In the walkway, just before we reached the bridge, he stopped me, his hand on my waist, familiar. “You go on, and I’ll pop into the lounge for a bit.”
That seemed wise. Not that I couldn’t sell Hayes being a potential buyer to inquiring friends. I just wasn’t sure I could sell it to Isabelle.
He seemed to realize how close he was standing and stepped back, his fingers loosening slowly.
“Thank you,” he said, “for coming today. This was perfect.”
“It was.” We stood there for a moment, at arm’s distance, feeling the undeniable pull.
“Isabelle’s mum,” he mouthed, smiling. I wasn’t sure if he was relishing the moniker or the thought.
“Hayes Campbell.”
“I can’t kiss you here.” His voice was low, raspy.
“Who said I wanted you to?”
He laughed at that. “I want to.”
“Well, that’s problematic, then, isn’t it? You should have chosen a more secluded place.”
Hayes cocked his head, his jaw falling slack. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just messing with you,” I laughed. “This was lovely.”
“Because if you want, I could get us a room…” He grinned.
“I’m sure you could.”
“I just thought you were a respectable lady.”
“Only sometimes.” I leaned into him then to kiss his cheek. Not an art world air-kiss, but the chance to press his skin against mine, breathe in his scent, and lock it in my memory. A little like stealing. “Thank you for lunch, Mr. Campbell. ’Til next time…” And with that, I turned and walked off toward the unassuming paparazzi.
new york
There was no definitive plan. We’d parted without making specific arrangements; I went back to my full life, and he to his. And yet almost immediately, I found myself wanting to see him again.
He called from the road, every three days or so, beckoning. “Come to Seattle, Solène … Meet me in Denver, Solène … Phoenix … Houston…” And each time I declined. We were swamped at work: opening our May show for conceptual painter Nkele Okungbowa, prepping our pieces to be shown at Art Basel. Isabelle had the school play. Much as I wanted, I could not just hop on a plane at his whim and allow myself to be whisked away. I had responsibilities. I had priorities. I had concerns about how it would look.
But in mid-May, it all came together nicely when the Frieze New York art fair fell on the same weekend August Moon was scheduled to do the Today show. The trip had been on my calendar for months, and the realization that I would have the satisfaction of seeing Hayes without the moral dilemma of flying across the country for that sole purpose felt like a win. This I was able to rationalize. Even to my daughter.
I picked her up from school the Friday before, and she was still riding high from her performance in A Midsummer Night’s Dream earlier that week. “Scott, the drama teacher at the Upper School, came up to me in the hall and said he couldn’t remember when last he saw a more compelling Hermia. He said that! To me!”
She was gushing as I pulled out of the carpool area. Her smile bright, eyes dancing.
“That’s great, peanut. You were compelling. You were very, very good.”
“Yeah, but you have to say that because you’re my mom. Oh, and Ella Martin, her brother Jack played Lysander. She’s a junior and she’s like beautiful and smart and everyone loves her, and she congratulated me.”
“That’s awesome,” I said, drinking her in. Her long hair, wild, free. “How’d the algebra quiz go?”
“Blech.” She stuck out her tongue. “Torture. I’m never going to be good at math. Clearly, I didn’t get Daddy’s gene.”
“Sorry,” I laughed.
“It’s not your fault. Well, maybe a little bit.” She smiled. She was syncing her iPhone with the car stereo, thumbing through her various playlists while I navigated the traffic on Olympic. Eventually she found what she was looking for.
A piano intro began, vaguely familiar, melancholy. She leaned back in the seat, closed her eyes. “I love this song. I love this song so much.”
I did not need to ask. The vocals kicked in, the voice deep, raspy, unmistakable.
“‘Seven Minutes,’” she said. “Hayes has the sexiest voice ever…”
I could not say anything for fear of giving myself away. We sat there quietly, Hayes filling the space between us. Will you catch me if I fall? I could feel my face growing hot, his thumb on the inside of my wrist. My thoughts, indecent.
“Is my fencing tournament in San Jose next weekend?” Isabelle sat forward, breaking the spell. “Who’s taking me, you or Daddy?”
“Daddy. I’m in New York next week for Frieze. Remember?”
She sighed, sinking back into the seat. “I’d forgotten.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re always gone—”
“Izz—”
“I know, I know. It’s work.”
I reached over the console then and squeezed her hand. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”
*
New York was a dance, coordinating our itineraries so that Hayes and I might steal a few hours together. He was in midtown. I was staying in Soho, but commuting up to Randall’s Island for the fair. We were not exhibiting this time around, so I’d come alone to meet with clients while Lulit held down the fort at home. There were business lunches and festive dinners and few opportunities to fraternize outside of work. But Hayes’s schedule made mine look like child’s play.
It was his grandeur, in a town as big and bustling as Manhattan, that affected me in ways I did not expect. An album promo plastered across the side of a city bus. The band’s image looming large in Times Square. The occasional tween sporting the now-familiar Petty Desires tour T-shirt. Hayes’s face greeting me at random turns. At once lovely and unsettling.
On Friday morning, I’d met Amara Winthrop, a former classmate who was now working with Gagosian’s camp, for an early breakfast at the Peninsula. I’d arrived fifteen minutes late, apologizing profusely for the abominable traffic. “Oh please,” she’d said, waving her hand. “It’s Friday. It’s the Today show. I should have warned you. I think that British boy band is playing. It’s madness out there. Latte?”
It hadn’t dawned on me until that moment that when Hayes had mentioned doing the show, he was talking about performing before close to twenty thousand in the middle of Rockefeller Plaza. That the ripple effect of him and the group singing alfresco on a Friday morning in midtown would affect me and a million others attempting to negotiate our morning commutes. I’d had this na?ve idea that if I just ignored his celebrity, I would become immune to it; that it might cease to exist for me. I was wrong.