“Hi.”
“Hi.” Hayes’s lips curled into a wide smile. “What are you doing here?”
“Meeting … I’m meeting … someone…” I was tripping over my words. I could not even register the others at the table. It was just him and me. In this space. And yet I was painfully aware that I could not touch him. That people would talk, that people would judge.
He stood, pushing his chair back.
“No, don’t get up…”
“Where are you sitting?”
I gestured vaguely toward the corner.
“I’ll come say hi.”
I nodded, and then remembered the rest of the table. “Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt.”
There were two women, three men I did not recognize, one who looked familiar, and seated beside Hayes was Oliver, whom I had somehow managed to overlook.
“Hi.”
“Solène.” He smiled. I’d last seen him when we got off the boat in Antibes, when I was smelling of salt and sun and high on champagne and the promise of what was to come. A world away.
I excused myself and made my way over to Daniel, but from that moment on, my mind was elsewhere. We talked about the necessary things: Isabelle, the weather. My back was to Hayes. I was out of his earshot, but I could feel him. And just knowing he was there put me on edge. Especially in the presence of my ex.
“Are you okay? You seem distracted,” Daniel said, sometime after we’d put in our order. He was, as usual, impeccably groomed—smooth skin, chiseled jaw, not a hair out of place—the years had been good to him.
“I’m fine.”
“Work?”
“Work is fine. We have a show going up Saturday.”
“Which artist?”
It was nice of him to ask because I didn’t think he cared.
“It’s a joint exhibit. Tobias James and Ailynne Cho.”
“Well, that should be good. Oh, before I forget…” He reached down and handed over two tiny shopping bags: one from Barneys, the other from Tiffany. “For the birthday girl.”
“Two fancy gifts? Wow.”
“Thirteen is a big year,” he said, sipping from his Evian. And then: “One of them is from Eva.”
He had my attention then. “Which one?”
“Barneys.”
Which begged the question: “Why is Eva buying Isabelle a gift from Barneys?”
“It’s not that big a deal, Sol.”
“It is.”
“It’s like a little ring. It’s not a big deal.”
“A little ring from Barneys can be a very big deal, Daniel.”
He sighed, turning to look out the window, the southern view. “Let’s not do this here. Okay?”
Our food arrived then, and we dropped the subject. He asked about my parents, Isabelle’s bunkmates, what I thought of the conflict that had just erupted in Gaza. There was a time when this was not so hard, finding things to say. When we were young, and kind to each other.
That first spring in New York when we were in love and we whiled away hours in Central Park, studying in Sheep’s Meadow and drinking in the lilacs in the Conservatory Garden. He was so tall and brilliant and sure of himself, and he quoted Sartre and Descartes and that was all I needed.
I had just finished my kale salad when Hayes strode up to our table. Suave and gallant in full swagger mode. A printed white shirt, top three buttons undone, skinny black jeans, roguish hair. The polar opposite of Daniel in his gray Zegna suit and a tie I did not recognize but I assumed Eva had something to do with.
“Fancy seeing you here.” He smiled.
“Yes. Imagine that.”
“Hello, I’m Hayes.” He reached over the table to shake Daniel’s hand.
“Daniel, this is Hayes. Hayes, this is Daniel.”
“Daniel. The Daniel?”
“The Daniel, yes,” I laughed nervously, and Daniel threw me a peculiar look.
“Daniel, Hayes is … um … Hayes is…”
“Hayes is a novice art collector who is very impressed with this woman’s knowledge of Fauvism,” he said, dimples shining.
I sat there for a second, drinking in the deliciousness of the moment. Daniel, trying to figure it out.
“All right, I’m going to let you get back to your … meeting. And we’ll touch base later.”
“Sounds good.” I smiled, casual.
I watched as Daniel watched Hayes make his way across the room. Heads turning, members murmuring, par for the course.
“Who is that?”
“A client.”
“Looks familiar. Is he an actor?”
“No.” I did not elaborate further.
“Ford!”
My interrogation was cut short by the approach of Daniel’s longtime friend, fellow entertainment attorney Noah Feldman. Noah was magnetic, kind, sincere, a rarity among Hollywood types. I’d lost him and his lovely wife in the divorce. Along with their three kids. It hurt.
“Feldman!” Daniel greeted him.
“Solène. This is a nice surprise. How are you guys?”
“Good. How are you? How’s Amy?”
“Fine, great. She got a writing gig.” His eyes lit up.
“I know. I saw on Facebook.”
“It’s a pretty big deal. I mean we don’t see her anymore,” he laughed, “but she’s happy. And I’m happy that she’s happy.”
I smiled. Of course he was. What a novel idea: a husband supportive of his wife’s work. A wife that did not fit in a box.
“See those Transformers numbers?” Noah directed at Daniel.
“Fucking Michael Bay…”
“Fucking Michael Bay…”
My phone buzzed then on the table. The guys continued talking shop, and I took the opportunity to glance at the incoming text.
Daniel?????????!!!!!
I snatched the phone and hid it in my lap to respond.
Fauvism???
Shot in the dark.
Meet me in the lavvy in 5 min?
Ha!
Absolutely not.
Fuck.
I looked up. Daniel and Noah were still talking.
“I don’t think that deal’s going to close,” Noah was saying. “Ryan’s got one foot out the door.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Weinstein.”
I returned to my texting:
Later …
☺
You look beautiful, btw.
Ditto.
* * *
Hayes was still winding up his lunch meeting when I left. We locked eyes as I crossed the room, and the moment was so intense I almost reconsidered his lavatory proposal. But in this clubby place where everyone knew everyone, it was far too risky. He inclined his head and smiled. It was enough.
I was making my way back through the dark, narrow corridor when Noah came up behind me on his way out.
“So…” he said, low, “Hayes Campbell. Nice.”
“What?” I turned to look at him in the shadows.
He smiled. “Your husband might be oblivious, but I’m guessing that’s how he lost you in the first place.”
I stopped, under the gaze of a thousand Polaroids. Stunned. What had he seen? Heard? Fucking Soho House.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “your secret’s safe with me.”
* * *
Hayes was late. He’d texted no fewer than half a dozen times from his dinner, apologizing. I’d had instructions to go to the front desk at the Chateau Marmont and ask for an envelope that the general manager, Phil, would have put aside for me under the name Scooby Doo, which was apparently Hayes’s alias.
“Scooby Doo? Is that a joke?” I’d asked when he first told me via phone. “Scooby?”
“Hey, it’s Mr. Doo to you.”
But forty minutes later, when I was still alone in the somber suite, I was becoming restless. I’d already itemized his closet: two pairs of boots, one pair of sneakers, six dress shirts, two suits, four pairs of black jeans. All high-end (Saint Laurent, Alexander McQueen, Tom Ford, Lanvin) and smelling faintly like Hayes. That woodsy, amber, citrus scent that he owed to Voyage d’Hermès. The fragrance I’d learned during our romp in Cannes. I did not open his drawers, or riffle through his bags, or his toiletries, or the leather journal he’d left on the night table. Because that, I thought, would be crossing the line. But the closet—in which I had hung tomorrow’s dress and placed my shoes—the closet was fair game.
He arrived shortly before ten. Ravishing and apologetic. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt partially unbuttoned, no tie, and just the sight of him filling up the doorway was enough. I wanted him. And even though I’d spent the past week doubting him, and being angry with myself for not clarifying the boundaries of this arrangement, the moment he stepped over that threshold none of that seemed to matter. I had come there for a reason, lest I forget.
“Hi,” he said, making his way across the room to me.
“Hi, yourself.”
He stooped before where I was lying on the couch, took my head in both his hands, and kissed me. Like I’d wanted to be kissed. His lips were cool and his breath was sweet and his mouth was wonderfully familiar. And he was twenty. And I didn’t give a damn.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” His thumb was rubbing over my lips. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Did you order room service?”
“I’m good.”
“You sure?”
I nodded, watching as he peeled off his suit jacket, and pulled off his boots, and removed the various accoutrements from his pockets: iPhone, wallet, lip balm, gum. Now all recognizable as Hayes paraphernalia.
“How was dinner?” I asked.
“Long.”
“And your day?”
“Long,” he grunted. “We’re doing a movie. Like a hybrid between a documentary and a bunch of tour footage. A rockumentary, if you will. Or a popumentary”—he smiled—“because it’s us. Anyway, just a lot of meetings about when they’re releasing it and all the promos they have to do and when they want to be able to release the new album and then schedule our next world tour. And it’s all happening sooner than you would think possible. And I’m fucking tired. I’m really fucking tired.” He sat down beside me on the sofa, reclining his head.