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.
“I’m sorry,” I said, reaching for his hand.
“I hate complaining about it, because it feels like I’m being unappreciative and I’m not. I know how lucky we are, how lucky I am … I know that I’m living this dream life and I don’t want to be this bastard who’s like whining, but we could all use a couple of months of just doing nothing. And if they continue to stuff us down these fans’ throats, they’re bound to lose interest. Right?” He looked to me then, sincere.
“I don’t know. I kind of like having you stuffed down my throat.”
His eyes grew wide. “You’re naughty. Come here.” He pulled me into him, my head on his shoulder, legs over his lap. “Wherever did I find you?”
“Vegas.” I smiled. “So is there nothing in your contract that addresses vacation time?”
“Vacation time. What a quaint idea. Most groups get months of downtime with the natural ebb and flow of putting out an album and supporting it, touring, and then the time it takes to gear up to do another one. We just don’t have that luxury.”
“So you’re just beholden to the record company?”
“We’re beholden to our management first, and they run a very tight ship.” His hand was in my hair, comfortable. “Oh, Graham says hello, by the way.”
“Who’s Graham?”
“Graham, with our management company. He was at lunch today. You met him in New York.”
It clicked then, the nattily dressed laptop fellow from the Four Seasons. The one who could not have been more dismissive. I’m sure he was surprised to find me still in the picture.
“Speaking of lunch…” Hayes raised his head up from the couch. “Daniel!”
“Daniel. Yes. So that’s Daniel.”
“Wow. So lunch with Daniel?” There was more than a hint of suspicion.
I laughed at that: the idea that I would entertain anything with my ex-husband ever again. “Trust me, it was just lunch.”
“I’ve seen your ‘just lunch.’ I’ve been on the receiving end of your ‘just lunch.’” He smiled. “It’s not always ‘just lunch.’”
“With Daniel, it’s just lunch,” I said definitively. “I’m going up for Parents’ Weekend at Isabelle’s camp at the end of the month and he wanted to pass on a couple of gifts for her birthday.”
He let that sit there for a moment, and then, satisfied: “How is Isabelle?”
“She’s fine.”
“What did she say when you told her about us?” His hand was on my knee, beneath the hem of my linen skirt. It had started.
“I didn’t…”
“You haven’t told her?” His eyes widened, huge blue-green pools. “What are you waiting for?”
“The right time. I was dropping her off in the wilderness for seven weeks. I didn’t think it was appropriate to lay that at her feet before heading out the gate. ‘By the way, I’m fucking one of the guys from your favorite band. Have a great summer!’”
He was quiet for a minute, thoughtful. “‘Fucking’? Is that what we’re doing?”
I paused. “Well, not right this moment. But I’m guessing soon, yeah.”
He nodded his head, slow. “And what about the in-between times? When we’re not having sex and we’re just enjoying each other’s company. Like now. What do you call that?”
It felt like a test. “Friendship?”
“Friendship,” he repeated. “So we’re just friends?”
“I don’t know. That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On how many friends you have…”
He nodded again, weighing his response. “I have a lot of friends,” he said slowly. “Most of them I’m not fucking.”
I didn’t say anything.
“What is it, Solène? What is it you don’t want to ask me?”
“I want to know if there are others.”
Hayes took his time responding. “Right now?”