On 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.”
When 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.
Her 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 pu
rposes. 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.”
Cassie almost spat her tea out. “Do you have to be so dramatic? Whoring my way around the modern art world . . . Really? One forced kiss equates to whoring in your world? Goodness, that's the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?” Cassie knew it was immature, but she couldn't help but to bring up the one thing she knew would push her father to the edge.
“Don't you start in on any of that again . . .” he said, under his breath.
Everyone knew exactly what she was alluding to—the string of affairs he'd had while he was still married to Cassie's mother. As for Cassie, she watched Rose closely during this exchange. She doubted her leopard of a father had changed his spots. He never could resist anyone who gave him any attention. Especially if they were female.
Rose, however, gave nothing away and continued to sit demurely, sipping her tea. Of course, her own children never behaved like this, or so Rose liked everyone to believe.
Cassie tried to keep her voice even. “I just don't understand why I'm expected to be a paragon of virtue when you yourself can do as you please. I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm sitting for Cameron Callahan, and that is all. The papers have simply beaten it up into something else, as they always do. And now it's done, that's the end of it.”
Her father watched her closely. “Good. Then it's all over. You'll be coming home.”
“After I've finished sitting for Cameron, yes,” Cassie said. “I'm planning on getting an apartment in London.” She fixed her eyes on the uneaten sandwiches and waited for the onslaught.
“Wait.” Her father looked at her incredulously. “So you're saying you're not coming back now, but are going to continue with this farce? You're going to continue to hang around these . . . people.” He waved a hand as if he could instantly dismiss them.
“Well, around Cameron. Yes. I don't see why not. I'm doing nothing wrong. I'm hurting no one . . .”
Her father barked out a laugh here. “Hurting no one? Is that what you really think?”
“Yes.” Cassie stared back at him coolly.
“And what of my professional reputation?”
“It shouldn't be based on me in the first place, should it?”
Her father shook his head. “I honestly don't know how you can say that.”
“Because it's true,” Cassie said, firmly, “I tried my hardest to keep it all out of the media, but I couldn't. Tomorrow there will be something else going on, and it will all be forgotten. You know what the tabloids are like. It's simply sensationalist rubbish. No one will care in the morning.”
“I don't believe that for a second,” her father retorted. “I'll be hearing about it for years.”
Cassie was beginning to lose her patience. She sat her teacup back in its saucer with a resounding rattle. “Well, I'm not talking about what your golf buddies are going to rib you about, am I? I'm talking about what your constituents will remember. Do you honestly think they'll care a year from now? I seriously doubt it.”
“But it's not going to be forgotten, is it?” her father continued under his breath, his face reddening now that he wasn't immediately getting what he wanted. “If you take your clothes off for this man like a cheap slut, he'll then go ahead and show his bloody statue in art galleries all over the world, won't he? How naïve are you, for God's sake? Can't you see he's nothing more than a charlatan, tricking young women into stripping for him?”
Cassie rolled her eyes. “Well, that's probably what they told women who sat for Renoir, Goya, Picasso, and Klimt, isn't it? I'm sure their fathers called them naïve sluts and whores as well. Thank goodness they went ahead and did what they wanted to do anyway.”
Rose sucked her breath in on hearing this.
Cassie ignored her and continued. “For the first time in my life I've found one small thing I'm prepared to go out on a limb for. That I need to do for me. Something meaningful. And whatever you think of Cameron, you can't deny he is a famous artist. Hugely famous. This sculpture will last forever.”
“So you think you're the Mona Lisa now?” her father scoffed.
“No,” Cassie said, reaching down to grab her bag. “I don't think I'm the bloody Mona Lisa.” She stood up, trying not to shake as she put her bag over her shoulder. “I simply think I'm a grown woman who can make her own decisions. So thanks for stopping by, both of you, but as you can see, I'm just fine.”
Cassie didn't pause until a cab had been hailed for her and she was safely inside it, pulling away from the hotel. As they drove away, she rested her head back on the seat. She wasn't sure how much more her heart could take. She needed to take stock, to clear her head, and think about her next move. There was also something that had popped into her head during her meeting with her father that she wanted to consider further.
“To The Met, thanks,” she told the driver.
Soon enough, Cassie was standing on the steps of The Met once more, only meters from where she'd stood with James the other day. How things had changed, she thought as she selected his number from her contacts list. She wasn't surprised to get his, “You have reached . . .” message. It seemed no one answered their phones in times of crisis these days. She watched as people walked up and down the stone steps on either side of her. She knew James had read the articles, as Alys had said. Of course he had. Now, she sent him a text instead of calling back and leaving a message.
I'm so sorry, James. I wish I could have told you everything, but I couldn't. To set things straight, there's nothing between me and Plum Tarasov. I'm simply sitting for Cameron. I hope you can understand.
As she pressed send, Cassie knew there were a hundred other things she wanted to say to James, but she let her message fly away anyway. Then she paused, phone in hand, and thought about the other day, when James and she had stood on these steps together. In a way, like Cameron, he'd been encouraging her to grow up as well. To be truthful to herself in what she felt and wanted. Well, maybe what she'd told her father back at his hotel was a good start . . .
Cassie wasn't sure how long she sat and stared at the woman in the bathtub, but many people came and went as she sat on the wooden bench opposite the piece and gave their thoughts. She listened to what they had to say with interest. Their thoughts included, “I love it. Who hasn't done that?”, “I can so relate. I might ask her to move over”, to “They paid money for that?” and “Seriously, I always want to bring clothes for Cameron Callahan's sculptures. It's freezing in here”. Cassie almost laughed out loud at this last one—they were right. It was freezing in here. At least the woman in the bathtub could be forever warm under her bathwater.
She wasn't entirely sure what she was doing back here. Just that she felt a need to be surrounded by Cameron's work in this moment. To sit amongst it and imagine what she would look like as one of them—people giving comments about her. Who she was. What she meant. What they thought of her.
She still had no real idea of Cameron's entire vision for the piece, and she thought about James's key words again that Cameron had shared with him. Layers. Electronic. She still had no idea what he could have meant.
When her eyes began to wander, she brought out her phone once more and texted Alys.
You busy? Am downstairs moping around the Cameron Callahans.
Alys texted back almost immediately.
Will come down and tend to your wounds.
Alys, clad in the museum's loose version of a uniform, arrived in minutes, Cassie waving wanly at her as she entered the room. Just as she was about to sit down on the bench beside Cassie, a member of the public stopped her. “Excuse me,” the woman asked. “Can you tell me . . .”
“Just through that door and to the left.” Alys pointed as the woman thanked her and scurri
ed away.
Alys sat down now, looking altogether depressed. “It's always the bathroom. Just once I'd like someone to ask me where some fabulous piece of art is. But that's the human race, I guess. So, how'd it go? Is your dad dragging you home?”
“No. I told him I'd be staying and seeing this to the end, whatever he thought. That was, of course, after he'd called me a slut and a whore. Oh, and naïve. A naïve slutty whore.”
Alys's eyes widened. “Nice. Still, it's not really about you though, is it? He's freaking out about his work.”
“Of course. It's always about him. All the time. It's the Andrew Tavington, M.P., show on the Andrew Tavington, M.P., channel, twenty-four hours per day. It always has been.”
Alys nodded. “And have you heard from James?”
“No,” Cassie replied. “I tried to call, but got his voicemail. I sent him a text in the end.”
“He hasn't answered my calls, either,” Alys shared, glumly. “Don't worry, he'll come around. He's not the kind to bear a grudge, and you did get him that interview. He must have realised that much.”
Cassie bit absentmindedly at a hangnail. “Mmm.”
“So, now what?” Alys continued. “You go on your merry sitting way? But wasn't there some kind of problem? You told me things might not pull off. That it was all a bit precarious . . .”
Cassie nodded, mutely.
“But why?”
This was, of course, the million-dollar question.
Cassie scanned the room once more, searching for an answer. It was only then, as she stared at each piece of sculpture in turn, that she saw clearly what was holding the piece up . . .
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