“The longer you wait, the more it’s going to hurt her.”
It landed.
The line went quiet for a second, and then: “Fine. I won’t come in the house. But I’m picking you up. Meet me out front. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
* * *
Isabelle unwittingly watched me dress for my date with Hayes. I had told her I was going to cocktails and dinner with a couple of clients. That I would not be home too late, but that she should probably not wait up for me. And I had left it at that.
“You look beautiful,” she said, her blue eyes wide, drinking in every detail.
I’d chosen a long black silk shirtdress with a deep neckline, equal parts alluring and demure. This I had learned from my unfailingly French mother: to be both a lady and a woman.
“You don’t look like a mom,” Isabelle observed.
“What does a mom look like to you?”
“I don’t know.” She smiled. “Cartier Love bracelet? Lululemon?”
I laughed at that, her referencing the staples of private-school carpool lanes.
There were so many things I wanted to teach her. That being a mother did not have to mean no longer being a woman. That she could continue to live outside the lines. That forty was not the end. That there was more joy to be had. That there was an Act II, an Act III, an Act IV if she wanted it … But at thirteen, I imagined, she did not care. I imagined she just wanted to feel safe. I could not blame her. We had already shaken her ground.
“Am I a mom?” I asked her then, kissing her forehead.
She nodded.
“Well, then, this is what a mom looks like.”
* * *
For someone who’d just gotten off an eleven-hour flight, Hayes was remarkably dewy. Poreless skin, the faintest hint of stubble lining his jaw. And yet I would not let him kiss me until we’d cleared the driveway. Just in case.
“You are incorrigible,” he said. He’d pulled over the car near the bottom of the hill, in the shade of an avocado tree.
“I am?”
“You are.”
“Really?”
“You’ve fucked up everything.” He was kissing me then, one hand at the back of my head, the other between my knees.
“Do you want to just take me back home then?”
“I should…” His hand had found its way beneath my “you don’t look like a mom” dress, no time wasted.
“Is this your hello?”
“This is my hello.”
“Hello, Hayes.” I trembled. His fingers, pulling aside my underwear.
“Hello, Solène.”
There was a song playing that I did not recognize, the smell of new leather, sleek lines on the dash. Where did he get this car? Did someone like Hayes Campbell just walk into Budget or Enterprise and ask for an Audi R8 Spyder? Was he even old enough to rent a car? So many questions. His rings, cool against my skin. His fingers.
“Did you miss me?” I spoke after several minutes, my breathing erratic.
“Not at all,” he slurred, his breath hot in my ear. “I quite enjoy being six thousand miles away from you. Especially when I come to town and you can’t manage to get a fucking sitter.” He withdrew his hand then suddenly and turned back toward the steering wheel. “Where am I going?”
It took me a moment. “Whoa. Oh-kay … Make a right on Sunset and then take it all the way down to the PCH.”
He didn’t say anything after that, but he reached out to hold my hand while he drove. And we remained that way, all the way up the coast.
* * *
Hayes’s people had found him a 5,500-square-foot sleek, contemporary house on the cliffs with heart-stopping views and retractable walls of glass and a chef’s kitchen and designer everything, and the fact that we were just visiting saddened me. Because for a moment I allowed myself to imagine what life could be like if we played house there. And maybe I could sell my half of the gallery and send Isabelle to Malibu High School and spend my days painting watercolors and making love and being happy. And then I attempted to picture Hayes as Isabelle’s stepfather and I started to laugh.
“What?” he said.
We were in the master suite and I was drinking in the view from the oversized window seat while he was riffling through his luggage.
“Nothing. I … It’s perfect here.”
“It is.”
“Is it for sale? Do you know?”
“I don’t,” he said, curt. “I’m jumping in the shower. We have reservations for Nobu at seven-thirty. That leaves about an hour to do the things I want to do to you. Don’t go anywhere.”
* * *
At Nobu, we dined under the stars. A luxuriant feast of sushi and sake and Hayes’s fingertips playing over my palm at the table. He filled me in on developments in his schedule. The album being released in December to coincide with the documentary, August Moon: Naked. The film premiere scheduled for New York. The tour that would begin in February, last a little over eight months, and take him to five different continents. I tried not to think about it all because much of it translated to time apart. And the thought of that made me miserable.
No fewer than nine people stopped by our table. Those who knew him, or claimed they knew him; three fans. Hayes was gracious at every turn, but I could see it wearing away at him.
“I probably should have picked someplace more low-profile,” he said. “But it’s Sunday. And it’s November. I assumed it would be quieter.”
“It’s still Nobu.”
He was silent for a moment, staring out toward the water. A splattering of stars, a half-moon, a seamless black horizon.
“What if I quit the band?”
“I thought you said that was impossible.”
“It’s not impossible, it’s just … complicated.”
“What would you do if you quit?”
“I don’t know.” He turned back to me then, and reached out to finger my bracelet. The cuff he’d given me in Paris. I had yet to take it off. “I’m just tired. I want a break.”
For a moment neither of us spoke. I watched his fingers tracing over the filigree. His movements slow, hypnotic.
“Why did you get into this business, Hayes? What were you expecting from it?”
“I liked writing music. And I thought … I had something to say. I’m a solid songwriter, and I have a decent voice. It’s not one of those once-in-a-generation voices like Adele, but it’s decent. And I knew I had a good face and that was only going to last for so long, but if I grouped it together with a handful of other good faces with decent voices it might be more compelling. I’d have a better chance of getting my music heard.” He looked up then, meeting my gaze. “And it worked. But I’ve no desire to write happy pop stuff anymore…”
“A lot of your stuff isn’t happy. It’s ironic or tongue-in-cheek. Smart.”
“It’s still … safe. I don’t want to be so safe.”
He was quiet for a moment. The sound of the ocean lapping the shore beneath us, another party’s laughter.
“But I also have this opportunity now that I didn’t really foresee, of being able to affect people and hold their attention. And to not use that for some good, for something bigger than just performing songs, would be a bit of a waste. The chance to do something noble. I’m still figuring it out.”
“You know you’re only twenty, right?”
He grinned. “So you keep reminding me.”
“You have so much more time to do whatever it is you want to do. Just enjoy this for what it is, because you’re not always going to have it.
“And you have the rest of your life to redefine yourself, if ever you get tired of being ‘Hayes Campbell, pop star.’”
He smiled, slow, leaning in across the table. His eyes a muddy-blue in the candlelight. “If I kiss you here, are you going to be okay with that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Why don’t you try it and see?”
* * *
We got back to the house close to eleven. All the indoor lights were off, and so I assumed Isabelle was sleeping.
“So what’s the plan?” Hayes asked, pulling into the driveway, killing the engine.
“I’ll drop her off in the morning, and then I’ll come back up to you.”
“This is rubbish, you not spending the night. You know that? I’m going to be very lonely in that big house all by myself.”
“You’ll manage.”
“Barely.”
I laughed. He leaned over to kiss me, and we went at it for a couple of minutes. It felt a little like being eighteen again, there in the car, his hand pressed to my cheek, the faint taste of alcohol. And Hayes, being Hayes, had one hand up my dress in very little time.
“Don’t.” I grabbed his wrist. “My daughter is inside. I need to go.”
“Just give me a minute…”
“You really like doing that, don’t you?”
“I like just knowing that I can.”
“Tomorrow,” I said, opening the door.
He smiled his half smile. “I like you.”
“I like you, too.”
“Come back to me,” he said.
“Tomorrow.”
* * *
The house was completely quiet when I entered, which was odd. Typically Isabelle left the television on when she was home alone after dark. Something about the silence put me on edge.
Hayes’s Audi had just peeled away, and I could faintly hear the gears shifting as he descended the hill. Likely driving too fast. Boys and their toys.
I was tiptoeing down the hallway, my shoes in my hands, when Isabelle’s bedroom door flew open without warning.
“Oh God, you scared me,” I started. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“Where were you?”
“What are you still doing up, Izz? It’s late.”
“Where were you, Mom?” she repeated, urgent. She was dressed for bed: a T-shirt, flannel pajama pants, her thick dark hair in a ponytail. But there was something off about her face, her eyes.