Things at Marchand Raphel were once again busy after the holiday lull. Hamish Sullivan Jones, the curator from the Whitney Museum, was coming to town and had scheduled a visit at Anya Pashkov’s studio to see more of her Invisible collection. The fact that he was still interested was noteworthy. If we could land Anya an exhibition at the new Whitney with all its expectation and hype, it would be a coup. At the same time, Lulit and I were organizing our pieces to be shipped to New York for the Armory Show the first week of March.
It felt good to be back in the groove of working. To not put too much energy into the offensive voicemails and the occasional fans who showed up at the gallery randomly during the day, hoping to get a glimpse of their idol. Josephine solved our problem by hanging a “By Appointment Only” placard on the door. She fielded questions from the media with her rote response: “I’m sorry. It’s the Marchand Raphel policy to not comment on any of our associates’ private lives.” They seemed to buy that.
On Friday evening, after a day of interviews and a rehearsal at the Staples Center, Hayes dropped by the gallery to see the Finnsdottir exhibit and say hello. Matt and Josephine seemed so charmed with his genuine affability, you would have thought his celebrity hadn’t put us all out. That we hadn’t received death threats.
Lulit was a tougher nut to crack.
“So,” he said, sidling up to her in the kitchen where she was brewing a cappuccino, “I met Oprah.”
“I heard.”
“And I got a tour of her Montecito house…”
I watched him as he crossed his arms and leaned back on the counter, smiling, smug.
“She’s recently redone it and she’s got quite an art collection … but I think it’s missing a few key contemporary pieces.”
“Ha!” Lulit said, the hint of a smile. “Did you tell her that?”
“I did. And I told her I knew just the women to sell it to her. She has a few African pieces and she does all this charity work in South Africa, and so I specifically told her about you…”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did. And she said, ‘Have her get in touch with my people.’ So…” Hayes dug into the pockets of his jeans and withdrew his wallet before proffering a folded sticky note. “Oprah’s people. They’re expecting your call.”
Lulit stood there with a goofy look on her face and then turned to me in the doorway. I shrugged.
“You’re pulling my leg,” she said.
“I promise you, I’m not. And you know who Oprah is very, very good friends with?”
Lulit and I looked at each other and smiled. “The Obamas.”
“The Obamas,” Hayes said. “And last I checked, Sasha was still prime August Moon age.”
“Shut up,” Lulit laughed.
“And you thought your best friend dating a guy in a boy band was going to lead to nothing but trouble.”
“I never said that.”
Hayes cocked his head and rolled his eyes before walking out.
“Fuck, he’s good.” She smiled at me.
I nodded. “He’s good.”
*
After, we scooped up Isabelle from her fencing class, and the look on her face when Hayes walked into the gym was priceless.
“That’s quite a getup.” He smiled. “You look like a Musketeer.”
She laughed. A big, bright, confident laugh. She’d gotten her braces off two weeks prior and she was sharing it with the world.
“Holy fuck.” Hayes turned to me. “That’s your mouth.”
I gave him a look, and he turned away, and we never spoke about it again.
*
We made a quick detour to the Whole Foods in Brentwood, and no one stopped him to request a photo or an autograph or his time. And watching him openly pick out wine while Isabelle sifted through the cheese selection made me content in a way I had not been in a long time. The idea that maybe this could work.
We dined at home: ratatouille and rack of lamb. The three of us seated around the oblong table, the lights of Santa Monica twinkling in the distance. Hayes, at turns amused by Isabelle’s tales of middle school, and seemingly enamored, stealing glances at me, wistful. When Isabelle got up to clear her plate, he leaned forward, his hands flat against the rosewood.
“Do you know what this table makes me think of?” His voice was low, raspy.
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said. “So long as you’re thinking of it, too.”
*
Following dinner, when Isabelle excused herself to FaceTime her friends, I took the opportunity to lure him into my office on the pretense of checking my availability for the South American tour dates. But the second he stepped into the room, I shut the door.
“I have something for you. I wanted to give this to you before Aspen, but it wasn’t ready.”
Hayes raised an eyebrow, curious, as I handed over the large flat package that had been propped up against the far wall.
“Did you get me something for my birthday? You didn’t have to do that.”
“It’s small.”
“It doesn’t feel small. Is it art?”
“Open it.”
I watched him carefully unwrap the brown paper to unveil a float-mounted watercolor. Sunrise, as viewed from our bedroom in Anguilla. For a moment he did not speak, his eyes taking it in, and when he finally looked up at me, they were smiling. “You made this.”
“I made this.”
“You’re giving it to me?”
“I’m giving it to you. I made it for you.”
“It’s beautiful, Solène. It’s perfect.” He set the frame down before taking me in his arms. “I love it. It’s the perfect gift.”
We stood there for a long time, losing ourselves in the painting, in the moment.
“I don’t remember seeing you do this one, in these colors. They’re extraordinary.”
They were. Teal waters, charcoal mountains, the sun bursting apricot beneath a lilac sky. “I did it one morning when you were still sleeping. I thought the colors would complement the pieces you have in London.”
He stared at me for a minute, an inscrutable expression on his face. He reached to tug on his lower lip, and then: “Do you remember the house where we stayed in Malibu? It’s for sale. I looked at it yesterday. I thought you should know.”
It was loaded. What he was telling me. What I was taking from it. What he’d intended for me to take from it.
“Oh,” I said.
He laughed, uneasy. “Do you think that’s insane?”
“Maybe. A little.”
“Yeah. I thought so, too. But not so insane that I’m not considering it.”
*
August Moon did not win their Grammys, but that did not put a damper on our celebration. I skipped the actual awards show, and joined Hayes and the rest of them at the Ace Hotel downtown for the Universal after-party. It was crowded and loud and full of little clusters of sycophants swarming the likes of Rihanna and Katy Perry, and Sam Smith basking in the win of his myriad trophies.
The guys, whose live performance went flawlessly, were all on a high. Rory, whom I passed entering the ornate theater, literally. His eyes glazed, his face buried in the neck of some Victoria’s Secret Angel. Liam talking animatedly with a young singer I did not recognize. Green eyes dancing, pouty lips, freckles. As adorable as he was, he was never going to be the sexy one. Simon and Oliver were at the band’s reserved table, deep in conversation, when I arrived. There were a handful of pretty girls standing around the perimeter, waiting to be acknowledged, eager puppies in sequins and spandex. I leaned in to greet the guys, and Simon rose to hug me, but Oliver did not budge.
“Are you not going to say hi?”
“No. I was told I’m not to talk to you anymore. So I’m not talking to you.”
“Okay.” I smiled.