“Although I didn’t say that. I promise. But those are like my only five words. Anyway, she insists on staying and I tell her no and then she gets out of the bed and walks to the other side of the room and I think she’s getting her clothes, but then she opens the door to the balcony and walks out there, completely naked, and she manages to climb up onto the fucking railing and threatens to pitch herself off. And she’s sitting on it, facing me, but leaning back and she’s crying hysterically, like not playing a game or teasing, she’s bawling, and all I could think was, HolyFuckHolyFuckHolyFuckHolyFuck. And I couldn’t scream for help because I thought it would just set her off, and I couldn’t call or text anyone because my mobile was back in the room, and I couldn’t leave her, and all I could do was plead with her to come down and it was the longest, most horrific seven minutes of my life. And then finally, finally, I get her off the railing and lure her back into the room and into bed and then I just held her until she stopped crying and fell asleep, which took like two hours, and at that point I texted Desmond and he came and got her the fuck out of there.”
For a moment I was speechless. And then a random thought came to mind. “Seven minutes.”
He nodded, slow. “Seven minutes, yeah.”
“Do people know what it’s about?”
“No one knows what it’s about. Well, maybe Desmond…”
“Oh, Hayes, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well … It taught me to be a little more selective about who I bring back to my hotel room.”
I was quiet for a moment, respectful. “I thought it was about falling in love.”
He shook his head. “It’s about falling.”
*
On Tuesday, the boys headed out to Bogotá. And I went back to work.
south america
Friday morning, on my way to Marchand Raphel, Hayes called from Colombia.
“It’s crazy here, Sol. Our security is at a level I’ve never seen. There are about two hundred of them, and they’re armed. Like military specialists. They follow us everywhere.”
“What are they protecting you from? Fourteen-year-old girls trying to kiss you?”
“Yes,” he laughed. “Exactly.”
“Seriously.”
“Kidnappers. Apparently that’s a problem.”
“Be safe, okay.”
“You be safe. I have armed guards following me to the loo. I think I’m good.”
The phone signaled then. The gallery. I told Hayes I would call him back, and switched over to a frazzled-sounding Lulit. “Are you on your way in?”
“Yes, we’ve got Cecilia Chen at ten.”
Cecilia was an established photographer and director of art films. Caribbean born, New York bred, she’d spent the last twenty years in Paris building up a portfolio of exceptional work and was now looking to relocate to Los Angeles. She’d come recommended by one of our current artists, Pilar Anchorena. Cecilia also happened to be black, Asian, and female, the holy triumvirate of Marchand Raphel. Lulit and I were looking forward to meeting with her.
“It’s been canceled,” Lulit said then, “but just … hurry.”
“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“Everything’s okay. Just waiting for you.”
But she had not been truthful. There were two police cruisers in front of the gallery when I approached, and immediately the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Three officers had congregated in front of our building, talking, milling, one writing in a notepad, a fourth seated in one of the cars. Things were not okay.
I parked in my spot behind the gallery and entered through the back door.
Lulit, Matt, and Josephine were all standing in the kitchen, their faces solemn.
“What happened? Was there a burglary?”
They looked at me. Funny. But not talking. Matt sipped from his espresso.
“What happened?”
“We had an incident,” Josephine said. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just graffiti.”
“Then why are the police here?”
Lulit took a moment to respond. “They’re taking it pretty seriously.”
“They’re taking what pretty seriously?”
Without speaking she grabbed my hand and walked me through the gallery, to the front entrance and out the door. There, on the lower part of the white brick wall that had been blocked from my view by the police cars, spray-painted in large black letters, were the words DIE WHORE.
“Oh my God. OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod. Is this for me? Is this about me? Is this because of me?” My head was spinning and I could not feel my legs. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Let’s go inside,” Lulit said, taking me by the arm.
“I’m going to be sick.”
“You’re not going to be sick. You’re going to be fine.”
I’d begun to shake. “Those fucking fans. Those fucking crazy fans.”
“All right … Let’s get you a glass of water. Jo, can you get her some water? They’re going to want to ask you some questions, but it’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.”
“It’s going to be okay. They’ve photographed it. They’ve dusted for prints. They’re going to check the camera footage. It’s probably just a couple of teenage girls. It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s not okay, Lulit.”
“Look at me. Look at me. It’s going to be okay.”
She led me back into our office and sat me down, and I could not keep my water from sloshing out of the glass, I was shaking so.
“Who called the police?”
“Josephine did. She told them what was going on, the phone calls, the threats. They came immediately.”
Josephine was flustered. “I know you said to use discretion, I know you said ‘No comment,’ but I thought this was a pretty big deal. I’m sorry.”
“No. You did the right thing.” My mind was racing. “Are they going to paint it? Can we paint it? Can we get rid of it before the press gets ahold of it? Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m even saying this.
“Those fucking … bitches,” I said. And then I started to laugh. We all did. “It’s not funny. I feel like I’m in high school. Except I never even got to date the cute guy in high school. Can’t I just enjoy this? It’s not fair.”
“I say we find those bitches,” Matt said, “and then we beat their asses. Who’s down? We’ve got box cutters in the back.”
*
If ever I had doubted my team, I appreciated them anew that morning. The way they rallied for me. They were so calm and collected, and they went about the rest of the day as if I had not potentially put us all in danger.
“Thank you,” I said to Lulit, later that afternoon, in the office.
“For what?”
“For not saying ‘I told you so.’”
She laughed at that. “Hey, even I could not have dreamt up this. I just told you to use a condom.”
“Hmm.” I smiled. “You did.”
Lulit peered into my eyes for a minute and then frowned, shaking her head. “Whatever. It’s your vagina.”
*
Isabelle had a sleepover at Rose’s. The girls’ friendship had been strained since November, and I knew it had everything to do with my romance with Hayes. The idea that my daughter’s relationships were unraveling because I had found love seemed like a cruel and poorly timed joke. And yet another reminder that it wasn’t “Just us. Fuck everything else.” Rose had invited both her and Georgia that night to watch Friday the 13th, and Isabelle was thrilled to be back in her good graces. I dropped her off in Westwood and returned to the house alone, still a little on edge from that morning’s incident.