Will do.
And then, much later:
Fucking paps. Sorry. Ringing you soon.
“Hi.” He called after what seemed an eternity.
“Hi, yourself. How was your flight?”
“Long.” His voice was hoarse, raspy.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. Why? Are we doing phone sex stuff again?”
I laughed. “No. Just wanted to know where you were.”
“I’m in the car. I’m coming to get you.”
“About that…” I said, and then I told him. That Daniel had flaked, that Daniel knew, that I could join him in Malibu for the evening, but that I could not stay because Isabelle would be home alone. And that I could come up during the day on Monday, but in the evening I would have to return again.
He was not happy. “What? What kind of rubbish is that?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve been on a bloody plane for eleven hours and you’re telling me you’re not coming?”
“I’m coming. I’m just not staying.”
“Can’t she sleep at a girlfriend’s or something?”
“It’s a school night.”
He paused; I could picture him at the end of the line. Fingers pulling at his hair. “Fuck Daniel.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry … And Hayes, you can’t pick me up here. Isabelle is here and I don’t want her to see you.” This last bit I whispered, from my hiding space, tucked away in the confines of my bedroom closet. This is what it had come to. “I’ll just meet you in Malibu. Okay?”
He took a moment to respond, and even in his breathing I could hear the frustration. “You still haven’t told her? Solène, what are you waiting for?”
“I tried. I couldn’t—”
“You promised—”
“I know. I will.”
“The longer you wait, the more it’s going to hurt her.”
It landed.
The line went quiet for a second, and then: “Fine. I won’t come in the house. But I’m picking you up. Meet me out front. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
*
Isabelle unwittingly watched me dress for my date with Hayes. I had told her I was going to cocktails and dinner with a couple of clients. That I would not be home too late, but that she should probably not wait up for me. And I had left it at that.
“You look beautiful,” she said, her blue eyes wide, drinking in every detail.
I’d chosen a long black silk shirtdress with a deep neckline, equal parts alluring and demure. This I had learned from my unfailingly French mother: to be both a lady and a woman.
“You don’t look like a mom,” Isabelle observed.
“What does a mom look like to you?”
“I don’t know.” She smiled. “Cartier Love bracelet? Lululemon?”
I laughed at that, her referencing the staples of private-school carpool lanes.
There were so many things I wanted to teach her. That being a mother did not have to mean no longer being a woman. That she could continue to live outside the lines. That forty was not the end. That there was more joy to be had. That there was an Act II, an Act III, an Act IV if she wanted it … But at thirteen, I imagined, she did not care. I imagined she just wanted to feel safe. I could not blame her. We had already shaken her ground.
“Am I a mom?” I asked her then, kissing her forehead.
She nodded.
“Well, then, this is what a mom looks like.”
*
For someone who’d just gotten off an eleven-hour flight, Hayes was remarkably dewy. Poreless skin, the faintest hint of stubble lining his jaw. And yet I would not let him kiss me until we’d cleared the driveway. Just in case.
“You are incorrigible,” he said. He’d pulled over the car near the bottom of the hill, in the shade of an avocado tree.
“I am?”
“You are.”
“Really?”
“You’ve fucked up everything.” He was kissing me then, one hand at the back of my head, the other between my knees.
“Do you want to just take me back home then?”
“I should…” His hand had found its way beneath my “you don’t look like a mom” dress, no time wasted.
“Is this your hello?”
“This is my hello.”
“Hello, Hayes.” I trembled. His fingers, pulling aside my underwear.
“Hello, Solène.”
There was a song playing that I did not recognize, the smell of new leather, sleek lines on the dash. Where did he get this car? Did someone like Hayes Campbell just walk into Budget or Enterprise and ask for an Audi R8 Spyder? Was he even old enough to rent a car? So many questions. His rings, cool against my skin. His fingers.
“Did you miss me?” I spoke after several minutes, my breathing erratic.
“Not at all,” he slurred, his breath hot in my ear. “I quite enjoy being six thousand miles away from you. Especially when I come to town and you can’t manage to get a fucking sitter.” He withdrew his hand then suddenly and turned back toward the steering wheel. “Where am I going?”
It took me a moment. “Whoa. Oh-kay … Make a right on Sunset and then take it all the way down to the PCH.”
He didn’t say anything after that, but he reached out to hold my hand while he drove. And we remained that way, all the way up the coast.
*
Hayes’s people had found him a 5,500-square-foot sleek, contemporary house on the cliffs with heart-stopping views and retractable walls of glass and a chef’s kitchen and designer everything, and the fact that we were just visiting saddened me. Because for a moment I allowed myself to imagine what life could be like if we played house there. And maybe I could sell my half of the gallery and send Isabelle to Malibu High School and spend my days painting watercolors and making love and being happy. And then I attempted to picture Hayes as Isabelle’s stepfather and I started to laugh.
“What?” he said.
We were in the master suite and I was drinking in the view from the oversized window seat while he was riffling through his luggage.
“Nothing. I … It’s perfect here.”
“It is.”
“Is it for sale? Do you know?”
“I don’t,” he said, curt. “I’m jumping in the shower. We have reservations for Nobu at seven-thirty. That leaves about an hour to do the things I want to do to you. Don’t go anywhere.”
*
At Nobu, we dined under the stars. A luxuriant feast of sushi and sake and Hayes’s fingertips playing over my palm at the table. He filled me in on developments in his schedule. The album being released in December to coincide with the documentary, August Moon: Naked. The film premiere scheduled for New York. The tour that would begin in February, last a little over eight months, and take him to five different continents. I tried not to think about it all because much of it translated to time apart. And the thought of that made me miserable.
No fewer than nine people stopped by our table. Those who knew him, or claimed they knew him; three fans. Hayes was gracious at every turn, but I could see it wearing away at him.
“I probably should have picked someplace more low-profile,” he said. “But it’s Sunday. And it’s November. I assumed it would be quieter.”
“It’s still Nobu.”
He was silent for a moment, staring out toward the water. A splattering of stars, a half-moon, a seamless black horizon.