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  Cassie sat, toying with a pot of tea and a slice of pumpkin cheesecake on the marble-topped table of the French-inspired café she had chosen, and thought about James's parting words to her.

  They'd said their goodbyes on the stairs of The Met once more—kissing awkwardly again, though on the lips this time. Cassie had turned to go when James had reached out at the last second and grabbed her hand, drawing her back up the stairs to him.

  “You need to stop,” he'd told her, and Cassie's body had chilled further in the cold of the air outside. Did he know after all? “You need to stop being embarrassed about the other night.”

  Her heart had kicked back in then, along with her discomfort.

  James's hands, just below her shoulders now, turned her slowly around to face him completely. “I can see you've been thinking about it. I don't get it. What's the problem? Trust me, it's not like I didn't have a good time. Do I look unhappy?”

  “I . . .” Cassie began, but then realised she didn't honestly know what her problem was. Why was she embarrassed? Something in her—something real and true that she couldn't ignore—had wanted James. She'd simply acted upon what her body wanted. For once in her life she hadn't paused to over-think things, to complicate things, to weigh things up and ask for the advice of others, or to consider what society might think about her actions. She'd been authentic. Exactly like Jo had wished she had been, but hadn't given herself that chance. And doing so had been thrilling and horrifying all at once. And, yes, it had been unlike her, as Alys had pointed out, but James was right—there was nothing to be embarrassed about. It was only in hindsight, over-thinking everything again, that she felt flushed and awkward. She needed to let that go. She had done nothing wrong, or shameful. Just responsive.

  “Maybe if we practised a little more . . .” James tried and Cassie couldn't help but laugh.

  “I'd like that,” she said, gamely. “And, obviously, if the other night was anything to go by, it wouldn't take up too much of your time.”

  James had laughed as well at that. “I'll hold you to it.”

  He brought her to him and kissed her again. Properly this time. Deeply, and like no one was watching. She had been surprised to find how her body responded to him—eager for more. Not only in a sexual way, but an intellectual way. She saw then that Cameron had been clouding her judgment. “Double entendre intended,” he'd added before letting her go, which made her laugh again.

  Savoring another smooth bite of her pumpkin cheesecake, Cassie smiled a secret smile to herself, remembering the exchange. James had been right. She needed to let her embarrassment about the situation go, and own her actions. In fact, when she allowed herself to examine what had happened that night, she found she was almost proud of herself—for a split second in time she'd been free. She hadn't worried about what anyone thought, or might say. It had been about her. Only about her. And James had been happy for her to revel in that. One thing was for sure, she thought with a slight widening of her eyes—Cameron Callahan was some kind of influence. For good, or for bad, though, she wasn't entirely sure.

  Just when Cassie was beginning to think she'd gotten lucky, and that Plum was too busy for that drink tonight, the text came in from Marianne. The address she gave was in SoHo, and despite the fact that Marianne said Plum would send a car for her, Cassie, uneasy about the situation, told her it was fine, that she was already out and she'd get a cab herself to meet for their pre-dinner drink (thankfully, Plum had dinner plans, which worked just fine for Cassie).

  Having no idea what to wear, she ended up in a slightly odd combination of black skinny jeans, high black ankle boots, a black silver-studded stretch shirt and clutch. She threw Alys's black cape over the top again as she left. She wasn't going to be cold for Plum Tarasov's sake.

  On entering the bar, Cassie had to refrain from rolling her eyes. At any other time, she would have thought it looked amazing—it was like a proper Victorian parlor, all lush red velvet, high-backed chairs, oil portraits, flocked wallpaper and dim, gas-like lighting. It was the color that made her feel ill, however. Red. Burgundy, vermillion carmine, crimson, flame, ruby, scarlet, rust. Everywhere she looked was red. And there, sitting at the bar in the midst of it all, was Plum, blood-red lipstick and all.

  The woman had issues, that was for sure.

  Cassie's first instinct was to bolt, but she talked herself out of doing so smartly. She'd wanted to do that far too much lately, and anyway, it would get her nowhere. Plum obviously had something to say, and she wouldn't rest until she'd said it. Best to get it over and done with. Quickly.

  Thus, Cassie squared her shoulders and walked over to Plum, taking a seat on the stool beside her. She tried her very best to hide the fact her heart was racing.

  “Plum.” She nodded.

  Plum stifled a laugh. “How terribly formal of you. Here.” She motioned to the bartender, who immediately brought Cassie over a cocktail. Red. Of course. “Let's get this party started.”

  The drink having been passed to her by the bartender himself, Cassie was slightly less worried that Plum might have put something into it.

  “Cheers.” Plum held out her glass, and after another moment's hesitation, Cassie followed suit.

  The drink itself slid down her throat, beautifully warm. “What is it?” she asked as she resettled her glass on the bar.

  “Vanilla vodka, cherry juice, and lime. It's good, isn't it?”

  Behind her, a sudden flash made Cassie, already on edge, whip around. A group of girls sat at a table opposite the bar and were obviously intent on making the most of their evening out, taking photo after photo of their spectacular drinks on their phones.

  “Really, any social media that involves taking photos of your food should be banned,” Plum drawled.

  Cassie thought this was rather rich coming from Plum, who tended to use the media shamelessly.

  “I see what you're thinking.” She arched a perfectly black, perfectly-shaped eyebrow. “You've never liked my work, have you?”

  Cassie frowned slightly. “I didn't say that. And anyway, what does it matter? I'm not awfully keen on Van Gogh. But that doesn't mean he wasn't a great artist.”

  “And do you think Cameron's a great artist?” Plum leaned in slightly.

  Of course, this was why they were really here. Cameron was Plum's. And now she was going to make Cassie aware of this fact. Cassie took another sip of her drink. “Of course I do. I wouldn't have agreed to sit for him otherwise, would I? Anyway, I made the decision to sit for him, and now I'll follow through on that decision to the end.”

  Plum inclined her head slightly, and the way in which she did spoke worlds to Cassie. “You don't think it's going to happen, do you?” Cassie asked her, watching her intently. “The sculpture, I mean.”

  Plum shrugged slightly. “I suppose it depends on how deep you can dig, little chicken, like I told you the other day.”

  Cassie snorted slightly, irritated now. “Please. Don't give me any worldly bullshit. You're a grand total of three years older than me.”

  “Ah, but I've been around the block a few more times, haven't I?” Plum smiled back at Cassie indulgently.

  Cassie sighed. “What do you want, Plum? Are you here to find out if I'm sleeping with Cameron? Is that it? Because I'm not. There you are. Now you know. We can all go home.”

  Plum waved a hand, and another flash from the phones of the girls behind them saw Plum's layered white gold and garnet rings sparkle in the light. “Don't be silly. Of course I already know that. I could tell if you were. And do you think I'd care anyway?”

  “Yes,” Cassie replied instantaneously.

  “Well . . .” Plum's mouth twisted. “Maybe that's a little bit true.”

  It was only the thought of Cameron telling her that they were at a “standstill” that saw Cassie stay in her seat beside Plum. There was something in what she was saying and how many times she'd said it now that made Cassie think her advice might just be worthwhile. “What did you me
an the other day—that I should dig deeper?”

  “Ah.” Plum nodded. “See? You do know I'm right after all.”

  Cassie gave her nothing in return.

  “You do want that sculpture, don't you, Cassandra? I can tell. I know what it's like to feel that way. Mine was never finished.” She paused here, as if weighing up what to say next. “I'm not sure what to tell you. I certainly can't tell you what to do. This needs to come from you. Any other way simply won't work. Cameron will know in an instant, because you will know.”

  Cassie stilled with this, knowing it was true. Cameron had said so himself, hadn't he?

  She stared straight at Plum, a barrage of questions forming in her mind that her mouth was too proud to ask. She knew Plum had some of the answers she needed, but then there was the overwhelming fear that Plum would use any information offered against her. Cassie opened her mouth to say something about how she and Cameron were at some kind of an impasse in the creative process, then thought better of doing so. Surely it would be unwise to bring it up? Plum wouldn't hesitate to use information like that as ammunition in some way or another. Once again, Cassie decided not to reply.

  Cassie glanced away for a moment, down the opposite end of the bar, longing to escape. She was just about to turn around once more when she found, all of a sudden, her stool twisting independently, Plum somehow standing before her, pushed between her legs, her glossy lips on Cassie's. Her kiss was fierce and unexpected, and for a moment, Cassie was so taken by surprise she couldn't move.

  It was in that moment that the flash came again, and Cassie twigged.

  Pushing herself backwards, away from Plum, she almost fell off her stool as she attempted to stand up.

  “What . . .” Cassie panted through her shock, bringing a hand to her lips. “What are you doing?”

  She turned, to look at the picture-taking girls once more, and saw behind them a photographer. A proper photographer. Someone who looked rather like a paparazzo. She had been set up. The girls had been planted there to set her at ease about the flash, if need be, and the photographer was there to seal the deal by taking the “real” photograph at just the right time. “What are you doing?”

  Her question meant something else entirely now, and moved away from Plum's assault to her motivations.

  Plum, meanwhile, had settled herself back into her seat, and looked altogether comfortable.

  “This is about my sister, isn't it?” Cassie remained standing. “You're still pissed off about Jo.”

  Plum's eyebrows raised infinitesimally.

  “This is about getting back at my sister for not sleeping with you. You can't bear that she turned you down, can you? No one says no to Plum Tarasov. And now what? You're going to send these photos off to the tabloids in England? To suggest what? That I'm sleeping with you instead? To get back at my sister? Or to get back at me for working with Cameron? Because your own piece was never finished?” She ended her rant by stepping forward to push a finger into Plum's chest, though recoiled at the last second, not being able to bear to actually touch her.

  Plum looked down at Cassie's retreating, shaky finger, then, still composed, got up off her stool once more, laid some cash down on the bar, and turned to leave. Before she did, however, she had a few last words to say.

  “You can't live in Badger and Hare land forever, Cassandra. At some point you've got to claw your way out of the rabbit hole and grow up. Alice did it. And you can do it, too.”

  Cassie flew from the bar and grabbed the first cab she saw headed uptown. Safely inside it, she scrabbled for her phone and called Jo.

  She didn't wait for a hello. “It's going to come out. All of it.”

  “Wait. What?” Jo answered her. “What do you mean? What's happened?”

  “Plum Tarasov has happened.” Cassie shook her head as she looked out the cab window at the bright lights passing by. “She set me up. In a bar. Ugh, she kissed me, of all things. She had a photographer there, waiting. And now there are pictures.”

  “But . . . why?” Jo said, confused. “Why would she do that? I don't understand.”

  “To get back at you, I suppose,” Cassie answered her. “And to show me my place with Cameron.”

  “Oh, God. Really? I mean, I knew she was angry about all of that, but it was years ago. Could she really still care?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “And what's her problem with you sitting for Cameron?” Jo continued. “They broke up ages ago, didn't they?”

  “Yes. But that doesn't mean anyone else can have any kind of a relationship with him. Apparently.”

  “Christ. So what's she going to do? Go to the tabloids?”

  “That's my guess,” Cassie said. “She knows they'll be interested. Of course they will. Everyone loves an M.P. scandal, don't they? And this will be perfect—M.P.'s daughter in NYC sex romp. It will all be about getting my kit off for Cameron Callahan, and being lured into a world of sexual depravity.”

  “Have you got your kit off for Cameron Callahan?” Jo asked.

  “No! But it's not as if the tabloids care about the truth, is it? And then there are all the other people involved. I haven't told Alys. Or James . . .”

  “James?” Jo jumped in here.

  “James . . . the guy I told you about. The one who was supposed to be interviewing Cameron himself.” Cassie leaned her head back on the seat and closed her eyes.

  “Ooohhh . . . yes, sorry, I remember. And did he?”

  “Yes, I got him the interview. Not that he knows that.”

  “Then he can't be cross, can he?”

  Cassie sighed, her eyes flickering open once more. “No, but I lied to him all the same, didn't I? Or at least, I didn't tell him the whole truth. I was worried that if I told people it wouldn't all come together, or something like that. Still, it looks like that's going to happen anyway. Things aren't . . . well, they aren't going so well, and to add the tabloids into the mix . . .”

  “Oh, Cassie. I'm so sorry,” Jo finally replied. “Really. I know how excited you were about it all.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Cassie bit back her tears.

  “Do you want me to call Dad for you?”

  Cassie considered this for a moment. “Trust me, I'd love you to, but I have to do it. And I have to do it now. What's the time there in London?”

  “It's just past midnight.”

  “Which means tomorrow's papers, I guess. With plenty of time for them to go digging for extra material.” But what that extra material was going to look like, and how she was going to explain all of this to Cameron, Cassie honestly had no idea.

  After stepping out of the cab, Cassie let herself into the entrance of Alys's apartment and sat down on the stairs to call her father. Because of the time, she got his voicemail, where she left a rather roundabout message about something most likely being in the papers the following day. It was a reprieve—she would call him back when she got up in the morning.

  Upstairs, she opened the door to find Alys settled in for the evening watching TV, a tub of Ben & Jerry's in her hand. Standing in the doorway, Cassie made the split-second decision to keep what had happened this evening to herself. Her father she would have to warn before the possible onslaught. Alys and James, however . . . well, better to wait and see what happened in the media. “A complete waste of time,” Cassie groaned as she closed the door behind.

  “Really?” Alys said. “At least you didn't have to frock up, then.”

  “True,” Cassie said, thinking at least she hadn't been wearing the Vivienne Westwood. Wouldn't the tabloids have loved that?

  “Grab a spoon,” Alys told her, waving her own around from her spot on the couch. “There are some things only Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Therapy can fix.”

  The following morning, Cassie again got her father's voicemail, though she also had a message from Jo to say that he'd called her after being asked by a journalist for a comment, and might very possibly, just a little bit, be on the warpath. She tried to
call Jo back for further information, but got her voicemail as well. Realising she was probably busy at school, or at an appointment, she left a message asking her sister to call her back later.

  Just as Cassie was pulling a scarf around her neck and readying herself to head out the front door to Cameron's studio, her phone finally rang. It wasn't Jo, however, but Marianne.

  “Oh, hi, Cassie,” she said. “I'm glad I caught you. Look, don't worry about coming in again today—”

  Fear gripped Cassie's heart. “Tell me the truth,” she spoke quickly. “What's going on?”

  Marianne said nothing for a moment or two. “Well, I . . .”

  “Really. I need to know. From what I understand, we are meeting this timeframe, or not. And, right now, we're not. Anyone can see that.”

  “That's true,” Marianne replied, slowly. “Sometimes things . . . pop up. Sometimes pieces change . . .”

  “Sometimes pieces don't happen at all?” Cassie added.

  On the other end of the line, Marianne sighed. “Don't worry too much yet. I've seen things pull together fast before. There's still time.”

  “But you don't know what the problem is?” Cassie tried.

  “No. Really, I don't. Sorry.”

  Cassie thought about this for a moment. “I'm going to have to come in anyway. Just for a bit. I have some news. The thing is, Plum Tarasov pulled a bit of a media stunt on me last night.”

  When Cassie arrived at the studio, Cameron was in a meeting, so she settled herself into an armchair in the pink-walled room and fished the book she was reading out of her bag—a biography of the Bloomsbury Group. After a while, Cassie flung her legs over one of the arms of the chair, resting her head on the other one, and kept on reading. Her phone she balanced on her stomach, every so often checking her email. There had still been no call from her father, which was odd.

  Cassie was lost in her book and chewing absentmindedly on a hangnail when she felt someone watching her. She looked up to see Cameron leaning on the doorframe and sat up in the seat, her book closing as she did so. “How long have you been standing there?”