*
They were spending the weekend in the Hamptons. The boys were in New York for two weeks, finishing up their album. They’d been in the studio round the clock. Hayes, longer than the rest. While the others typically laid their tracks and left, he tended to linger during the sessions. (“They’re singing my words,” he relayed. “I feel like I have a vested interest in making sure they don’t fuck it up.”) They were exhausted, but they had three days off and they wanted out of the city. Dominic D’Amato, one of the heads of the record company, had offered up his place in Bridgehampton, and Hayes insisted that I join them.
“I don’t want to infringe,” I’d said on the phone Monday night when I was back in Los Angeles from Maine.
“You’re not infringing, you’re coming as my guest.”
“I know. But I would feel uncomfortable with your record exec there—”
“He won’t be there. They’re in Ibiza for the week. Everyone is in Ibiza this week. I think Diddy’s throwing a party. Which means the Hamptons will be quiet.”
I paused, deliberating. I so wanted to see him, but I wanted it to be just us. I wanted to hole up in a hotel room with him somewhere and forget the rest of the world existed. “And the madness?” I asked.
“No madness. It’s just me and Ol and Charlotte. The others are heading down to Miami.”
I was quiet for a moment, and he jumped on it. “Good. It’s decided then. My assistant, Rana, is going to call you and arrange your ticket. She’ll get it all sorted. I’ll see you Friday.”
*
I took the red-eye, because I didn’t want to lose another full day of work. Like all galleries, we were closed on Mondays, but I was blowing off Friday and Saturday, and I did not feel wonderful about it, despite Lulit’s understanding.
“Go and have great sex and come back and tell me what it was like,” she had said.
“You have an amazing husband,” I reminded her.
She did. A doting husband, no kids. Exactly the way she wanted it.
“Which is great for like five years, and then it’s just the same guy,” she laughed. “I mean I love him to death. But it’s the same guy. Go. Have fun.”
*
Hayes was staying in one of the sky apartments at the London in midtown. A massive suite high above everything with stellar views of Central Park. He’d already departed for the studio by the time I arrived, and I made my way past the forty or so fans camped outside at nine a.m. and to reception, where I met up with Trevor, one of their security. Trevor was formidably tall and not easy to miss. He wasn’t as bulky as Desmond, Fergus, and Nick, but Hayes had said he was some sort of Krav Maga expert, and at six foot seven, he was certainly intimidating. He waited for me while I picked up the key card for “Scooby Doo’s” suite and accompanied me in the elevator to the fifty-fourth floor.
The doors rolled open, and standing in the corridor before us in full workout gear and with large headphones hanging from his neck was Simon. Even without an accompanying entourage or screaming fans, he was remarkable. Tan and blond and athletic with deep blue eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones. If Hayes was swagger, and Oliver was dandy, and Rory was the bad boy, then Simon Ludlow was definitely the David Beckham one.
“Hey.” He appeared to recognize me, extending a strapping arm to hold the doors as Trevor filed out with my bags. “You just getting in?”
“Yeah. Red-eye.”
“Ooo, brutal. Sorry.”
“Are you not in the studio today?” I asked.
“They don’t need me until eleven. I’m heading down to the gym.” This he directed at Trevor. “I’m meeting Joss there. It should be fine.”
Joss, Hayes had told me, was one of their trainers.
“Ring me if anything comes up,” Trevor said.
“Will do.”
Simon was only a couple of inches shorter than Hayes, but broader and clearly capable. It seemed bizarre to me that these guys would need bodyguards. As if a slew of thirteen-year-olds lying in wait could conceivably overwhelm them. But then I recalled that morning at the Four Seasons and the terror I’d felt; perhaps it was possible.
He stood in the frame of the elevator doors for a moment longer, as if he were trying to remember something. “How’s your daughter?” he said, finally.
“She’s fine. Thanks.”
“Good.” He smiled. “Good. Right. Have fun in the Hamptons.”
“Have fun in Miami.”
“Oh”—his smile widened—“we will.”
*
I wasted no time showering and climbing into Hayes’s unmade bed. Left on the pillow, on hotel stationery, was a handwritten note: Sorry I’m not there to greet you. Feel free to keep my bed warm. Back after 1. —H.
His penmanship was surprisingly neat. All that posh schooling. Perhaps it had been spanked into him. I smiled at the thought and curled up in the linens, reveling in the smell of his sheets, his pillow, his life.
It was the feel of him that awoke me. The inexplicable sense that the atoms of the room had rearranged themselves somehow. For a moment I was not sure where I was or how long I’d been sleeping, but finding him there, seated at the foot of the bed, watching me, filled me with such an intense happiness I was immediately fearful of it.
“Hi.” He smiled. “Nice nap?” His hair was standing on end, his youthful skin poreless in the soft blue light of the room. And I was once again overcome by his beauty.
I nodded. “You have a very nice bed.”
“It’s much nicer with you in it.”
“That’s what all the boys say.”
“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “And what about the girls?”
I laughed at that. “There haven’t been too many girls.”
“Pity. You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I think it’s too early for this conversation.”
“Too early in the day or too early in our relationship?”
“Both.”
He glanced down at his watch, one of the preferred TAG Heuers. Masculine, mature. “All right, that’s fair.”
“Are you going to come here and kiss me, or are you going to spend my entire visit at the other end of the bed?”
“That depends … What are you wearing under there?”
“Tank top. Underwear.”
“Hmm. That’s going to be a problem.”
“Is it?”
“We’ve bumped up our departure time. We chartered a seaplane. It leaves in an hour. The car’s on its way. I’m going to kiss you, but I’m going to show incredible restraint and not get into that bed. Do you think you can handle that?”
“I don’t know. You’re awfully irresistible when you’re being obnoxious.”
“You,” he said, inching toward me.
“Me?”
“You.” He kissed me, slow. He tasted like mint. Stick of postcoital gum. “You. Are going to have to wait.”
“Fine,” I said, peeling back the Italian sheets and heading across the room to the bathroom. It was a sheer tank, La Perla panties. “So are you.”