The Idea of You
Robinne Lee
For Eric,
who has loved me best
acknowledgments
My heartfelt gratitude goes out to so many who accompanied me on this journey.
My agent, Richard Pine, who fell in love with this story the second it crossed his desk, and who generously shared his brilliance and expertise. I feel so lucky to have had such an enthusiastic champion in my corner! His assistant, the invaluable Eliza Rothstein, for her keen input. And everyone at InkWell Management.
My supremely talented editor, Elizabeth Beier, who believed in the magic of Solène and Hayes and made it possible for me to share them with the world. My copy editor, Mary Beth Constant, who has an exquisite eye for the finest detail. Danielle Fiorella, who designed a mesmerizing cover. Nicole Williams, for keeping everything organized. Brittani Hilles, Marissa Sangiacomo, Jordan Hanley, and the rest of the exceptional team at St. Martin’s Press.
My team of beta-readers: My sister, Kelley, for always being my first and most appreciative; Colette Sartor, Lisanne Sartor, Laura Brennan, Aimee Liu, Gloria Loya, and the incredibly supportive, accomplished women of the Yale Women L.A. Writing Group; Monica Nordhaus, for insisting I accompany her to the AMAs and for opening doors; Hope Mineo, Colleen Cassidy Hart, M. Catherine OliverSmith, and Dawn Cotton Fuge (my expert on all things British), for reading, for listening, and for being there when I needed to cry; and Mary Leigh Cherry, whose art world expertise was essential to creating Solène’s universe.
My support system: My friends who were sounding boards and who encouraged me to tell this story: Louise Santacruz, Emily Murdock, Carrie Knoblock, Michelle Jenab, Julie Simon, Kate Seton, Mia Ammer, and Meghan Wald; my fellow Joy Luckers, especially Denise Malausséna, for tweaking my French; Bestie Row, for enduring my crazy, with an extra-special thank you to Amanda Schuon, for the phone call; my fellow writers on a mission: Jennifer Maisel and Dedi Feldman; my FB family, for answering so many random questions—from Scotch to seaplanes and everything in between. Collectively, they are better than Google.
My darlings, Alexander and Arabelle, who allowed me the time and freedom to write around their crazy schedules, and never once lost their patience with me.
My mom and dad, who have always been the biggest fans of my writing.
And above all, my extraordinary husband, Eric, who when I joked, “I’m thinking about leaving you for a guy in a boy band,” responded, “That would make a great book,” and in doing so, gave me the gift of a lifetime. (Thank you, Sweet.)
And lastly, my most favorite muse. I might have still written this story had I never seen his face. But I doubt it would have been as enjoyable.
All the love,
Robinne
las vegas
I suppose I could blame it all on Daniel.
Two days before my planned getaway to Ojai, he showed up at the house in a tux with our daughter, Isabelle, in tow. He’d left the car running in the driveway.
“I can’t do the Vegas trip,” he said, thrusting a manila envelope in my hand. “I’m still working on the Fox deal and it’s not going to close anytime soon.”
I must have looked at him in disbelief because he followed that up with: “I’m sorry. I know I promised the girls, but I can’t. You take them. Or I’ll eat the tickets. Whatever.”
An unopened package of Da Vinci Maestro Kolinsky brushes was lying on the entry table, alongside a set of thirty-six Holbein watercolors. I’d spent a fortune at Blick stocking up on materials for my artist retreat. They were, like the trip to Ojai, my gift to myself. Forty-eight hours of art and sleep and wine. And now my ex-husband was standing in my living room in formal black tie and telling me there’d been a change of plans.
“Does she know?” I asked. Isabelle, having retreated immediately to her room—no doubt to get on her phone—had missed the entire exchange.
He shook his head. “I haven’t had time to tell her. I thought I’d wait and see if you could take them first.”
“That’s convenient.”
“Don’t start, okay?” He turned toward the door. “If you can’t do it, have her call me, and I’ll make it up the next time the group’s in town.”
It was so like him to have a Band-Aid for everything. To walk away from commitments guilt-free. Would that I had acquired that gene.
Isabelle and her two girlfriends had been counting down the days to see the band August Moon, a quintet of handsome lads from Britain who sang pleasant pop songs and drove tween girls mad. Daniel had “won” the tickets at the school silent auction. Paid some formidable amount to fly four to Vegas, stay at the Mandalay Bay, and attend the concert and a meet-and-greet with the band. Canceling now would not go over well.
“I have plans,” I said, following him out into the driveway.
He slipped around the back of the BMW and withdrew a cumbersome bag from the trunk. Isabelle’s fencing equipment. “I assumed you would. I’m sorry, Sol.”
He was quiet for a moment, drinking me in: sneakers, leggings, still damp from a five-mile run. And then: “You cut your hair.”
I nodded, my hands rising to my neck, self-conscious. It barely reached my shoulders now. My act of defiance. “It was time for a change.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re never not beautiful, are you?”
Just then the tinted window on the passenger side rolled down and a sylphlike creature leaned out and waved. Eva. My replacement.
She was wearing an emerald-green gown. Her long, honey-colored hair twisted into a chignon. There were diamonds dangling from both ears. It wasn’t enough that she was some youngish, stunning, half-Dutch, half-Chinese star associate at the firm, but that she was now sitting in Daniel’s 7 Series in my driveway looking every bit the princess while I was dripping sweat—now, that stung.
“Fine. I’ll take them.”
“Thank you,” he said, handing over the bag. “You’re the best.”
“That’s what all the boys say.”
He paused then, screwing up his aristocratic nose. I anticipated a response, but none was forthcoming. Instead he smiled blandly, leaning in to do the awkward divorcé cheek kiss. He was wearing cologne, which he’d never done in all his years with me.
I watched him make his way over to the driver’s side. “Where are you going? All dolled up…”
“Fund-raiser,” he said, getting into the car. “Katzenberg’s.” And with that, he pulled away. Leaving me holding the baggage.
*