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  It was only as she began to calm down that she was able to examine her naked self in more detail. She felt no shame in it, and knew that it would be the same when it was out there in the world, being viewed. Because it was honest. Just a girl. Sitting and reading. Caught in a moment. Where was the shame to be found in that? There was none, and now she wondered why for so long she had held back. Convention, she supposed. Nice girls just didn't do things like this. But there was nothing “not nice” about the piece. In no way was it pornographic, or shocking, or lurid. Far from it. It was a very gentle, thoughtful piece of work. The fact that the opportunity had come so close to slipping through her fingers scared her to her very core.

  “So.” She glanced up at Cameron with a sniff. “It's okay, I guess.” She laughed then, and Cameron came over to give her a tissue. “As you can tell, I love it. I can't tell you how much.”

  “As do I,” Cameron told her. “I think I'm going to show it randomly, either way. I haven't quite decided yet. I don't like the idea of some half-hourly business, like feeding time at the zoo.”

  Cassie nodded. “No, I don't like that, either. Can I ask, though, you said you would have worked things out somehow even if I hadn't sat for you naked. How would you have done that?”

  Cameron raised his eyebrows. “I still don't know. I would have made it work somehow, but it wouldn't have been as lovely. Layering the outer clothes only, maybe? Surely I could have got you down to your underwear at some point. Perhaps a year or two from now? Or maybe a full flesh-colored spandex bodysuit? For modesty's sake?” He grinned.

  Cassie laughed. “That sounds hideous.”

  “Yes, quite. I still would have done it, though.”

  “You're mad.”

  “So they say,” Cameron replied. “I have your permission, then? To show it? Her? You? There will only be minor cosmetic changes from now.”

  “Yes, of course. I'd be honored. And you'll show it in London?”

  “Naturally. The exhibition will start there in April.”

  Cassie nodded. “I have a favour to ask, then. I have several people I need to see it. Maybe before the exhibition opens. Could you do that? Would they be able to meet you? It's quite . . . important to me.”

  “Of course,” Cameron said. “I always do this. It can be quite confronting for people who know the model to have to view it for the first time in the middle of a crowd. I'd be more than happy to meet a few people personally, and of course we'll invite them to the events that are held before we open, as well. If you give their names to Marianne, she'll organize everything.”

  Cassie breathed a sigh of relief. “Great. Because I have a couple of relationships I'd like to . . . salvage, for want of a better word.” She thought specifically of James, Alys and Jo. And, perhaps, even of her father. Maybe if he saw the sculpture he could try to understand where she had been coming from.

  “I'm sure it will all be fine,” Cameron said.

  Cassie nodded. “I'm sure it will.”

  And somewhere deep down, she believed this. It would all be all right. Given time. There was a moment's silence in which Cassie realised that this was it. She looked up at Cameron, standing before her. “So, I'm going home. To London. I have an apartment.”

  “Near Highgate Cemetery?” Cameron instantly inquired.

  “It is, actually,” Cassie said, pleased that he had remembered. “It's lovely. Brand new. In a converted church . . .”

  “With a desk, I hope? Where you can write thousands of equally lovely words?” He was, she knew, asking more than his glib words suggested. His gaze, fixed to her, told her this. What he was truly asking her was whether he had met his end of the bargain. She had inspired him, but had he, equally, inspired her?

  “Yes,” she answered firmly and without hesitation. “Yes. I believe I might even do some of my best work there.”

  Cameron grabbed her hand then. “I truly am happy to hear that, Cassie.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “For . . . everything.”

  He knew what for, as did she.

  “No, thank you,” he replied. “The pleasure has been all mine. All mine.” He kissed the back of her hand as Cassie's eyes welled up again. “Until London, then?”

  For a moment, Cassie couldn't quite imagine not spending hour after hour with Cameron, their not being the other's centre of the universe, despite the fact that it had been so for only a few short weeks. But as she pulled away toward the door, she knew it had to be like this. That this was best this way. For both of them. They both needed that space. That break until April. There was something in her that knew that if she stayed, other things might happen. Things that she had once desired, but now saw she had been right to hold back on acting upon. She saw now how life could be sweeter, the reward greater, for not giving in to temptation.

  “Until London,” she said, as brightly as she could, and then quickly turned, and made for the door.

  And as it shut closed behind her, it made the definite resounding snap of one thing ending, and something else entirely beginning anew.

  It had been almost two weeks since Cassie had moved into her apartment, straight off the plane from New York. She had arrived in the early hours of the morning, bleary-eyed, despite the deliciousness of first class, which she doubted she would ever enjoy again, and already mourned. Jo had met her to give her her keys, and she had been apprehensive as she turned them in the locks—photos of apartments, she had learned after years of renting, were rarely indicative of a place when you actually saw it.

  However, immediately upon entering the tiny apartment she had felt instantly at home. It was as if she had lived there for years. She had run around the apartment like an excited puppy, her energy renewed, intermittently hugging her sister as she passed by (there were not, after all, many places to run about in a one-bedroom apartment).

  Jo had been kind enough to unpack a lot of her knickknacks and clothes and had set up her desk at the window, as well.

  “Now you can get back to work,” she had said, giving her sister the eye. “On . . .?”

  Cassie gave her a sly look. “I haven't quite decided yet,” she'd said. She had, though. It was only that she didn't want to jinx her work by discussing it too early on.

  Now, back in the present, Cassie smiled, remembering that first day, as she ran up the steps to the same apartment after a morning walk in the cemetery to clear her head for the day's work. She'd spent the past week taking copious amounts of notes, and today was going to start typing them up in the hope of getting them into some kind of shape.

  “Miss?” someone called out from the street below.

  Cassie turned to see a deliveryman. “Yes?”

  “You're not Cassandra Tavington, by any chance?”

  “Yes, I am,” Cassie said, gasping as she spotted a beautiful floral arrangement in his hands. She ran down the steps again now. “Is that for me?” she said incredulously, staring at the red berries and red asters, red roses and red tulips so artfully put together. Who would send her such an expensive arrangement? Cameron, maybe? But why?

  “If you could sign here,” the man said, obviously eager to be on his way. Cassie signed on the small electronic screen. “There's a card,” he said, by way of explanation as he handed her the flowers and took off.

  “Thanks,” she said, still amazed, spotting the card then and plucking it from where it rested between two flowers as she headed back upstairs once more.

  Quickly, Cassie let herself into her apartment and set the flowers upon the kitchen table. She peeled off her gloves, but didn't bother taking off her coat and scarf, instead ripping the small white envelope open, her brow furrowed.

  When she saw the name at the bottom of the card, she gasped in shock.

  Plum.

  The red flowers were from Plum.

  The first thought that crossed Cassie's mind upon seeing the name was that was all she needed—Plum knowing where she lived.

  But then, as she read the card, she began t
o think again. It read:

  I saw the sculpture today. There is only one word for it—extraordinary. I could see that it was going to be so, right from the very start, but now I understand it is truly some of Cameron's best work. It has been a privilege to see you blossom.

  Yours,

  Plum

  Cassie read the card over again, and then once more, and once more again. She sensed there was something she was missing—an undercurrent to Plum's words. Then, as the realisation hit her and she understood fully what Plum was saying—or not quite saying—she had to sit down.

  Plum had done it on purpose—the photographer, the kiss, the media attention. She'd done it to force Cassie's hand. To make her sit for Cameron, naked. Plum knew she wouldn't have done so otherwise.

  “Oh my God,” Cassie said out loud to no one, everything hitting home for her.

  Because there was more. So much more. Following this thread, she began to comprehend that Plum had not orchestrated the situation because she held a grudge against Jo, but because she had once cared about her very much. Cassie could see the similarities between the two women—the intelligence, the biting humor, the overbearing father. She had fallen for Jo, and Jo had not been brave enough to take their relationship to the next level, or to come out publicly. No wonder Plum had been angry, as Jo had mentioned. Cassie guessed now that Plum had received Jo's email after all. And that she had, over the years, come to understand and had not wanted Cassie to make the same mistakes as her sister had done. Mistakes she had been well on the road to making. Out of fear.

  Perhaps she had also seen something of Cassie in herself, with their artistic natures, and the fact that Plum had once herself been wide-eyed and fresh to NYC. Plum had, of course, hounded Cassie for those meetings, turning up at Alys's apartment in the end, because she wanted to help. And that night that they had been out for dinner, she hadn't been trying to put Cassie on the spot by mentioning her father—she'd been trying to draw her out of her shell. To include her in the conversation. That's why Cassie had felt her eyes upon her so often.

  And all along, she'd wanted for Cassie what she hadn't been able to have—that sculpture. She had mentioned, after all, that Cameron had attempted a sculpture based on her that had never happened. She had sounded so disappointed that it had never eventuated.

  But, wait—Cameron. Had he known about Plum's plan?

  Cassie frowned as searched her memory, trying to come up with an answer.

  No. She didn't think he had known. Maybe in hindsight he had guessed, but that day on the High Line he had told her he had no idea what Plum had been up to with her strange stunt. He had seemed quite confused by it. No, Cassie believed he hadn't known. But then . . . he had asked her again, hadn't he? That day that she sat for him, naked. She guessed he had worked it out by then, and was looking to see if Cassie herself knew.

  Cassie sat for some time, staring at the card and envelope in shock. She simply couldn't believe it would be possible to change her mind about Plum. But in an instant Plum had turned from someone Cassie didn't understand and despised, to someone she still didn't truly understand, but felt grateful toward. The shift was of seismic proportions.

  That Plum, of all people, knew what she had needed to complete her journey. That she had taken action when action was needed. That she had held out a helping hand . . . Cassie was humbled.

  From the very bottom of her memory, she drew upon something Plum had told her the day that they'd met once more in Cameron's studio. What had she said again? Cassie closed her eyes, trying to remember her exact words. Something about it being difficult for her to stand firm when it came to her father. And to become the woman she needed to be.

  She had sympathized with Cassie's predicament all along.

  Cassie was stunned.

  Placing the card on the table, she told herself she would respond somehow. Someday. When the time was right, she would give Plum the thanks she deserved.

  Plum's card and its accompanying realisation somehow tied the past few weeks together for Cassie in a neat bow, and she threw herself into her future for the rest of the day, relentlessly typing up her notes, stopping only for short breaks, and for the phone call that came just after five o'clock.

  She let it ring at least four times as she began typing a sentence that had implanted in her head. Typical, she thought, for the phone to ring just as she was starting a new book. When she finally picked up, she was still caught up in the flow of words. “Hello?” she said, rather absentmindedly.

  “I was wondering if you'd mind having a drink with a stupid git?” the caller said, and Cassie immediately jolted to attention in her Aeron chair, all work forgotten.

  The caller was James.

  “Stupid gits are my preferred type,” she said, a wave of relief rushing over her.

  James.

  So, it would all be fine. Just as Cameron had said, the very last time she saw him.

  “Does now work for you?” Cassie said. She didn't care how eager she sounded. There would be no more games. No more half-truths between them. She took a deep breath, holding back her tears.

  “Now is perfect,” James answered, and she could hear the smile in his voice. The pair arranged a time and a place before hanging up.

  The moment the line went dead, Cassie threw herself into action, descending into a frenzy of what to say, what to wear, and how on earth to deal with her hair, which she hadn't washed for days.

  Before she left the room, however, she took a few seconds to save the new document she had been working on—the start to what she knew would become a complete book. Maybe even some of her best work. So far the document held only three words. But what momentous words in her life they had been.

  Call me Ishmael . . . they read.

  Allison Rushby is an Aussie author of a whole lot of books. She is crazy about Mini Coopers, Devon Rex cats and Downton Abbey. You can find her at allisonrushby.com, on Facebook, or procrastinating on Twitter.

  The Heiresses six episode e-serial – St Martin's Press

  The Heiresses omnibus – St Martin's Press

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