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?”
Like 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?
This was why he'd asked her the question about the Badger and Hare critics. Because he understood. More than she did, no doubt.
Ignoring her grumbling stomach, Cassie leaned forward once more, closer to her computer and clicked the images tab again. She was met by Cameron’s art—a sea of flesh. Limbs of many hues, a rainbow of breasts. There was no doubt that it was NSFW territory, but was it fair to call it porn as so many did? After all, one man (or woman's) porn was another's erotica, wasn't it? It was a fine line, and Cameron Callahan seemed to enjoy dancing a jig upon it, whipping everyone into a frenzy.
Cassie right-clicked on a few pictures and inspected them more closely, one at a time. Several were bordering on obscene, though one stood out as actually crossing that line for her, and she minimized it immediately—she didn't feel she needed to see what was obviously an oversized replica of Cameron in the middle of a sexual act with two other women. Others were beautiful—the female form in all its glory.
A marble bust caught her eye. Not a marble bust in the traditional sense, but a real bust—as in, breasts only. Even in photographic form, she longed to reach out and touch it, and would have been more than happy to have it in her own home to admire lazily at her leisure. Another piece, a Tussaud-like pair of waxy-looking disembodied legs sitting on a chair, intrigued her. What was that about? Were all these women the ones from his “ivory tower” in Manhattan? Apparently he had these muses who were crucial to his work, who often lived with him. But did this make him a slick, shiny sex addict? Cassie had no idea. Her gut, however, told her that wasn't the man she had met today.
Either way, she thought she sided somewhere closer to the “love” rather than “hate” crew. She could feel his art challenging her to decide what was acceptable. To think about her boundaries. And wasn't that the role of an artist, after all?
After quite the pathetic dinner of cheese and crackers, and a much-needed large glass of Burgundy pilfered from her grandmother's supply, Cassie called her sister, Josephine, in London.
“I met someone today,” she said, skipping all social niceties. “Someone famous.”
“No, really? How exciting,” Jo gushed. “All I did was take the children to the park, it being school holidays and all. You know, I've seen Gwyneth on Primrose Hill before. Oh, and Gwen Stefani and Sienna Miller. Or, at least I think it was Sienna Miller. So, who was it? Did you get a picture?”
“Sort of.” Cassie thought of the picture Cameron had taken of both of them on his phone. “Or he did. It was Cameron Callahan. I met him in Père Lachaise.”
“Shit.” Silence descended over the phone for a moment, then, “Oh, sorry darling,” Jo said quickly and Cassie could picture her patting a small blond head passing by. “Very rude of me.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Cameron Callahan! You met him? Really? You lucky bitch. I know not everyone thinks so, but I say he's sex on a stick.”
“I hope this is me you're talking about.” Someone grabbed the phone—Josephine's husband, Jeremy.
“Of course it is,” Cassie said with a laugh. “Everyone thinks you're sex on a stick, Jeremy. Really, it's all Jo and I talk about.”
“And rightly so,” Jeremy replied before Cassie heard the phone being wrestled back again.
“Now Jeremy's manhood is out of the way,” Jo said, “tell me all.” Cassie could hear her clambering up on one of the silver Tolix chairs at the kitchen bench. “You know how dull my life is. You owe me this. Don't disappoint your big sister. This is your role in life, you know—to have wild sexual exploits, and tell your married big sister all about them.”
Cassie thought again about both the bust and Cameron's form with those two other women. She shivered.
“Oh, come on. Stop holding out on me. What did he say? What was he like? Wait, you didn't actually do anything with him, did you? Tell me you did. You did, didn't you? That would be fabulous story for the grandkids . . .”
Cassie zoned out until her sister stopped rambling. Finally, there was silence. “Can I tell you what happened now?”
“Yes, sorry. I'll shut up. But make sure you start from the very beginning. And don't skip.”
So, Cassie started from the very beginning, explaining that she'd been reading, and that he'd approached and asked for directions.
Jo couldn't help herself at this point. “Please don't tell me he wanted to know where Jim Morrison was. Or Oscar Wilde. Even Sarah Bernhardt would be a disappointment.”
“He wanted to see Théodore Géricault,” Cassie b
urst in.
“Oh. Oh, swoon.”
“And Victor Noir.”
“Oh, well, Victor Noir is fun. We can forgive him Victor Noir. Now, tell me he took you behind a tree near Géricault and made a woman out of you . . .”
There was part of Cassie that recognised she would have liked to say this was so. “Sorry, no.”
“What then?” Jo demanded. “You took him to see Géricault, then what?”
Cassie felt her face overheating. “Then I realised who he was, panicked and ran for my life,” she mumbled. But, of course, Jo heard every word.
“Oh, Cassie, you didn't! How could you not know who he was?”
Cassie stood up from the chair she was sitting in and lay down on the floor. She covered her eyes with one hand. “I don't know. I don't know. It was staring me right in the face the whole time. I even thought he looked familiar. And the black clothes. He always wears black clothes. I only remembered that afterwards. He even spoke about composition. It just didn't occur to me. Oh, God, I want to die.” She peeped through a crack in her fingers. Yes, the world was still there. Unfortunately. She groaned into her sister's telling silence.
Finally, Jo spoke. “So, you missed your opportunity with Cameron Callahan. That's okay. I'm sure there'll be other hugely famous, undeniably sexy artists of our time as rich as Croesus who'll cross your path.”
Cassie groaned again.
Jo sighed. “Look, come and console yourself over here for a few days. I'll take you Gwyneth hunting on Primrose Hill to cheer you up. We'll use the children as bait. I've often thought Gwyneth and I could be best friends, you know? We've got so much in common. She likes green smoothies, I like milkshakes. She likes activated almonds, I like salted cashews. See how similar we are? All we need to do is engineer it properly. So, say you'll come. But only if you promise not to take any of your storage boxes with you when you go. I've put them all in the spare room and the monster-in-law is threatening to stay as soon as they're gone.”
Not fancying another chance meeting in Père Lachaise, Cassie spent the next morning unproductively at her computer, dithering, rather than doing any actual work. Jo's comment about the boxes had reminded Cassie of her need for an apartment, but exactly where and exactly how she was going to pay for it, she didn't know. Eventually, she took Jo's advice and booked a return Eurostar ticket from Gare du Nord to King’s Cross for late that afternoon, and then stepped out to her favourite nearby café for her usual morning coffee. It wasn't until she turned the corner and had waved to Laurent, the waiter, who was serving someone outside, that she saw him and froze.
“Don't run.” Cameron stood up from the small iron table.
This time, Cassie didn't. Instead, after a long pause, she took the few steps over that she needed in order to converse with him.
“They told me you'd be here about now. And here you are.”
Cassie frowned slightly. “They?”
“Well, I saw the direction you ran in yesterday, and I asked around. Everyone knew you when I showed them your picture on my phone.”
“And they just told you where I lived?” Cassie glanced up and down the street as if everyone had betrayed her.
“I have a way of asking nicely.”
“You mean of getting what you want.” Cassie sounded suspicious.
Cameron shrugged. “I find people like to give you what you want if you ask nicely.”
Laurent brought her usual coffee over to the table. “Please, sit.” Cameron gestured. “If only for a minute.” He sat back down and smiled up at her. “It would be rude not to.”
With a twist of her mouth, Cassie found herself sliding into the seat opposite him.
Silence fell over the table for a moment or two. As the pair sipped their coffee, Cassie trying to ignore the many suggestions Jo had put into her mind. Eventually, she sat back in her seat, waiting for Cameron to make the next move. She was afraid if she tried, she might say something completely ridiculous, scare and bolt off again. Either that, or throw herself across the table, ripping her shirt open.
Something was making her head spin. It could have been either the caffeine or the charisma.
“I won't bother with chit-chat.” Cameron set his cup back down on its saucer. “I'll just put it out there.”
“This is a public place, Mr. Callahan. You might get arrested if you just put it out there in your usual fashion.” Cassie couldn't help herself.
Cameron chuckled, turning his cup in a slow clockwise circle. Suddenly he looked up, quite serious once more. “I came to see if you might be interested in sitting for me. When I saw you in Père Lachaise . . . I had an idea. I'm quite taken with it. To the point where I barely slept last night. I'd like to follow up on it, if I can. If you'll let me.”
Cassie attempted to take this information in. As she did so, she remembered reading several bits and pieces yesterday evening about Cameron's work practices. About how he worked on one piece at a time, often entranced by it, thinking about almost nothing else until it was finished. And if it didn't meet his exceedingly high, perfectionist standard of what he thought it was going to be? Well, he threw it away at whatever cost. Sometimes this meant millions of dollars down the drain. He'd almost bankrupted one of his investors in his early days.
“I gave you the inspiration to start creating something in particular?” Cassie sounded surprised when she finally spoke.
“Yes. You sound as if you couldn't possibly believe me.”
The truth was, it was difficult to believe. “I'm honored,” Cassie spoke again. “Or I am, unless the piece you have in mind is something along the lines of you, me, Théodore Géricault and things that paintbrushes should never be used for.”
Cameron raised an eyebrow. “It's not, but would that be so bad? Do you think what I do is wrong?”
“No, it's not that. I just don't fancy Théodore Géricault. Or his paintbrushes.”
“Trés amusement.”
Cassie paused, trying to work out what she really thought about all of this. “I suppose I want to know why me? Not in a fishing-for-compliments sort of way, but in a what-you-saw kind of way.”
Cameron considered her question. “It's not every day you see a woman sitting atop a two-hundred-year-old monument engrossed in a book about nineteenth century whaling. I don't want to sound like a stalker, but I watched you for some time before I approached you.”
“Oh.” Cassie wasn't entirely sure what to make of this. Her eyes met his for a fraction too long before breaking away. “Is this a sex thing?”
“I don't know.” He sounded bemused. “Would you like it to be?”
Cassie fixed her gaze on the table, actually scared to look up in case he saw how very badly she would like to drag him back to the apartment right now. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of guessing this, she forced herself to count the cracks in the tiled tabletop and said nothing.
“Despite what you hear, I don't go around sleeping with every woman I meet,” Cameron said, breaking the silence between them.
Cassie glanced up for a fraction of a second. “Just every second woman.”
“And is that so bad? I love sleeping with women. Don't you?”
“I have no idea.” Cassie lifted her head now.
“Really?” Cameron feigned surprise. “Maybe you should find out.”
Cassie was about to object, but then realised he may very well be right. She took a deep breath. Between her sister and Cameron, there were a lot of suggestions being thrown at her lately. Suggestions that . . . well, weren't conducive to also thinking about work. Or finding an apartment. Or anything else she really should be doing. “What are you suggesting? Regarding this . . . sculpture? How would it all play out?”
“You must tell me that,” Cameron answered evenly. “The time and the place are all up to you. But what usually happens is I would need to get to know you better. We could . . . I don't know . . . we could go somewhere. Do something. You could show me your England, if you liked.”
This all sounded vaguely like a hugely expensive trip she had read about that Cameron had taken with one of his muses. To Disneyland, of all places. The pieces he had fashioned after that had been a dazzling mix of sculptures that at one angle looked like theme park rides and, at another angle, another sort of ride completely.
“I . . .” Cassie started, and then decided upon another tangent. “Don't you need to get back to your studio in Manhattan? To your . . .” Part of her wanted to say floozies, as her mother would have, if she were still alive. Part of her hated herself for even thinking this. It was basically slut shaming, which was something she abhorred. Why was she picking a fight with this man who had just told her there was something inspiring about the way she sat in a cemetery, reading a classic novel? Why was she railing against that? “. . . your muses.” She finished her sentence off half-heartedly.
“Not really.” Cameron looked at her as if he could read her every thought. “All of my friends are free to come and go as they please, whether they live with me or not. We're not beholden to one another, whatever you might have read in the papers.”
“I'm sorry,” Cassie apologized. “It's just . . . a very big ask. When I don't entirely know what might happen. And the other thing is, my father . . .”
“Is a Member of Parliament. I know.”
Cassie reeled. Was there anything he didn't know? Was the man omnipotent? How did he know her father was an M.P.? What else had her grandmother's neighbors divulged?
“Not to mention you're a children's author. And a young one, at that. What are you, twenty-one? Twenty-two?” Cassie nodded at this. She was almost twenty-two. “Or, should I say, you were a children's author, if Badger and Hare have truly been given their pink slip,” Cameron continued. “But you're right, it's a very big ask. Maybe weeks of time, on your part. But we would never do anything you weren't comfortable with; you do know that, don't you? You know you would always have complete control.”
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