Christmas at Tiffany's (19 page)

Henry was right. She had to see this. Her experiences here were so narrow, so confined to the glossy world of fashion and magazines and blow-out brunches with Bas, that she’d seen scarcely anything else of the city. And when all this was over and she was settled . . .
somewhere
. . . how could she claim to have experienced New York if she hadn’t seen and felt for herself its most vivid scar?

She got off at Broadway and walked along Liberty Street towards the viewing platform. Ground Zero.

So this was it, where history had happened. But as she approached, it wasn’t the ground that caught her eye. It constantly struck her as a great irony that New Yorkers – patrons of the greatest skyline in the world – walked through their city with their eyes down, or, at best, raised to shoulder-level. The buildings that so characterized them – branded them, even – weren’t designed for looking up at; they were designed for looking down
from
. It was all about the view, scaling the great heights.

But here, at the bottom tip of the island, everyone walked with their eyes up as the sky blossomed like a flower, blooming through the new sixteen-acre gap between the remaining towers that tried to scrape it. It was an irresistible pull to the eyes away from what was left on the ground to what once had been.

Still, she knew she had to look down eventually. To a certain extent, she already knew what she was going to see. She had seen pictures of the moonscape left in the wake of the attacks – the craters and dust and rubble – but there was no evidence of that now. What she saw instead – what her ears had already been telling her, even as she stared at the sky – was that it was now a building site. There were men in yellow vests and hard hats, megaphones and JCBs. Russet-steel girders and electric blue cranes were creeping along the city floor, stretching out and colonizing the space already, until soon the only place left to go would be back up again, alongside the other buildings.

Everywhere people around her were taking photographs. An Asian couple asked her to take their picture as they huddled together, holding hands in the wind and smiling brightly. It took her four attempts before she managed to hit the right button at the right time and not catch them blinking.

‘You’re better in front of the camera than behind it,’ a voice said behind her.

Cassie looked round. Luke Laidlaw was leaning against the wall, his camera, as ever, in his hand.

‘What are you doing here?’ Cassie asked accusingly.

‘I live four blocks from here. I come here every day.’

The Caribbean tan suggested otherwise, and Cassie scowled at him.

‘I was due to have breakfast in Windows the day of the attacks,’ he said, offering an explanation even though she hadn’t asked for one. ‘I was running late, and . . .’ He sighed heavily. ‘Well, I’ve made it something of a personal project to document the rebuilding. I come here every day and take pictures of the onlookers, the workmen, the site. I always stand in the same spot for that – the one you’re standing in,’ he said, smiling.

Cassie didn’t take the cue to move, but she saw his eyes were glittering. ‘You seem amused.’

‘You look so different from last time we saw each other, that’s all.’

There was a heavy silence. ‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ Cassie said, her cheeks beginning to flame at the memory of what he’d said to her in Southampton, the things she’d done. She began to walk away.

‘But why not? You looked so cute. I’m just sorry I didn’t recognize you.’

Cassie stopped dead. ‘
Cute?
’

‘At the Halloween party. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just didn’t recognize you. Selena told me afterwards, but you’d gone.’

She gave a peremptory laugh. ‘Rudeness is the least of your worries when it comes to what I think about you.’ She started walking away again.

‘Oh? What does that mean?’ he asked, hurrying along after her.

‘You’d better take your shot, Luke. You wouldn’t want to miss a day.’

‘I’ve already taken it, actually. Broke one of my cardinal rules and took a step back so that I could get you in it.’

Cassie shook her head but carried on walking.

‘So tell me – what is it you think I am, if not rude?’ he persisted.

‘You mean, not
just
rude.’

‘Okay, not just rude.’

‘I think you’re sleazy.’

‘Sleazy?’

‘Yes.’

‘What makes you say that?’

Cassie shot him an evil look. ‘You know why. Those things you said to me.’

‘What? That you’re beautiful?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not talking about it.’

He walked alongside her, matching her stride. ‘Well, I’m not going till you do. I don’t see what was so terrible. I had a great time.’

‘Oh, I bet you did! Telling me to imagine I was having
sex
. I mean – what the hell? Who do you think you are, going round and talking to women like that?’

‘Every photographer says that,’ he shrugged. ‘It’s the professionals’ equivalent of “say cheese”. It brings something into the girl’s eyes when there’s a little flirtation. It just gives a bit of edge.’

He pulled her by the elbow so that she swung back to face him. He looked down at her, the flecks of his stubble glinting like metal shavings in the sun. ‘But it obviously put
you
on edge. I’m sorry.’

Cassie crossed her arms. ‘You knew I’d be more nervous trapped in there on my own with you.’

‘You weren’t trapped. It’s not like I locked the door and pocketed the key. And I knew you’d be more flustered with everyone staring at you.’

‘And then plying me with champagne.’

One glass. To make you relax. Was that such a crime? I’d seen less uptight cardboard.’

‘Tch, you think you’re sooo witty!’ Cassie cried, throwing her hands up in the air, circling away from him on her heel.

‘Come on, let’s have lunch and make up.’

‘What!’

‘Let’s eat. I want to take you out.’

‘I want to take you out too . . . with an AK-47.’

Luke burst out laughing. ‘You’re so funny.’ He leaned in a little closer. ‘Look, I can help, you know.’

‘Help what?’

‘Put things right for you. I know things still aren’t going well for Kelly. You need someone with a little influence. I’ve got contacts – a call here, a dinner there.’ He straightened up. ‘Come on. It’s only lunch.’

‘That’s only blackmail.’

‘It’s only lunch. And then I’ll show you the pictures.’

He took her to a ‘great little burger joint’ three blocks away. He had suggested Japanese at first, but one look at Cassie’s face had been enough to tell him the girl needed something bloody – and not just his head on a plate. Now she was sitting in his apartment, on a black suede sofa, watching as he unzipped various leather portfolios, looking for the one which contained images of her.

She looked around apprehensively as he chatted away. Why had she agreed to come? She didn’t give a damn about what the photos looked like.

‘I knew the second I saw you at the show that you had the look. I just couldn’t believe no one else saw it.’ He turned round and smiled. ‘This campaign is going to be a sensation.’

‘That’s not how Selena sees it. She thinks it’s all a joke.’

‘Selena,’ he said, pausing a moment. ‘She’s a beautiful girl.’

‘Mmm, you do tend to become one of the most famous models in the world for that reason.’

He sat on his heels and shook his head. ‘But she’s using far too much. She wasn’t right for this job. Bebe wanted innocence. Purity. No one too knowing. I mean, didn’t she say the entire collection was based round a—’

‘Dagestani teenage bride on the run – I know! My God, if I have to say that sentence
one
more time in my life . . .’

Luke laughed, resuming his search through the files again. ‘Bebe wanted her because she’s the money shot – that’s natural. There’s a security that comes from using the big girls. You can’t blame her. But right now, with everything hanging in the balance . . .’

His voice faded out. It didn’t need to be said that everything hung in the balance because of her.

He found what he was looking for and stood up. ‘All I’m saying,’ he said, indicating for her to join him at a white-box table across the room, ‘is that
this
is when she needs to push the boundaries. This industry runs on a sheep mentality – one person leads, everyone else follows – and the only way to bring them back is with something new. You might have messed up for her, but you’ve put it right with this, trust me.’ He patted the folio.

‘I did it for Kelly, not Bebe,’ Cassie said curtly. ‘And certainly not for you.’

He stared at her, locking her eyes with his, and she immediately regretted being so combative. His full attention disconcerted her. He was still a fiendishly attractive man, even if she did hate him.

He didn’t bite back, but began scanning her face as though mathematically breaking it down into equations. No one had ever looked at her like that – really
looked
at her.

He unzipped the wallet and pulled out the prints. ‘I’ve been working on these a lot in the darkroom. I went back to film with you. The light up there that afternoon was so hazy and diffuse. I didn’t want it to sharpen up or flatten. I just loved the way it warmed your skin . . .’

He fanned them out on the table.

Cassie stared down at herself. The sunlight blazed back at her, scorching her, warming her, lifting her out of the day’s blue November light into a sun-drenched summer’s evening.

‘I can’t believe they were only taken last month,’ she murmured, forgetting to be hostile.

‘I know. Who’d believe it, right? I’ve been picking up the yellow and orange notes. I wanted it to feel really . . . ripe. To catch that moment when a girl blossoms into a woman. You’ve still got that, somehow.’

Cassie picked through the prints slowly, gazing at the red silk dress with the twisted strap falling off her shoulder, her hair seemingly swept over by a lover’s hand, the setting sun their only witness in the darkening room.

‘I can’t believe it’s me,’ she whispered.

‘I can.’ His voice was low. He brought his hand up to her hair, twisting it off her shoulder to echo the picture, and she felt his finger run down the groove at the nape of her neck. ‘Look at your eyes – you can see the hesitancy, the caution, like you want to let go but can’t. That’s what I saw in you. It’s what Selena’s lost.’ He placed a finger on her cheek and turned her to face him. ‘I’m not the bad guy, Cassie. I just know the right girl when I see her.’

The way he was speaking to her so intimately was just like it had been that day when she’d stood embarrassed and awkward, wondering what to do or how to pose – when he’d started to follow her around the room like a lover, giving slow chase as he trapped her in corners and straddled her on the floor, the camera stripping her back, revealing her to him as his eyes never left her, and he had made her feel beautiful, desirable – all the things Gil had taken away from her. He had kept telling her how much he wanted to touch her as he leaned over her – into her – for the shot, and she had begun to want it too, but his hand had only smoothed her hair or fiddled with a strap or lifted her chin just a fraction. It was a game to him, but he had turned her on. And when, in that one moment, he had seen it through the lens and had dropped the camera down . . . she had fled.

His desire had scared her then and it scared her now. He was too much for her. Too good-looking, too experienced. She was used to men talking to her about poor pheasant drives and peat burning, not the curve of her cheekbone or the flecks in her eyes.

But she couldn’t look away from him. Where would she run to this time?

She was staying, and they both knew it.

Cassie felt his finger hook around the belt loop of her jeans and he pulled her closer to him, so that their bodies were just inches apart. She held her breath, too terrified to move, as his hands slid down her arms and locked around her wrists. Slowly, he pulled them wide, pushing her back so that she was lying against the white box, spread beneath him – but he didn’t kiss her. Letting go of her wrist, he ran one hand flat down her body – firm, sure – between her breasts, down her stomach, and before she had time to react, to protest, he unbuttoned her jeans, sliding his fingers inside them, inside her.

Cassie cried out at his slow, silky touch. She had never been touched like this before – expertly, unselfishly – and she saw the lust in his own eyes grow as she writhed on just his hand, his fingers quickly finding the spot that made her gasp with pleasure, rendering her helpless to his stroke. She was completely at his mercy as he began to move his fingers more quickly, more firmly, pushing his hand against her, forcing her to his rhythm, until he took her over the limits of her own threshold and she arched against him, lost and found all at once, pulsing, crying, won.

There was a long, loud gasp. ‘Noooooo!’

Cassie giggled. ‘I’m afraid so!’

‘Turn around. I want to see the back.’

Another gasp.