
Badger and Hare,
or of
Badger and Hare
's critics?”

Cassie stopped walking, an alarm bell set off in her mind again. She knew him. She was sure of it. “I don't know,” she said, slowly.

He took a step closer toward her, his entire being focusing in on her all of a sudden, making the rest of the world fade into nothingness. “Because those are two very different things. It's important that you know that.”

She held his gaze for a moment, trying to work it out. Did she know him? If he wasn't from Cambridge, was he from the publishing world?

“I agree,” she finally answered, though she couldn't have entirely sworn as to what. “I think. I mean, that is . . .” Taking a breath, she attempted to collect her thoughts. “Anyway, I'm writing something else now.”

She didn't mention it was terrible, and awful, and that her agent had told her that the few thousand words she had sent her basically stank like her grandmother's beloved
Epoisses
cheese. It was based on a group of students at Cambridge, and her agent's exact words had been, “No one wants to read about shitty weather, ferrying tourists around in outdated water-based vehicles and eating ramen noodles for dinner every night, even if there is a lot of sex and bickering in between.”

It was back to the drawing board, or, at least, to her laptop. Though Cassie had sadly found there was little inspiration to be found staring at her laptop—thus, the re-reading of
Moby Dick
in
Père Lachaise
.

“So, um, here we are.” Cassie turned on her heel. “Cameron, meet Théodore. Théodore, Cameron.” She introduced the pair lightheartedly, her attention drawn up above. Atop the monument was the calm, reposed gentleman, with his paintbrush and easel at the ready for all eternity.

It was only when she didn't receive a ready answer that her smile slipped slightly and she swiveled in the leaf litter. Turning back, she realised Cameron was closer—far closer—than she had thought.

And he was not at all interested anymore in Théodore Géricault.

He stood, silently, not leering, but regarding her. He made no move, no lunge like other men had (boys, really), when standing in such an intimate space. He contemplated her not in a sexual way, but in a knowing way, and in that moment Cassie felt as if they had never met, but had been aware of each other's presence, and bided their time knowing this meeting was inevitable. Around her, although she did not look, Cassie suddenly had a heightened awareness of the leaves rustling above, birds chirping, and footsteps on the gravel path. Her gaze held his until the shock of what was happening slipped from her body, and her breathing slowed to mirror his.

They remained in this hypnotic state for she didn't know how long—breathing in, breathing out. It felt a more intimate act than any sex she had ever had, and because of this, there was part of her that wanted to take that step back—to move away and break the spell would be easier. But something made her stand her ground—breathing in, breathing out—that ever-present awareness flowing between them.

“Excuse me.” There was a crunch of gravel, and then a couple squeezed by them. “Oh, look, 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 . . .

“Oh, shit.” Cassie, who rarely swore, took one step back then another, almost falling over the ornate iron railing that surrounded Géricault's monument, her hand instantly rising to her mouth. “Oh, shit. The black. Théodore Géricault. The interest in composition. I've only just worked out who you are . . . You're Cameron Callahan, aren't you?”

L
ike a small child, Cassie turned and ran. Ran from the cemetery. Ran to her grandmother's apartment on
Rue Robineau
. Once safely locked inside, she distracted herself in a long, convoluted string of searches on Google.

By the time evening fell, Cassie had read until her eyes were tired, and learnt that there were two quite decisive factions when it came to Cameron Callahan: those who loved him. And those who hated him.

Those who loved him spoke of his magical presence, of him being a mystical, meticulous genius, eager for life and for love. He was seductively provocative, but always respectful to women within the bounds of his erotic hyper-realist art.

Those who hated him said he was nothing more than a charlatan. An antifeminist in feminist's clothing. An evasive, fickle, purveyor of porn. A sex addict who locked up innocent, naïve women in his ivory tower in Manhattan. A slick, shiny, money-and-publicity hungry bullshit artist interested only in obtaining a global audience.

It was quite the mouthful.

What shocked Cassie more than anything, however, was learning he had one hundred and fifty assistants working in New York City for him, producing his work under his direction. He was more of a factory than Andy Warhol's Factory. Less an artist, and more an industry. With this thought, she pushed back from the bright light of her laptop in the now almost-darkness of her grandmother's dining room and sat for a moment, a small voice inside her telling her this dismissive thought wasn't quite fair. Why was his art not art if people helped him make it? She had an editor, didn't she? Not to mention a copy-editor, a proofreader, book jacket designers, and a sales and marketing team. Hadn't she whined to him about all the naysayers at Cambridge? All the people who had liked to inform her that what she did, what she made (she hesitated to say “art”, but got the feeling he would have told her that's exactly what it was), was not good enough?