by Robinne Lee
“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.”
I laughed, setting down my fork and knife. “So how did you manage that exactly?”
“I went to Westminster, which is this pretty posh school in London where half your year ends up going to Oxford or Cambridge. And instead of that route, I decided to convince a couple of mates who I’d sung with there to join me in forming a group. We were initially supposed to be more of a pop band, but we kept losing our drummer. And Simon’s bass sucks … and we all wanted to sing lead,” he laughed. “So it was quite a bit of an interesting start. But we were lucky. We were really, really, truly lucky.”
His eyes were dancing. He was so comfortable, animated, happy.
“Is that all stuff I can find online?”
“Um, probably. Yes.”
“Hmm.” I returned to my omelet. “Tell me something I can’t find online.”
He smiled then, leaning back in his seat. “You want to know all my secrets, do you?”
“Just the big ones.”
“The big ones? Okay.” He was fingering his lower lip. I assumed it was an unconscious habit, but it worked wonders in drawing attention to his ripe mouth. “I lost my virginity to my best friend’s sister when I was fourteen. She was nineteen at the time.”
“Whoa…” It was both horrifying and impressive. “What … What did you look like at fourteen?”
“Kind of like this, but shorter. I’d just gotten my braces off,” he laughed. “So, you know, instant swagger.”
“Fourteen is so young.” I was doing my best not to picture Isabelle. Fourteen was around the corner.
“I know; it was naughty. I was naughty.”
“She was naughty. Nineteen? I assume that’s not legal in England.”
“Yes, well, since I spent two years hoping and praying it would happen, I didn’t exactly rush to file charges.” His smile was salacious. “Anyway, you’re not going to find that on the Internet, and if it ever got out it would ruin everything: friendships, the band—”
“The band?” It clicked. “Whose sister did you sleep with? Who’s your best friend, Hayes?”
For a moment, he didn’t speak, just sat there tugging on his lip, debating. And then, finally: “Oliver.”
He reached across the table for his Ray-Bans and placed them on his face.
The waiter arrived to clear our plates. Hayes declined dessert but ordered himself a pot of green tea. I did the same.
“Was it only once?”
He shook his head, a mischievous grin playing over his lips.
“Who else knows?”
“No one. Me. Penelope … that’s her name, Ol’s sister. And now you.”
It hit me, the weight of what he was saying.
“I need to see your face,” I said, reaching for his glasses. He surprised me by grabbing both my wrists. “What?”
He did not speak, lowering my hands to the banquette between us. He’d hooked his thumb inside the double leather band of my watch, and then slowly, deliberately, rubbed it against my pulse point.
“What?” I repeated.
“I just wanted to touch you.”
I heard my own breath quicken then and knew that he’d heard the same. And there I sat, transfixed, while he stroked the inside of my wrist. It was decidedly chaste, and yet he may as well have had his hand between my legs, the way it was affecting me.
Fuck.
“So,” he said after several moments had passed. “Did you come here to sell me art?”
I shook my head. Was this how he did it? The seducing? Subtle, effective, complete. They had rooms here, didn’t they?
He smiled, releasing my wrists. “No? I thought that was your intention, Solène.”
I loved the way my name sounded in his mouth. The way he savored the en. Like he was tasting it.
“You, Hayes Campbell … You are dangerous.”
“I’m not really.” He grinned, pulling off his sunglasses. “I just know what I want. And what’s the use in playing games, right?”
Our tea arrived just then. It was a flawless presentation. A still life.
“You’re on tour,” I said once we were alone again.
“I’m on tour,” he repeated.
“And then afterwards, you’re where? London?”
“I’m in London, I’m in Paris, I’m in New York … I’m all over.”
I took a moment to collect my thoughts, gazing out the window at the greenery. Nothing about this made sense. “How is this going to happen?”
Hayes slipped his hand beneath the table, grabbing mine on the banquette again, curling his finger inside my watchband. “How would you like it to happen?”
When I didn’t say anything, he added: “We c
an make it up as we go.”
“So I just meet you for lunch when you’re in L.A.?”
He nodded, biting down on his bottom lip. “And London. And Paris. And New York.”
I laughed, looking away. The realization of what I was agreeing to sinking in. The arrangement.
This was not me.
“This is insane. You realize that, right?”
“Only if someone gets hurt.”
“Someone always gets hurt, Hayes.”
He said nothing as he slid his fingers in between mine, squeezing my hand. The intimacy of the gesture threw me. I had not held a man’s hand since Daniel’s, and Hayes’s felt foreign. Large, smooth, capable; the coolness of an unexpected ring.
I shifted in my skirt, legs sticking to the leather cushion. I needed to get out of there, and yet I did not want it to end.
We finished our tea like that: fingers entwined on the banquette away from prying eyes, and the knowledge that we’d made a promise.
When the bill was paid, the maître d’ returned to our table. He asked if everything had been to our satisfaction. And then, very matter-of-factly, he said, “Mr. Campbell, I regret to inform you, it appears someone got wind of your whereabouts and there are a few paparazzi awaiting you out front. I apologize. They’re not on the premises, but they are just across the street from the valet. I wanted to give you fair warning, should you want to stagger your exit.”
Hayes took a moment to digest the information and then nodded. “Thank you, Pierre.”
“What does that mean exactly?” I asked once he’d departed.
“It means that unless you want to be on all the blogs tomorrow, you should probably leave before me.”
“Oh. Okay. So now?” I reached across the banquette for my Saint Laurent tote.
He laughed, pulling me back into him. “You don’t have to go this very moment.”
“I should, though.”
“Here’s the deal,” he said. “If we don’t walk out of the restaurant together, we risk looking guilty. But if we walk to the valet together and the cameras catch us, we risk looking guilty to a much larger audience.”
“So it’s a game?”
“It’s a game.” He slipped on his sunglasses. “You ready?”
I began to laugh. “Remind me how I ended up here again.”
“Solène”—he smiled—“it’s just lunch.”
If I’d managed to forget Hayes was a celebrity during our near two-hour meal, there was no ignoring it when we walked across the terrace of the Hotel Bel-Air restaurant. All six feet two inches of him, in black jeans and black boots. Heads turned and eyes widened and patrons gestured among themselves, and he seemed not to notice. He’d grown accustomed to tuning them out.
In the walkway, just before we reached the bridge, he stopped me, his hand on my waist, familiar. “You go on, and I’ll pop into the lounge for a bit.”
That seemed wise. Not that I couldn’t sell Hayes being a potential buyer to inquiring friends. I just wasn’t sure I could sell it to Isabelle.
He seemed to realize how close he was standing and stepped back, his fingers loosening slowly.
“Thank you,” he said, “for coming today. This was perfect.”
“It was.” We stood there for a moment, at arm’s distance, feeling the undeniable pull.
“Isabelle’s mum,” he mouthed, smiling. I wasn’t sure if he was relishing the moniker or the thought.
“Hayes Campbell.”
“I can’t kiss you here.” His voice was low, raspy.
“Who said I wanted you to?”
He laughed at that. “I want to.”
“Well, that’s problematic, then, isn’t it? You should have chosen a more secluded place.”
Hayes cocked his head, his jaw falling slack. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just messing with you,” I laughed. “This was lovely.”
“Because if you want, I could get us a room…” He grinned.
“I’m sure you could.”
“I just thought you were a respectable lady.”
“Only sometimes.” I leaned into him then to kiss his cheek. Not an art world air-kiss, but the chance to press his skin against mine, breathe in his scent, and lock it in my memory. A little like stealing. “Thank you for lunch, Mr. Campbell. ’Til next time…” And with that, I turned and walked off toward the unassuming paparazzi.
new york
There was no definitive plan. We’d parted without making specific arrangements; I went back to my full life, and he to his. And yet almost immediately, I found myself wanting to see him again.
He called from the road, every three days or so, beckoning. “Come to Seattle, Solène … Meet me in Denver, Solène … Phoenix … Houston…” And each time I declined. We were swamped at work: opening our May show for conceptual painter Nkele Okungbowa, prepping our pieces to be shown at Art Basel. Isabelle had the school play. Much as I wanted, I could not just hop on a plane at his whim and allow myself to be whisked away. I had responsibilities. I had priorities. I had concerns about how it would look.
But in mid-May, it all came together nicely when the Frieze New York art fair fell on the same weekend August Moon was scheduled to do the Today show. The trip had been on my calendar for months, and the realization that I would have the satisfaction of seeing Hayes without the moral dilemma of flying across the country for that sole purpose felt like a win. This I was able to rationalize. Even to my daughter.
I picked her up from school the Friday before, and she was still riding high from her performance in A Midsummer Night’s Dream earlier that week. “Scott, the drama teacher at the Upper School, came up to me in the hall and said he couldn’t remember when last he saw a more compelling Hermia. He said that! To me!”
She was gushing as I pulled out of the carpool area. Her smile bright, eyes dancing.
“That’s great, peanut. You were compelling. You were very, very good.”
“Yeah, but you have to say that because you’re my mom. Oh, and Ella Martin, her brother Jack played Lysander. She’s a junior and she’s like beautiful and smart and everyone loves her, and she congratulated me.”
“That’s awesome,” I said, drinking her in. Her long hair, wild, free. “How’d the algebra quiz go?”
“Blech.” She stuck out her tongue. “Torture. I’m never going to be good at math. Clearly, I didn’t get Daddy’s gene.”
“Sorry,” I laughed.
“It’s not your fault. Well, maybe a little bit.” She smiled. She was syncing her iPhone with the car stereo, thumbing through her various playlists while I navigated the traffic on Olympic. Eventually she found what she was looking for.
A piano intro began, vaguely familiar, melancholy. She leaned back in the seat, closed her eyes. “I love this song. I love this song so much.”
I did not need to ask. The vocals kicked in, the voice deep, raspy, unmistakable.
“‘Seven Minutes,’” she said. “Hayes has the sexiest voice ever…”
I could not say anything for fear of giving myself away. We sat there quietly, Hayes filling the space between us. Will you catch me if I fall? I could feel my face growing hot, his thumb on the inside of my wrist. My thoughts, indecent.
“Is my fencing tournament in San Jose next weekend?” Isabelle sat forward, breaking the spell. “Who’s taking me, you or Daddy?”
“Daddy. I’m in New York next week for Frieze. Remember?”
She sighed, sinking back into the seat. “I’d forgotten.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re always gone—”
“Izz—”
“I know, I know. It’s work.”
I reached over the console then and squeezed her hand. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”
* * *
New York was a dance, coordinating our itineraries so that Hayes and I might steal a few hours together. He was in midtown. I was staying in Soho, but commuting up to Randall’s Island for the fair. We were
not exhibiting this time around, so I’d come alone to meet with clients while Lulit held down the fort at home. There were business lunches and festive dinners and few opportunities to fraternize outside of work. But Hayes’s schedule made mine look like child’s play.
It was his grandeur, in a town as big and bustling as Manhattan, that affected me in ways I did not expect. An album promo plastered across the side of a city bus. The band’s image looming large in Times Square. The occasional tween sporting the now-familiar Petty Desires tour T-shirt. Hayes’s face greeting me at random turns. At once lovely and unsettling.
On Friday morning, I’d met Amara Winthrop, a former classmate who was now working with Gagosian’s camp, for an early breakfast at the Peninsula. I’d arrived fifteen minutes late, apologizing profusely for the abominable traffic. “Oh please,” she’d said, waving her hand. “It’s Friday. It’s the Today show. I should have warned you. I think that British boy band is playing. It’s madness out there. Latte?”
It hadn’t dawned on me until that moment that when Hayes had mentioned doing the show, he was talking about performing before close to twenty thousand in the middle of Rockefeller Plaza. That the ripple effect of him and the group singing alfresco on a Friday morning in midtown would affect me and a million others attempting to negotiate our morning commutes. I’d had this naïve idea that if I just ignored his celebrity, I would become immune to it; that it might cease to exist for me. I was wrong.
* * *
We had made tentative lunch plans. I was to meet him at the Four Seasons after spending the morning up at Frieze. He’d warned me it might be hectic, but nothing could have prepared me for the onslaught of fans surrounding the entrance of the hotel. It appeared to be some three hundred of them, swarming, swooning, waiting for a glimpse of their idols. Augies clutching photos and cell phones. Paparazzi convened and at the ready. There were barricades erected on both sides of the main entrance and the opposite side of the street. At least a dozen of the band’s security milled about, dressed in black with identifiable lanyards. Another seven or so guards in suits blocked the hotel’s entrance. And half a dozen or so of New York’s Finest. My heart was racing as I exited the Uber car. As if I’d somehow caught the girls’ excitement by my proximity. These fans were older than Isabelle and her brood. More impassioned, more determined. And being near them left me with a feeling I could not quite articulate. Along with the rush and the nerves, there was a sensation not unlike fear.