by Robinne Lee
I had no problem walking into the hotel. Hayes had said I wouldn’t. That hotel security would assume I was a guest and not question my being there. I was the right age and socioeconomic background, and I imagined most groupies did not wear The Row. Regardless, he’d had one of the band’s detail meet me in the lobby: Desmond, a stocky redhead who greeted me with a little bow before escorting me to the elevators and up to the thirty-second floor. I could only imagine what he thought my visit might entail, but if he assumed anything improper, he did not let on.
There were two additional security detail on Hayes’s floor, strolling the corridors. Perhaps this was what it felt like to have an audience with a head of state. Or clearance at the Pentagon. I’d begun to sweat.
At the end of the hall, Desmond withdrew a key card and opened the door to Hayes’s suite. I was not prepared for the commotion within. The room was cluttered with floral arrangements and fruit platters and mini-bottles of Pellegrino, although no one seemed to be eating. There was a young South Asian guy, all business, wheeling and dealing on his cell phone; two PR-type women congregated on a sofa, texting madly; a wardrobe lady holding suit jackets in both hands and giving orders to her assistant in a British-by-way-of-Jamaica accent; the aforementioned assistant traipsing back and forth to the bedroom with numerous shopping bags; a nattily dressed fellow plunking away on a laptop at the desk; and in the midst of it all: Hayes. His eyes met mine from the far side of the living room where he stood, arms outstretched, Jesus-like, while the wardrobe woman wrestled him into one of the jackets.
“Hi,” he mouthed. His lips parting into that megawatt smile.
“Hi,” I mouthed back.
Heads turned then, the entourage not so furtively checking me out. I was trying to read their looks without being read. No easy feat.
“Everyone, this is my friend Solène. Solène, everyone,” Hayes announced.
There were genuine smiles from the stylists and a nod from the guy on the phone, but there ended the hospitality. The laptop fellow was dismissive, and the sofa women were surprisingly cold. The fact that my role there had already been assessed and discredited was startling. This was precisely what I had dreaded.
It struck me then that I could not have looked like a typical groupie, and for them to dismiss me so summarily, it was quite possible that Hayes Campbell had a “type.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just going to be a few minutes more,” he said.
“No problem.”
“I don’t like this shirt, pet. Maggie, check the Prada bag in the bedroom and see what shirts they sent over.”
“What’s wrong with this shirt?” Hayes made a face. “Beverly doesn’t like my shirt.”
“I’m not crazy about the fit.” Beverly pulled at the extra material on his sides, drawing the shirt tight across Hayes’s abdomen, revealing his narrow waist. “See all this. You don’t need all this. I can take it in, but let’s see if something else fits better.”
“We have a fancy dinner tonight,” Hayes explained, “at the British Consulate General’s residence. That’s all, right?” He turned toward the women on the sofa.
“That’s all.” The blonder of the two smiled. “I’m emailing you the itinerary now. Along with your notes about Alistair’s charity.”
I was right: they were PR girls. Well-dressed, well-accessorized thirty-something women with matching Drybar blowouts. This was how I suppose Max Steinberg saw me. Perhaps he had not gotten the memo about Hayes’s type.
“I like the cut of this suit on you, but not the shirt,” Beverly mused. “Maggie!”
The wardrobe assistant emerged from the bedroom holding two dress shirts. Beverly looked them over quickly, grabbed the one on the right, and instructed Hayes to remove his clothes.
Hayes peeled off the trim suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt before grabbing option no. 2. For a prolonged moment he was there, shirtless, in the middle of the living room. The others were consumed with whatever it was they were doing, but I could not resist the temptation to ogle. He was a vision: smooth, creamy skin; broad shoulders; taut abs; sculpted arms. Flawless. So this was what twenty looked like. That sweet spot between adolescence and the moment things begin to unravel.
“Perfect,” Beverly announced when he was done buttoning the replacement shirt. “You need to stick with the Italians, pet. They cut for a slimmer build. Maggie, be a love and get me the skinny tie on the bed.”
I watched Beverly as she fussed with her muse. Arranging his collar, smoothing his lapels, tying his tie. Like a mom … if Hayes were to have a forty-something Jamaican mom.
“All right. I’m happy with this. I’m leaving a pair of dress shoes for you in the bedroom.”
“Can’t I just wear my boots?”
“No,” Beverly, Maggie, and the nattily dressed fellow on the laptop said in unison.
“Absolutely not,” one of the PR women added.
Hayes laughed, and then his eyes narrowed, sly. “I’m wearing my boots.”
Beverly made some disapproving clucking sound with her mouth as she and Maggie began assembling their various wardrobe and shopping bags. “Leave the things hanging in your closet and I’ll make sure to press them before tonight. I’ll send someone up later to polish your boots.”
“Thank you, Bev. Ooh, whose suit is that?”
“That one is for Oliver.”
“How come Ol gets all the dandy suits? Maybe I want to be a dandy. Is he wearing a bow tie? I want a bow tie.”
“You want a bow tie now?”
“Maybe.”
“Lawd Jeezum.” Beverly’s Jamaican was coming out.
“I know, I know … I’m swagger,” he laughed, turning to find me in the corner. “Solène, did you know I was ‘swagger’? That’s my official archetype. Lest you think we were interchangeable. That’s what you think when you see me, right? You think, ‘Oh, he must be the swagger one.’”
I laughed at that. As did all the other women in the room. Hayes and his loyal subjects.
The business guy who had been consumed with his phone call up until then let out a little whoop, calling our attention. “You, my friend, are going to owe me big-time.”
“TAG Heuer?” Hayes asked.
“TAG Heuer. Hi, I’m Raj. Pleasure.” He leaned in to shake my hand before turning back toward Hayes. “Yes, they’re sending over someone at three o’clock with several watches. You’re to choose one appropriate for this evening. And then another more casual for every day.”
“Well done, Raj,” laptop fellow said.
“This could be huge, Hayes. If they offer it to you, you can’t say no,” the darker of the blondes said.
“Yes, but isn’t it off-brand?”
“It’s off August Moon brand. It’s not off Hayes Campbell brand.”
Hayes was doing that thing where he pulled at his lower lip, pensive. “I just think it’s kind of elitist. I mean fourteen-year-old girls aren’t buying TAG Heuer watches.”
“They are in Dubai.” Laptop fellow again.
“You’re reaching beyond fourteen-year-old girls, mate. That’s the whole point. You’re expanding your brand. You’re redefining yourself. You’re not going to be in a boy band forever.”
Hayes turned to me then. He was so dashing in his suit. Were these people ever going to leave? “They want me to do an ad campaign for TAG Heuer. Solo. What do you think?”
All eyes were on me then, and I assumed they were wondering if and why my opinion should matter. “Who else has done them?”
“Brad, Leonardo,” Raj said.
“Who’s shooting it?”
“They have a couple of people they use for all their projects. Very competent, impeccable work, but not celebrity names.”
“So he can’t request Meisel or Leibovitz or Afanador?”
“I’m sorry, what is it you do again?” The fellow at the laptop stopped plunking.
Hayes broke into one of his half grins then. “Solène owns an art gallery in L.A.” He soun
ded almost boastful. “I trust her taste implicitly.”
I would have laughed at him had he not been staring at me so intensely. So much for secrets.
“Well,” I said after a charged moment, “if it’s good enough for Brad and Leo … go for it. Give them swagger.”
* * *
“I missed you.” Not long after the entourage had parted and Hayes had changed out of his suit, we found ourselves on the sofa. Alone.
The heightened energy of his celebrity had dissipated in the absence of those whose job it was to fawn and dote and cater. As exhilarating as the fame aspect could be, there was something appealing about him not having to be “Hayes Campbell, pop star.” Something raw, naked, accessible.
“It’s only been two weeks,” I said.
“For you it’s been two weeks. For me it’s been ten cities.” He reached for my hand then, sliding his fingers between mine. Suggestive.
“Well, if that’s how you’re measuring time—”
“Ten cities … What, thirteen shows? Three hundred fifty thousand screaming girls … who were not you.”
“No. I’ve never been a screaming girl.”
“Well, we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”
God, he was good. The ease with which he slipped in these little lines: seemingly innocuous, but loaded.
The side of his mouth was curling up in that way that I had come to adore. “What are you smiling at, Solène?”
“Nothing,” I laughed.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
He nodded, his free hand reaching up to finger my hair. I could smell whatever fragrance it was he had put on his skin. Wood and amber and lime. “You’re thinking, ‘God, I could really use some lunch right now.’”
“Yes. Exactly. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
For a moment he did not speak, and I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as his thumb traced the side of my jaw. So faint I might have imagined it.
“Okay … Let’s go out and get something to eat.”
He’d already crossed the room before I registered what was happening. “Outside?”
“Yeah. There’s a great sushi place not far from here. Do you like sushi? We can walk, it’s such a beautiful day,” he called from the closet.
It dawned on me that, sheltered in the Four Seasons fortress, he was probably not aware of the commotion he had caused on Fifty-seventh Street. “Have you seen what it’s like out there?”
He returned from the bedroom then with a pair of black boots in hand. The infamous boots, I gathered. “What? Are there a lot of fans? All right, so I’ll have Desmond take us over in a car then—”
“It’s not a matter of not walking, it’s … I don’t think you can leave the building.” The idea of trying to get through that throng accompanied by one of the objects of their desire terrified me.
“It’s really that bad?” His eyes searched mine before he made his way over to the window. But the window did not open and there was no way at that angle that he could see the street.
“Well, that’s crap,” he said, tossing the shoes aside. “They followed us over from Rockefeller after the show. Swarming the cars. Complete insanity.” He turned back to me. “I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be.”
“I really hate being locked up in here … All right, so, plan B, then? Room service? Bloody hell, that sounds not romantic at all.”
I laughed at that. “Were you trying to do romantic?”
“I was giving it a shot. Unless…” His eyes widened then. “Come with me.” He grabbed my hand, leading me toward the bedroom. Romantic, indeed.
I followed him into the room, past the bed and a wardrobe trunk marked AUGUST MOON/H. CAMPBELL, and out onto a large terrace. Spread before us was an unobstructed view of Upper Manhattan and Central Park in all her spring glory. A green oasis under a clear blue sky.
“So…” He squeezed my hand. “Lunch? Here?”
“Lunch here would be divine.”
* * *
Hayes wasted no time calling up our order, and then joined me at the railing, drinking in the view, the smell of spring, the sun. There was something so comfortable about being near him in that space. Bumping up against his tall frame. His closeness, now familiar.
“What would happen if we blew off the rest of the day and spent it together?”
“Your management would not be happy. And my partner, less so.”
“But think of the fun we could have.” His eyes lit up. They’d gone from green to blue in the sun. Mutable, like water. “Getting into trouble. Running amok in New York…”
“It’s not like we could leave. You’re like … Rapunzel up here. Locked away in your castle … with all your hair … Hayes Campbell, the new-millennium Rapunzel.”
“Rapunzel of the Four Seasons…” he said.
We laughed.
For a moment, he held my gaze and I felt that distinct rush. The realization that this attraction had ceased to be just physical. That somewhere I’d crossed over. That I liked him.
“When I was ten, I came here for the first time with my parents. We stayed in a hotel in Times Square and we visited the Statue of Liberty and did all these touristy things. We went to see Ground Zero and they were just starting to build again…”
I realized that this, what he was talking about, was only ten years ago. That I was living in Los Angeles by then, still somewhat happily married, and with a two-year-old. Our references were so far off. When the Towers came down, Hayes would have been in the equivalent of the third grade.
“There was this one afternoon,” he continued, “that we spent up in Central Park. Just walking around. And there was so much going on. These huge Latin families picnicking and playing music. People roller-skating. Blokes playing football … soccer. It was so alive and full of energy and happy. And I remember feeling it was wicked that for one afternoon I was a part of that.
“I was talking to Rory this morning, and I was telling him how brilliant it was to lose a day walking in Central Park because he’s never been. He’d never been here before the group. But then I realized, we can’t do that. I can’t do that anymore. He may never have the opportunity to do that. Which is weird, yeah? It’s a trade-off…” He was quiet for a moment, looking out toward the greenery. His stunning profile. His beautiful bones.
He turned in my direction suddenly, pressing his back up against the railing. “I’m rambling, aren’t I? Sorry. I just get going sometimes and—”
Hayes’s lips were still moving when I kissed them. This warm, wide, inviting pool that beckoned. I could not resist the bait. His youth, his beauty. And everything, everything about the moment, was wonderful.
“Oh-kay,” he said when he finally allowed me to pull away. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“Sorry. I just … Your mouth.”
“Really?” He smiled. “It wasn’t the hair?”
I began to laugh.
His large hands circled my waist, drawing me into him. “It wasn’t me waxing nostalgic about my childhood holidays? Because this one time we were in Majorca…”
“Shut up, Hayes.”
“You know this means I win, right? Because I held out longer.”
“I didn’t know it was a competition.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know it wasn’t.”
“That’s because you’re twenty.”
“Yes, well … You seem to like that.” He stopped talking and leaned in to kiss me again. Deliberate, intense. God, I had missed this. This exploration of someone new.
Eventually, he withdrew, a grin plastered across his exquisite face. “Soooo, lunch?”
* * *
Our meal passed all too quickly. Time bending and behaving in unpredictable ways. And him, sucking me in.
“Where’d you spend your childhood holidays? France?”
“Mostly.” I was watching his finger trace the lip of his glass. He had barely touched his s
andwich. “Christmas in Paris with my dad’s mom. And summers in the South with my mother’s family.”
“Are they still there?”
“My grandparents have all passed away.”
“I’m sorry…”
“It’s okay. It happens when you get to ninety.”
He smiled then. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”
“I have cousins in Geneva. I don’t see them as often as I’d like.”
“That’s not entirely a bad thing,” he croaked, his voice still hoarse from the morning’s show. “Mine serve as a brutal reminder that I’m not doing something more noble with my life.”
I smiled. “You still have time.”
“You’ll remind my parents of that, won’t you? Not that they’re not proud. I do think they’re genuinely proud. But I believe they see this as a temporary thing. Sort of ‘Oh, Hayes and his little pop group. Isn’t that nice?’”
“The burden of being an only child…”
“Yes. Sole bearer of all their dreams. Utter torture.”
I smiled at that. And yet I understood. If I calculated the time and energy Daniel and I had put into Isabelle thus far, cultivating this extraordinary person—French-immersion toddler programs, private school, fencing lessons, sleepaway camp, ballet, theater, all of it—I imagine it might be a bit of a shock if she decided to quit school and run off to join the circus. (Despite the fact that we’d footed the bill for trapeze lessons.)
“What?” He’d pushed away the dismantled turkey club and was reclining in his chair. “Your expression tells me you’re siding with them.”
“Not siding exactly…”
“But?”
I laughed. “I’m a parent. We have expectations. This is not to say I never went against my parents’ wishes, or went after things solely for me, because I did. And some of it I lived to regret and some of it I didn’t. But I think you kind of have to do that. That’s what growing up is all about.”
He was quiet for a moment. “What did you live to regret?”
“Getting married at twenty-five … which isn’t ridiculous, per se, but for me it was too young…”