Beneath Beautiful (27 page)

And there was James.

He looked slightly rougher around the edges than usual. As if he'd been getting even less sleep, which was highly possible. It was only when Cassie took him in from head to toe that she felt the dull ache of missing him more acutely. The ache that had been there in the bottom of her stomach since reading the articles, and it hadn't gone away.

“Hi,” she said, noting that James's eyes seemed incapable of meeting hers for very long. “Should we . . .” She gestured outside, wondering if he'd wanted to take a walk.

“No,” he replied, remaining standing in the open doorway. “This will only take a minute. I just wanted to . . . you know . . . clear the air and everything.” He looked away again as several people walked past.

“James.” Cassie's shoulders fell. “I know you're angry . . .”

James shook his head. “I'm not angry. I just . . . I can't believe you didn't tell me. You know what that interview meant to me. You had plenty of opportunity to tell me what was really going on, and you didn't. I just feel like an idiot. I mean, there we were, at The Met, and I was blathering on in front of Cameron Callahan's sculptures . . .”

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.”

A
nother 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.

“J
eremy'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.”

W
hen 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.