Beneath Beautiful (13 page)

“How do women do that?” the man next to Plum said.

“She can pick a suit at twenty paces. It's uncanny,” Cameron replied.

Plum merely smiled a knowing smile with her ever-glossy, ever-red lips.

“Here we have Simon, a Chelsea gallery owner and failed artist,” Cameron continued.

“Oh, charming. Yet, true.” Simon took no offence as he shook Cassie's hand with a smile.

“And this is Simon's husband, Marcus, a structural engineer. And just so you know, none of us have any idea what 'structural engineer' means.”

“Also true.” Marcus shook Cassie's hand as well. “Though they're all getting better at smiling and nodding a lot.”

“And finally, we have Neil, an investment banker, and yet another failed artist.”

“The city is full of them. Also failed dancers, if you're looking. You'll need to go out to LA for a truly good supply of failed actors, however.” Neil shook Cassie's hand.

“I'll keep that in mind.” Cassie smiled.

“And, as I said before, Plum,” Cameron gestured, “purveyor of all things dead . . .”

“And almost dead,” everyone at the table piped up together, making Cassie jump. As they laughed she took her seat, already decidedly worried about stepping into a group situation where everyone obviously knew each other very well. Not to mention, she was sure she had done a double take when Marcus had been introduced as Simon's husband. She had no problem with this at all, of course, but it had been noisy and she'd thought she had heard incorrectly and . . . she simply felt so awfully naïve. None of her friends, gay or straight, male or female, were married at all. She'd simply misheard, and now who knew what they were thinking about her?

Plastering an awkward smile on her face in the hope of covering her gaffe, Cassie glanced around the room. As it turned out, this didn't help matters. Not one, but two tables were pointing their group out.
So much for flying under the radar in NYC
.

“Cameron hasn't told you the whole story.” Plum leaned forward on the table with her elbows conspiratorially. “Cassandra here is sitting for him. He's quite obsessed with this new piece. And, as you know, that is not a word I use lightly.”

“Obsessed, eh?” Simon leaned forward in his seat.

“Quite,” Plum reiterated. “Though he'd never admit it. You know what he's like.”

“Very interesting,” Simon continued, looking around the table, particularly at Cameron who only shrugged, giving nothing away.

“Also, I'll have you know I went to university with Cassandra for about five minutes,” Plum added.

“Please, it's Cassie.” Cassie attempted to catch everyone's eye. She couldn't bear a whole evening of being called Cassandra.

“No. Surely you're way too old for that!” Neil turned to Plum.

“Very droll.” Plum flicked him a look from underneath her long, black lashes. “Though you'll have to do better. Cassandra is very posh, and very English. And you know English humor is famed.”

“Posher than you?” Neil replied.

“Sweetheart,” Plum shook her head, “I might have been to Cambridge, but I'm Eurotrash, remember? The nouveau riche.”

“Stop teasing, Plum,” Cameron chastised. He glanced down the table at Cassie. “Ignore her. Now, it's a fixed menu. Is there anything you can't eat?”

“No, I'm fine.” Cassie nodded. She had looked up the restaurant on the way over on her phone, and had to admit the menu looked incredible. As it should, considering, with wine, it would cost more than $400 per person. She had been slightly shocked by this, which again made her young and naïve, she was sure. Was it even right to spend that much money on food? It wasn't something she had ever considered doing before, not ever having had enough money to do so.

They began with not one, but eight amuse bouches, rather like hors d'oeuvres, or tiny appetizers. They were unlike anything Cassie had ever encountered before. The first was three tiny bite-sized creations of tangy cream cheese sandwiched with salty orange roe that sat upon a small rock. By the eighth—several slices of crispy potato held in a large silver bowl, that were to be dipped in an egg emulsion—Cassie was no longer questioning each arrival, or the money being spent, as everything was so delicious.

The evening progressed in a whirlwind of dishes and matching wines, and the longer she sat at the table, the harder it became for Cassie to follow everyone's intimate banter. They spoke about the modern art world, which she knew a little about, though not enough it seemed, because she found herself often confused. At one point Neil admitted to having a daughter just a few months younger than Cassie, which spoke volumes about why she felt so out of place. But it was more than just the years that highlighted the differences between them. What she felt most keenly was how comfortable they seemed in the skin of their opinions, their ability to argue a point eloquently. How quick they were. How smart. And so witty. Occasionally, Cassie felt Plum's eyes upon her, and each time she did, she forced herself to add something to the conversation, though all she really wanted to do was to crawl under the table and hide.

At one point, after a dish of burnt halibut and wildflowers, whilst everyone was loudly discussing politics, Plum turned to her. “Aren't they dull?” she said, over the top of them. “I've been here for two years now, and still have no idea what they're talking about. Politics is so different in the UK.” She turned to the group with this. “Cassie knows all about that, however. Her father is an M.P., you know.”

“Really?” several people said at once, their gaze resting upon her.

“Yes,” Cassie said, instantly cross at Plum for putting her on the spot. She knew very well she was trying to keep this information quiet. “It's true. It's more of a lifestyle choice than a job. Getting there and staying there is quite the ride for the entire family, I'm afraid.”

Perhaps Cameron saw that she didn't want to discuss the topic, because after a few questions had been asked he steered the discussion away. “Cassie has her own talents. She's a famous children's author.”

Cassie wanted to do more than crawl under the table then. She wanted to crawl under the table and die. She was quite sure everyone there had large, intellectual tomes resting on their bedside tables, and here she was about to be made to discuss her adorable stories about talking wild animals gamboling in the woods. Even as she thought this, she knew that this want to run away immediately was about her, not them. About her insecurities, rather than what everyone else was thinking. Because the truth was, she saw quite clearly that no one was thinking anything amiss at all. Everyone was perfectly kind and pleasant, and had been asking her interesting questions all evening as they began to do again now, quizzing her as to how she had gotten her start in publishing, how many books she'd published, and so on. Thankfully, within a minute or two, an absolutely spectacular dish that included a pine infusion being poured over dry ice came along that had everyone
ooh
ing and
aah
ing, and
Badger and Hare
were forgotten.

By the time the six finished their meal with petit fours and something called
kokekaffe
, which involved a shiny copper pot that boiled coffee at the table, Cassie was dying to return to Alys's. She hated herself for it, knowing she'd eaten a superb meal that she could never afford on her own (and she would have been unlikely to snag a table anyway, without Cameron's presence), but the truth was she longed to be on Alys's safe couch, watching something absolutely mindless on TV.

“Did you have a good time?” Plum asked her as the group rose, ready to leave.

“Yes, lovely,” Cassie lied, knowing Plum could see straight through her.

“That's good,” she said, moving on. As Plum passed by, she placed her hand on Cassie's arm, and Cassie tried hard not to flinch at her touch.

Cassie speedily said her goodbyes and made for the restaurant door. Just as she thought she was home free, Cameron caught up with her. Despite the evening spent worrying about this and that, she found that as he caught her hand and she turned back toward him, her body was caught up in his presence. Slightly drunk, with his suit disheveled after the evening spent with his friends, she couldn't help but smile as she looked at him. “I'm glad you had a good celebration,” she said, always surprised at how easy it was for Cameron to steal her breath from her. For a flicker of a moment, she imagined going home with him. Peeling that suit from his body and having her mind taken off . . . well, everything.

“I hope we didn't bore you too much,” he told her, his eyes not leaving hers.

“No, of course not,” Cassie replied. “And the food was amazing.” Really, for a writer, she needed a better vocabulary.

“Tomorrow, then.” Cameron released her hand and kissed her on the cheek, dangerously close to her lips, grazing them with his stubble. The kiss lasted just that second too long, as did his gaze when he pulled back.

They stood, in the moment, both thinking the same thing. Cassie was sure of it.

And then she turned. “Yes, tomorrow,” she said with a wave, and headed for her waiting car.

E
verything seemed relatively normal the next day as the tension between Cassie and Cameron dissipated when work took over once more. Safely ensconced back in Cameron's studio away from the eyes of the city, Cassie felt more at ease.

As she raced back from the long day's session to Alys's apartment in order to get ready for her date with James, Cassie recalled James's words: “Wear something warm”. She began to wonder exactly what she should wear. How “warm” was “warm”? She really hoped they weren't going ice-skating at the Rockefeller Center. She'd been ice-skating last year in London, to the Natural History Museum's outdoor rink—and she'd been hopeless. She'd spent almost the entire time clutching at the walls of the rink in fear, and to be honest, after the many hours she'd spent twisting and turning at Cameron's studio today, she didn't know if she had the strength to do anything energetic this evening.

Compared to their start, which had seen her in tears and recalling hospital rooms she'd really rather never remember, sitting for Cameron today had been a breeze. When she'd arrived at his studio, Marianne had taken her up once more to the room they'd been in yesterday, and the day before—the whiter than white room she'd lost the plot in. When she'd entered the room today, however, she'd burst out laughing at first sight.

Cameron had magically transformed the room. Now the walls were painted baby pink, and the long windowless wall was wallpapered with daisies—a reference to the comment she'd made about Plum, she supposed. The only remaining white was a huge white paper backdrop, like ones photographers used, that stood in the corner she'd been seated in yesterday.

It was a different experience entirely. Now, when she looked out into the room, all she saw was a sea of pink and daisies. There was nothing at all left to remind her of what had happened that first day, which left Cassie free to be poked and prodded and told to keep still, to have photos taken from every imaginable angle, to be weighed, and have her fat ratios noted.

During the day, Marianne had also taken her aside and asked her if, what, and how she would like to be paid, which had taken her by surprise. Not being exactly flush with money, Cassie had immediately wanted to say she wasn't interested in being paid, but had then paused to think about it. In the end, she'd told Marianne that she was fine for the moment, but if the project ran over the two weeks they'd been talking about, then she might have to reconsider, and that also, she might be needing a hotel soon as she didn't want to overstay her welcome with Alys. Marianne had told her not to be shy about asking for what she needed.

Now, as Cassie freshened up her makeup back at Alys's apartment, she wondered if she should have asked Marianne for the one thing she
did
need—for James to get his interview and leave the country before he found out who her father was and why she was here. She'd thought about it yet again as she'd stood in front of Marianne. She’d even tried to form the sentences in her head that she needed to utter for Marianne to make it all happen. But in the end, she couldn't bring herself to do it. If Cameron didn't want to do interviews, then he shouldn't have to. She'd come across something in one of those many articles she'd read initially after meeting him about how his attitude toward the media tended to be all or nothing. He either avoided media commitments completely or devoted weeks at a time to them. Cassie had understood this—she knew how annoying it could be to be dragged away from the creative process. Sometimes interviews needed to be scheduled well in advance, or you could easily lose track of your work and where you were going with it. So, in the end, she hadn't brought up James and his interview at all.

Cassie paused a moment, mascara wand in hand, to inspect herself in the mirror. Honestly, what was she doing? There was part of her that felt that she'd been wrong to agree to going out with James. Not just because of his ties to Cameron and the UK media, but there was something else as well—something that felt more personal, though she couldn't quite figure out why that would be. After all, it wasn't as if she and Cameron were an item, not to mention the fact that Plum had turned turn up at his studio the other day, unannounced . . . Well, she'd be foolish to think they weren't sleeping together, or that there wasn’t still something between them, wouldn't she? And it wasn't as if she were skipping out on sitting for Cameron, either; he'd needed to finish early today as he had a charity event on this evening. Still, she couldn't deny their dancing around each other. Their mutual attraction. She'd felt it again last night, and knew he had, too, just before she'd left the restaurant. It would have been so easy to go back to his apartment with him . . .