“Well, that’s telling.”
That morning, for Isabelle’s breakfast I had prepared a bowl of hot chocolate. Like I’d done when she was little, like my mother had for me, like her mother for her. And with it came a flood of memories: summers in the South of France, on the terrace beneath the pines, the hot chocolate accompanied by baguette et confiture, the smell of orange blossoms and the sea. And always most comforting on the mornings when I’d been kept up half the night by the mistral winds rattling the shutters, monsters breaking in.
“Chocolat.” Isabelle’s eyes had lit up on entering the kitchen. “Is it a special occasion?”
I’d frozen before the stove. Was it that obvious, my guilt?
She’d wrapped her thin arms around me and squeezed. “You never make it anymore. Thank you.”
*
“Are you laughing at me?” I asked Hayes now.
“Nawww… I would never do such a thing.” He had interlaced both hands behind his bonny head and was reclining on the banquette. There was something lovely about how comfortable he was in his skin. How at ease he was with his body. He owned it. He was happy with it. Boys were so different from girls.
“How’s your mum? What’d she say when you told her we were having lunch?”
“Ha!” Hayes threw back his head and let out a deep belly laugh. “You’re good.”
“You have no idea.” I had not meant to say it out loud, but there it was.
“Did you…? You’re flirting with me.”
“I’m sparring. I’m not flirting.”
“Am I to know the difference when I see it?”
“Don’t know. Depends how bright you are.”
He sat up then, erect. And then, without a hint of guile, he said: “I like you.”
“I know you do.”
“Hayes!” Some guy in a suit was approaching the table. Suits were a rarity in Los Angeles. Nine times out of ten, a guy in a suit was an agent. Five times out of ten, he could not be trusted. So said Daniel.
I noted a quick look of annoyance wash over Hayes’s features before he turned to see who was summoning him. And then like that, he turned on the charm.
“Heeeyyy.”
“Max Steinberg. WME.”
“Of course, I know exactly who you are. How are you, Max?”
“How are you? Tour’s going amazing, isn’t it? We’re all really stoked. I’m coming by Staples tomorrow night. Bringing a couple of my nieces. They couldn’t be more excited. And I caught you guys on Jimmy Kimmel last night. They’re just eating you up…”
Jimmy Kimmel? Was that before or after our phone call? Hayes had not mentioned it. I opened my mouth to say something and then stopped.
“It went well, yeah.”
“They loved you. Everyone loves you. That new ballad, ‘Seven Minutes.’ Great. And great banter. Hi, I’m Max Steinberg.” The suit leaned over to shake my hand, having finally acknowledged my presence at the table.
“Max, this is Solène Marchand.”
Max cocked his egg-shaped head, trying to place me. “You with Universal?”
“No.”
“42West?”
I shook my head.
“Solène owns an art gallery in Culver City.”
“Oh … Nice.” He did that thing Hollywood people did when they learned I wasn’t in the industry: he tuned out. “Well, okay, I won’t keep you.
“Hayes, good luck tonight, buddy. We’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll have two squealing teenagers with me. But I guess you’re used to that, huh? Just girls … everywhere … Enjoy it.” He winked. “Solène, nice meeting you. If you two haven’t ordered yet, get the halibut. It melts in your mouth.”
“So, Max Steinberg…” I said once he was out of earshot.
“Max Steinberg,” Hayes chuckled. “I’m sorry, that was rude. That ‘girls’ comment was completely unnecessary … I don’t know what he was thinking.”
“I don’t know that he was,” I said. “I find in this town men don’t even see women over a certain age. And if they do, they register them as either ‘mom’ or ‘business.’ I’m guessing he thought I worked for you. Which should show you just how inappropriate this is.”
Hayes’s mouth was agape. “I don’t even know what to say to that … I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well, good thing this is just lunch.” I smiled. “Right?”
He didn’t say anything then. Just sat there looking at me with an inscrutable expression etched into his features. I had the impulse to reach out and stroke the side of his youthful face, but already I was mixing my messages.
“What are you thinking, Hayes?”
“I’m still processing.”
“It’s okay. It’s not too late to turn back.”
Just then the waiter arrived with our plates.
The second we were left alone Hayes turned to face me. “Look, I’m not going to ask you how old you are because it’s impolite, but I want you to know there’s very little you could say that’s going to deter me. And I really don’t give a damn what people like Max think. If I did, I wouldn’t have asked you here. So no, in case you’re wondering, I’m not turning back.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” I repeated.
“Good. Cheers.”
“Thirty-nine. And a half.”
Hayes lowered his glass of Pellegrino, revealing a huge smile. “Okay. I can work with that.”
Dear God, what was I getting myself into?
*
“So,” he began, not two minutes into his grilled jidori chicken, “how did your ‘very French’ parents end up in Boston?”
I smiled. He’d remembered. “Academia. My father’s an art history professor at Harvard.”
“No pressure there.”
“None,” I laughed. “My mother was a curator.”
“So it’s the family business, art?”
“Sort of, yes. And you? Is this your family business? Was your dad a Beatle?”
“A Rolling Stone, actually…” Hayes laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No, nothing could be further off the mark. Ian Campbell is a very highly respected QC, Queen’s Counsel. I’m descended from a long line of highly respected people. On both sides. And then somehow something went wrong.”
“Something in the water in Notting Hill?”
He smiled. “Kensington. Close. Yes, perhaps. I came out singing. And writing songs. They were not amused.”
He shifted then, and his leg rubbed up against my bare knee—casual, but there was no mistaking it. For a moment he left it there, and then just as casually he drew it away.
“Did you attend Harvard?”
“I went to Brown. And then Columbia for a master’s in arts administration.”
“Did that piss the professor off?”
“A bit.” I smiled.
“Not as much as blowing off Cambridge to start a boy band, I bet.”
I laughed. “Is that what you did? Did someone put you together?”
“I put us together, thank you very much.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Does that impress you? I’m going to print up some calling cards: Hayes ‘I Put the Band Together’ Campbell.”