*
There was an art to traveling with the band. A calculated series of staggered entrances, exits, timed departures. There was no walking out onto the street and flagging a cab, not with two hundred girls swarming the exterior of one’s hotel. Someone—there were more security guards than I could keep track of—took our bags down ahead of time. Hayes and I rode down to the lobby with Trevor, where we met up with Oliver and Charlotte, and were then escorted out. Charlotte and I first, one after the other. Trevor leading us, a handsome black guard pulling up the rear. There were girls lining barricades on both sides of the entrance and across Fifty-fourth Street. All manners of dress, all complexions, loud. They did not seem fazed by the fact that it was ninety degrees and unbearably humid, the joy of New York in the summer.
They identified Charlotte immediately, which surprised me. I had not realized she was such a fixture in Oliver’s life. She smiled and waved faintly beneath her wide-brimmed hat, ever the duchess in training. And they, in turn, were surprisingly respectful: “Hi, Charlotte!” “How are you, Charlotte?” “Charlotte, you look beautiful!” “I love your dress!”
They ignored me.
It was probably for the best.
When we were ushered into the waiting Navigator, I allowed myself to exhale. “You handled that quite well.”
“This isn’t bad. Paris … Paris is bad. Girls running in the streets and paparazzi on scooters. The roads are narrow and there’s nowhere to go and you fear for your life. They’re particularly aggressive there. Anytime you’re walking eight security deep and it’s not enough … it’s a problem.” She said it so casually it struck me as odd. But then I thought: one would have to be terribly nonchalant to be in a relationship with one of these guys and put up with this madness on a regular basis. Or, perhaps, insane. I was not sure I was either of those.
The volume outside of the SUV rose considerably, and I looked out to see two more security emerging from the hotel. Oliver was in tow. He had a slow gait and a sly smile, and the way he walked with his hands in his trouser pockets was so effortlessly elegant and entitled, I could feel my eighteen-year-old self swooning. He was prince-like in his demeanor. As if he were strolling the grounds of Kensington Palace, engaging his subjects, and not holding court at the London. And in that moment he reminded me of a young Daniel, right down to the aristocratic nose. How I had loved him. Controlled, powerful, elegant. My Princeton fencer. Ol stopped to take a few photos, and all I could hear was “OliverOliverOliverOliver” until the pitch changed and there were incoherent shrieks and I knew without even looking that my date had exited the building.
It was strange to see Hayes from this perspective. The way he smiled easily and turned on the charm. Perfect teeth, dimples, his long torso angling over the barricades to fulfill every selfie request and hug. Like a demigod. They swayed and scrambled and screamed “Iloveyou Iloveyou Iloveyou.” “Hayes, here. Hayes, over here. Over here, Hayes!” “Hayes, I love you!” And my heart broke for every one of them.
And it broke a little for me.
And then the doors were opening and they were filing into the car, Desmond and Fergus accompanying them. When they shut the door, Trevor banged thrice on the side of the SUV and our driver pulled out.
“All good?” Hayes turned back to check on me. There was lipstick on his face, a frosty pink that I would never have worn on one side, a deep plum on the other.
I gave him a thumbs-up from the third row, and he winked in return.
“The adventure begins.” He smiled.
Three dozen or so girls were following the Navigator. Running alongside us as we headed east on Fifty-fourth. Banging on the doors each time we slowed, holding up their phones, pleading for the guys to roll down the windows.
“Is this okay? Are we okay?”
“We’re okay. They can’t see you.”
But it did not feel okay. The panting, painted faces pressing up against the window, desperate, deranged. Was this what his life was like? All the time?
“You get used to it,” Hayes said, as if reading my mind. “And this is nothing compared to Paris. You’ll see.”
“Or Peru,” Oliver tossed over his shoulder.
“Oh God, Peru,” Hayes laughed. “Desmond, remember Peru?”
Desmond looked back from his position in the front seat and grimaced. “Fucking crazy bastards.”
Somewhere around Fifth Avenue we lost the last of the fanatics and then proceeded down to Twenty-third and the FDR Drive unscathed. But my mind was still on Paris and the promise Hayes had made.
*
It took us forty-five minutes to get to Sag Harbor via seaplane. The flight out was calm, the skies clear, and the views traversing Long Island’s North Shore sublime. Sprawling mansions and fields of green, the colors vibrant and exaggerated like a David Hockney. He held my hand the entire trip, squeezing it at times, and the gesture seemed so natural and comfortable, one would have thought we were an established couple and not two mismatched people navigating an illicit arrangement.
I smiled to myself at one point during the ride, somewhere over Sands Point.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, leaning into me close, his nose buzzing my neck.
“I could be your mother.”
“You find that amusing now, do you?”
I nodded. “Just a little.”
He smiled, wry. “I’m going to make you forget that … if it’s the last thing I do.”
*
The house in Bridgehampton was a sprawling nine-thousand-square-foot shingle-style manse on 3.3 acres of manicured lawn, complete with pool, pool house, tennis courts, a putting green, formal gardens, and home theater. Naturally, it was fully staffed. We would want for nothing.
But what impressed me most was the D’Amatos’ contemporary art collection: Cy Twombly, Kara Walker, Damien Hirst, Takashi Murakami, Roy Lichtenstein. I found myself salivating at every turn. Furthermore, it was well curated. Not cluttered or intentionally ironic, but all coexisting beautifully. Each piece allowed to breathe in its own space. The D’Amatos not only had taste; they had restraint.
“What’s the wife’s name again?”
We were in our bedroom, an airy suite with views overlooking the putting green and the stretch of lawn extending to the pool. On the far wall, above the sitting area, was a framed pigment print of Kate Moss, taken by the legendary Chuck Close.
“Sylvie … Sylvia … One of those. Do you want me to introduce you?” Hayes was lying on the chaise longue, watching me unpack.
“I’d like that. Yes.”
“Where is she getting her art?”
I did a quick mental compute. “Mainly Gagosian, and probably some auctions.”
“Like that?” He nodded toward the Moss photo.
“No. That’s Chuck Close. He’s with Pace in New York. She probably bought it from them or at auction.”