Beneath Beautiful

by Allison Rushby

  Her.

  Cameron had said from the start it was all down to her. And she had remembered his words that evening at Plum's function. It had been so clear then. She was the muse. She had the power. She decided what would be. It was she, and only she, who decided what this sculpture would be. Not Cameron, not her father. Her. It was all down to her. What she had needed to do all along was do that digging. To find her core. To be whom she was meant to be, and be strong enough to take control. To stand up for who she was, and what she wanted.

  How had she forgotten this when it had been so clear in that moment? It had been so obvious to her that night, as she had stood before Cameron in Plum's installation. She nodded to herself as she saw why—it was because she had found it so difficult to believe. She wasn't used to being the one who made the decisions. Who led. She hadn't been prepared at that point to stand behind her convictions. Well, she was now. She had to.

  Cassie sprung up from her seat. “It's going to be all right. But I have to go,” she told Alys. “Right now.”

  “Cassie, it's good to see you.” Marianne let her in to Cameron's studio, and took her coat and scarf. “I'm not sure Cameron's expecting . . .”

  “He's not,” Cassie said. “But I do really need to see him, if it's possible.” Her heart was beating at an incredible pace, making her breathless as she considered what she was about to do.

  Marianne nodded. “I think he's in his apartment. I'll ring through and check, if you give me a moment.” Having said this, she stepped over into her office at the very front of the studio.

  Cassie watched as Marianne spoke on the phone, finally looking over and gesturing to her. She held up three fingers and pointed upstairs. Taking a deep breath, Cassie went over and hit the “up” button.

  When Cassie exited the lift, a large, steel door, set flush in the windowless wall, greeted her. She pressed the doorbell and took a step back, and the door opened almost instantly.

  “Cassie!” Cameron smiled warmly at her. “Come in. I'm making coffee. Which I'm guessing you might need.”

  Cassie exhaled as she entered Cameron's apartment. “In my state, coffee's about the last thing I need.” She paused at the entryway, which opened into a large space. “Um, wow. Lucky you.”

  Cameron laughed at her reaction.

  “Really, it's beautiful.” Cassie turned full circle, drinking in the apartment properly. Taking up the entire top floor of the building, it was edged entirely with large, full-length glass windows, the top half seemingly able to be pushed open for air. White blinds, retracted at the moment, were available to be pulled across somehow for privacy. Along the front of the apartment ran a large wooden deck enclosed by wooden benches, whilst in the middle a square “garden” of sorts held what looked like greyish black rocks and tough, hardy grasses, that swayed in the breeze.

  The apartment had a minimalist, industrial look to it, though it wasn't of the harsh, concrete-type that Cassie had never cared for. She could tell that it hadn't been “styled” as such—she detested places like that. Instead, all over the place things caught her eye that she knew had been selected by Cameron himself—pieces of art, books, and furniture that suited the setting, but was also comfortable.

  “Sure you don't want a coffee? Or something else instead?” Cassie looked over to see Cameron in the kitchen, which was really a very simple stainless steel bench and appliances that ran along one wall.

  “Maybe a mineral water?” Cassie asked, attempting to calm herself by breathing more slowly. It didn't work. She only felt more panicked—like a fish out of water.

  “Coming right up.” Cameron opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle. Before long, she was cradling the cool ice and mineral water filled glass in her hand.

  “Come and take a seat.” Cameron led her into the lounge room, where he took one couch and Cassie took the other. The long, low coffee table was scattered with all manner of art and architectural magazines, sketchpads and books.

  “So,” Cassie brought up the subject that had to be discussed, “you've seen the articles.”

  “Yes,” Cameron answered.

  Cassie struggled to read his thoughts. “Are you . . . angry about them?”

  “God, no. Why would I be? There's nothing there I'm surprised about. Though the photo of Plum and you together was rather . . .” He began to grin. “What's the word . . . inspiring?”

  Cassie pointed a finger at him. “Don't start. Really, I can't take it.” But she couldn't help but laugh, which made her feel a little less nervous. The first of the day. However, the laughter wore away quickly as she remembered her father's words.

  “Ugh!” she groaned then, frustrated. “I just had the dressing down of my life from my father. I am, apparently, a slut and a whore. Oh, and let's not forget naïve. I always forget that one.”

  “Well, after being called a slut and a whore, naïve does rather fail by comparison, doesn't it? If it makes you feel any better, I don't think I've ever met anyone less sluttish and whorish, if those are even words.”

  “And naïve?” Cassie inquired.

  “I don't think you're naïve.” Cameron's green eyes met hers from the opposite couch. “Just young. And there's no crime in that. I'd give all kinds of things to be young and inexperienced again.”

  “Really?” Cassie stared at Cameron, the established, lauded artist, sitting in his grand apartment at the pinnacle of his empire, his assistants busy working away downstairs.

  “Of course. Does that really surprise you? It's not about vanity, not at all. It's simply an amazing time of life. You see things differently. You're less . . . oh, I don't know . . . angry about things. Less over life in general. And let's not forget, you can drink a lot more and not pay for it the next day.”

  Cassie laughed again. “Stop entertaining me. I can't bear it today.” It was, however, a welcome reprieve from her apprehension.

  “I do have one question, though.” Cameron sounded thoughtful now, staring at the coffee table before glancing up. “What is it? With Plum? What's really going on?” His eyes searched hers.

  Cassie frowned, not quite following. “I told you yesterday. The thing with my sister . . . at university.”

  Cameron shook his head. “No. It's more than that, isn't it?”

  Cassie thought for a moment before shaking her head slightly. “I don't think so.”

  Cameron's head moved to one side as if he accepted this, but didn't quite believe it. Still, he let the discussion slide, and silence descended over the pair once more.

  It was in this pause that Cassie finally summoned the courage to say what she had come here to say. She took a sip of her mineral water before broaching the subject. Placing her glass back down on the coffee table, it clattered, making her jump slightly. Reminding herself to try and remain calm, she spoke. “I need you to tell me something honestly.”

  On the opposite couch, Cameron focused in on her. “Yes?”

  She didn't move her eyes from his for a second. “There's more to the sculpture, isn't there?” It wasn't just the things James had told her about—the layers, the electronic element.

  Cameron considered her for some time. “Yes.”

  Cassie's heart began to pick up speed once more. “But you can't tell me what.”

  His answer came faster this time. “No.”

  “It has to come from me, doesn't it?” She knew the answer to this question, but asked it anyway.

  “Yes.”

  A long pause followed before Cassie spoke again, weighing up the situation. Weighing up her decision. Finally, she replied. “I know what it is. I know what I have to do now. Not for you, but for me.”

  Adrenalin pumped around her body wildly for the second time that day, but faster now. So fast it made her as breathless as if she'd climbed several flights of stairs. This time, however, the feeling was not due to a fight-or-flight response, but fuelled by anticipation of what was to come.

  Slowly, Cassie reached up and began to undo the small butto
ns on her caramel-colored blouse.

  For a brief second in time Cameron watched on, mesmerized. But then he came to life once more, sitting forward on the couch. “Stop. Cassie, you need to stop. As much as I'd like you to continue, as much as I'd like to help you out there, you've got to stop.”

  Cassie paused, fingers set to open her third button. “Why?”

  “Because it's not what you want. I don't want you to do this if it's not what you want to do. You've said all along you don't want to.”

  “I've changed my mind,” Cassie said, defiantly.

  “Yes, because you want to show your father.”

  “No!” Cassie stood up now. “That is not true.”

  “Isn't it?” Cameron replied, standing up as well. He came over, and after releasing her fingers, began to re-button her shirt with eyes that said he'd rather be doing the exact opposite. “There's no need. Either way, this piece will work. I'll make it work.”

  But Cassie's hands caught his. Tight. “No, it won't, because then it won't be what I want it to be. Don't treat me like a child. That's why I changed my mind—because I'm not a child anymore. The truth is, I haven't changed my mind at all. I wanted to do this—all along I wanted to do this. Right from the moment I met you, when I didn't know who you were. You felt that immediate connection—I know you did. And then, when I did know who you were, I thought too hard and too long about everything. I simply wasn't brave enough to follow through with what I wanted. And now I am.” She took a deep breath. “The thing is, I don't care what anyone thinks anymore. I want to do this for me. I need to do this for me. Like I said before, not for you. For me. Not for the glory, or the bragging rights, or to show my father I'm a big girl now, but for something else entirely.”

  She could see the change in Cameron's expression as she watched him. Finally he knew, really knew, that she was serious. It was exactly as Plum had said. He would know. He would know in an instant. And now he knew. He saw.

  “I just . . . I need this so badly. I need it as a marker in my life. I need this as my Before and After. I need a visible reminder of that change in me. Do you understand?”

  Cameron stared down at her, entranced, his hands dropping from her blouse. When Cassie received no answer, she reached up herself, taking his shirt instead, bringing him closer to her, searching his gaze until she found her answer resting there, waiting for her. She saw then that he truly did understand—he knew her now, and understood where she was coming from. He believed what she had just told him—that she was doing this for herself. That's all she had wanted all along. Her true, authentic self. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet it had been the hardest thing for her to show him, just as it had been the hardest thing to show herself.

  Her eyes never once left his as her hands returned to her blouse and slowly, methodically, unbuttoned the garment until it fell open, revealing her skin-colored bra underneath. She shrugged the blouse off, the item falling to the floor.

  Off came her ankle-length boots, then she shimmied out of her black skinny jeans, until finally, she stood in only her underwear. She paused then to release her hair from its loose bun, shaking it out and letting it fall around her face and down to her shoulders, the way it had been that day in Père Lachaise.

  Next, her bra, which she reached behind and unclipped and then let fall forward, until she caught it with one hand and threw it onto the coffee table.

  There was no hesitation in removing her last item of clothing, which she slipped from her body and then stood, naked, before him.

  Before the artist.

  Unashamed, unadorned.

  There had been no primping or preening for this moment. No shaving, or plucking, or worried twists and turns in the mirror. No preparation whatsoever. No forethought. It was as it should be. Just her, as she would have been that day in the cemetery, if she had removed her clothes. Skin and hair; flesh and bones.

  She could see he wanted her. Badly. It was obvious. As was the swell in his jeans. She could do whatever she wanted now. She had him. He was finally hers, and she would do with him as she pleased.

  Wordlessly she moved away from him, toward the large open space in front of the fireplace, picking up a book from the coffee table as she passed by.

  And then she sat, in the same position she had been sitting for almost two weeks now.

  After some time, Cameron stepped forward and took a sketchbook and a dark, graphite pencil from the coffee table. “Did you want me to close the blinds?” he asked her.

  Cassie didn't move her head. “No. I want you to draw me. Right now.”

  As she said the words, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that at this juncture in time, she truly held all the power. All of it. Every decision was hers to make. And this time, she would use that power and use it wisely. She could get up at any point, go over there and take him if she wanted to. Anywhere she wanted to. And anyhow. He would let her. Willingly. She recognised this.

  But she wouldn't. She needed this sculpture more than she needed to feel him against her.

  Cameron moved once more, settling on the end of one couch. And, as the rasp of his pencil began to move across the page, Cassie knew it was not only the sculpture that was no longer at a standstill.

  Cameron didn't waste a second after this. He sketched for ages, Cassie losing track of the time. And then she was robed, and taken downstairs and photographed to within an inch of her life by Cameron's team. Over and over and over the camera clicked. And amazingly, she didn't mind at all. She paused only twice—once to text Alys to let her know she was fine, and would be home late, and the second time to eat something in order to keep going.

  Just after midnight, it was all over.

  Cameron offered to drive her back to Alys's apartment, but Cassie shook her head. “You need to go now. Disappear and do what it is you have to do. Don't worry about me. Just call me when you're done.”

  He called for a driver then, and waited with her until the car turned up. He kissed her hand, put her inside, and turned away. Cassie knew he'd already gone before that, though. Whatever had passed between them had finished with the last click of the camera. She had decided that much, and now it was done.

  Cassie gave the driver Alys's address, and then rested her head back against the seat, only now realising how tired she was. As the car pulled away from the curb, she wondered when it would hit her—that what she'd had with Cameron was finished. But then she smiled and turned her head to the window to watch the city flash by. The answer was never. Because this had been the way she had wanted things all along. She just hadn't realised it until now.

  When James's call came, forty-eight hours later, it was unexpected.

  “Hi, James,” Cassie said, loud enough that Alys, settled into her spot on the couch for the evening, could hear. She immediately grabbed the remote and turned the TV down.

  “Hi,” James replied, not sounding all that happy. “I was wondering if we could talk?”

  “Sure,” Cassie said. “In person, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I'm at Alys's now, I guess I could . . .”

  “I'll come over,” James said, abruptly. “See you soon.”

  “Sure, okay then . . .” Cassie replied, but he had already hung up the phone. “He's coming over.” She turned to Alys. “Now.”

  “Finally!” Alys said.

  Cassie suddenly looked down at her odd assortment of pajama pants and T-shirt. “I'd better throw something on.” She ran off, grabbing clothes and her makeup bag, and headed for the bathroom.

  Ten minutes, jeans, a fresh T-shirt, hair tied up, and some lip-gloss later, she was ready for James and whatever he had to say. Or at least her head was—her body wasn't quite so sure, she thought, as she wiped her clammy palms on her jeans as she sat on the couch beside Alys.

  The doorbell buzzed loudly.

  “It's him.” Cassie took a deep breath as she looked at Alys.

  “You want me to get it?” Alys grimaced.


  “No, I'll do it.” Cassie got up off the couch and ran over to the intercom. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Cassie. It's me,” James replied. “Can you come down?”

  Cassie hesitated, there was something in his voice that sounded awfully final. “Um, sure. I'll be right there,” she said, hanging up the intercom phone. She turned to Alys, eyes wide.

  “He's not coming up?” Alys said, incredulously.

  “No. Doesn't look like it.”

  “Seriously? I can't believe how he's behaving about all of this.”

  “I sort of can.” Cassie grabbed her coat from behind the door. “Wish me luck.”

  Alys gave another grimace and a wave instead.

  Letting herself out, Cassie took the stairs, pulling on her coat as she went. The stairs seemed doubly long, her journey full of anticipation and regret. Finally she was at the front door, pulling it open.

  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 . . .”