Beneath Beautiful (24 page)

“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 yet?”

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.”

O
n the way to her father's hotel, Cassie called Jo to fill her in.

“So, he's over there,” Jo said, with a sigh. “I did wonder if that's what he was up to when he went into silent mode. I'm sorry, he wouldn't tell me what he was going to do. He made me give him Alys's number—he thinks his phone is being tapped. You do know that there are more articles out there than those three, don't you?”

“No,” Cassie said with a groan. “I take it they're no better.”

“If you're waiting for someone to paint this in a rosy Impressionist light, don't,” Jo replied. “Not to mention Jeremy is all over me like a rash. I had to explain about Plum, and now he's revealed he had a thing for her at university and I've done him wrong because he could have been lucky enough to score a threesome, which I keep telling him
would never have happened
. . .” She emphasized these final words, and Cassie heard a click as another handset picked up on the line.

“I'm very hurt no one told me about this.
Very hurt
. It's every young man's dream,” Jeremy said, before hanging up once more.

“I'm seriously about to vote him off the island,” Jo said between obviously gritted teeth.

“Sorry,” Cassie squeaked. “Really. But I'm almost at Dad’s hotel. I'd better go.”

“Yes, well, good luck with that.” Jo sighed. “You'll be needing it.”

W
hen Cassie entered her father's hotel, she found she needed to sit down on one of the couches in the sparkling glass lobby. The anticipation of the showdown to come was making her legs feel weak, and her heart thumped loudly and skipped a beat every so often, which left her feeling altogether breathless. Not to mention the fact that she was finding it hard to focus after her lack of sleep. How she thought she was going to take on her father, a world champion arguer, she had no idea.

As she sat, watching the world pass by, Cassie tried to predict what her father would say. She guessed what it would be—she'd heard all the lines before. There would be something about his “standing”. Something about being “disappointed”. There would be something about “expecting more from her”. At least this time there would be no threats as to money. That had always figured largely before, when he'd wanted to control her at school and at university.

She went to stand up, then sat back down again, exhausted. It was only then she realised she hadn't eaten anything this morning. Not that she thought she could stomach it now, but her body was crying out for fuel. She dug about in her bag and found some mints. Thankfully, ones containing sugar. It wasn't exactly fuel, but was better than nothing. And, right now, anything at all would do.

A few more minutes passed, and Cassie felt a little better. She stood up, feeling slightly less frail and crossed the floor, heading toward the bank of elevators. Suite 806, her father had said. Not room 806, of course—suite. It was so like him to specify something like that.

As this thought crossed her mind, Cassie caught sight of herself in a mirror, her face twisted and ugly, and she wondered when she had begun to despise her own father. The truth was, she had only a few happy memories of him. Only a scattering of remembrances from holidays abroad, and once she remembered he had helped make a snowman when it had snowed early in the season when the girls had been home for Christmas. He had always driven them to school at the start of each new term, in order to see and be seen. And without fail, he had turned up to both her and Jo's award ceremonies at school, their graduations, and her book launch. Anything that might make him look good. Cassie didn't count this as his “being there”—that was more about her “being there” for him. Her mother had had more time for the little, more important things—reading, baking, shopping—things like that. But this was only in the school holidays, when she and Jo were home from boarding school. How difficult could it be to sustain interest in your child for a set number of weeks per year?

Quite difficult, it seemed.

In the middle of the marble-tiled lobby, she paused, standing still, and she thought about what Cameron had shown her yesterday—where he came from. He'd been trying to guide her on her way; she saw that now. She'd seen it at the time, but now his lesson crystallized in her mind. She needed to let go of what her father thought about what she was doing—what everybody else might think about what she was doing—and do what she felt she needed to do.

And she needed to do this. She did. There was something inside her that knew she needed to grasp at this opportunity like it was a vine hanging above her quicksand of a life. She wasn't going to let anyone put her off. Not even her own father. This, she saw, was what Plum had been talking about. This was digging deeper.

Squaring her shoulders, Cassie made a split-second decision. She would not go up there—to his “suite”. She was tired of being treated like a child, at his beck and call to be told off whenever he felt she deserved it. She was a grown woman now, financially independent (at least, the way things were going, for the next few months, anyway) and no longer under his hold. Anything he had to say to her, he should be able to say in public, without ranting and raving and yelling at the top of his voice in a tantrum to rival a two-year-old's.

She caught the eye of a porter passing by, and asked him where she might get something light to eat. He pointed her in the direction of the hotel's café, a glassed-in terrace that ran along the side of the building. She thanked him and made her way over there, where she secured a table, took a quick look at the menu, and ordered tea for three plus a few sandwiches, and had the forethought to pay at the time (nothing would be worse than giving her father a lecture on independence, and then flouncing out without paying). And then she used the hotel phone to call up to her father and invite him and her stepmother down. For tea. Like civilized adults.

H
er father entered the terrace first, of course, pausing to scan the almost-empty room for an audience, despite the fact that he was in a country where absolutely no one knew who he was. Her stepmother trailed behind in her usual fashion, which said a lot about their relationship. Cassie stood up as they approached, though she wasn't sure why—whether it was to greet them, or so she could bolt from the room at any moment, which was what her body was screaming at her to do.

There were a few people present, sipping their tea and coffee, and because of this, their happy family charade continued.

“Cassandra.” Her father approached and kissed her on the cheek, as did her stepmother, Rose. “Too busy with your new life to come upstairs?”

He didn't waste time in having his say, showing Cassie immediately that she had made the right decision in remaining downstairs.

“No,” Cassie said, sitting down, and gesturing that her father and Rose should do so also. “I haven't eaten, and I thought some tea would be . . .” She was lost for words.
Nice
,
soothing
, and
British
all seemed wrong. The tea arrived at just that point, and the three of them stared at it before Rose sat forward on her seat, breaking the tense silence.

“Shall I be Mother?” she said, beginning to arrange the teacups and strainers.

Cassie glanced away, hating Rose in that moment, and hating herself even more for hating her because she knew full well it wasn't Rose she was railing against, but her own situation. Of sitting here, summoned to her father's presence like a naughty child, and having tea poured for her by a woman who sat beside her father but wasn't her mother, and who “always tried so very hard with you girls, despite everything”. No guessing whose words those were.

Cassie took a deep breath and said what she'd come here to say. “I'm sorry about the fuss in the newspapers.”

It was all he needed to get started. “I simply can't believe you did this.” He shook his head, lowering his voice. “How do you think this looks for me? To have a daughter cavorting with Cameron Callahan and in some kind of . . . affair with Plum Tarasov. For God's sake, I know her father.”

Cassie prepared herself. “I'm not 'cavorting' with Cameron Callahan, I'm sitting for him. There's quite a difference. And I have no interest in Plum Tarasov. She set that picture up for her own purposes. To get back at me for something that happened at university. I know that's not what it looks like, but it's true.”

“No, it's not what it looks like. It's not what it looks like
at all
,” her father hissed. “What it looks like is that I have a daughter who is whoring her way around the modern art world.”