by Robinne Lee
“Is that why it didn’t last?”
“Partly. We were young. I was young. I was still figuring things out: who I was, what I wanted. And ultimately we wanted different things. I don’t think it was anyone’s fault. We’re just really different people.”
He nodded. “What is it you want, Solène?”
I hesitated. There was more than one way to interpret the question. “What everyone wants probably: to be happy. But I’m still defining that for myself. I had to redefine myself. Because I didn’t want to be just ‘Daniel’s wife’ or ‘Isabelle’s mom.’ I wanted to go back to work, and Daniel did not want that.”
“Did you resent him?”
“Eventually. And still … I don’t want to be put in a box. I want to do things that feed me. I want to surround myself with art and fascinating people and stimulating experiences … and beauty. I want to surprise myself.”
Hayes smiled then, slow, knowing. “It’s like unfolding a flower.”
“It’s what?”
“You, revealing yourself. You, who vowed to share as little as possible.”
I sat there for a moment, not speaking.
“That sounds totally corny, doesn’t it?” His cheeks flushed. “Okay, pretend I never said that.”
I laughed then. “Okay.”
* * *
Hayes walked into the crowded bar at the Crosby Street Hotel looking every bit the “swagger one.” Tall and slender in his impeccably cut suit and coiffed hair. Turning heads, per usual. We’d made plans to meet late that night after my dinner and his gala at the British Consulate. He offered to make the trek down to where I was staying in Soho. I did not doubt he would keep his word, but still there was something about his showing up when he said he would that thrilled me.
“I know why you chose this place,” he said, sidling up to me on the candy-striped banquette tucked away in the back corner.
“Do you?”
It was dark, moody, with multicolored globed lighting fixtures hanging from the ceiling.
He nodded. “The art. That humongous head in the foyer. What is that? Is that Martin Luther King?”
I started to laugh. “No. You’re funny. It’s a Jaume Plensa.”
“A who? A what?” He was loosening his tie.
“Jaume Plensa. Spanish sculptor. He’s quite good.”
“It’s a little unsettling is what it is.”
He had a point. The sculpted head stood about ten feet high in the hotel lobby. It was slightly too large for the proportions of the space, which made it all the more arresting.
“And the dogs. There’s like a pack of wild dogs out there made of paper. Papier-mâché dogs.”
“Justine Smith. She’s British.”
“Figures.” He was wriggling out of his suit jacket and paused then to take me in. “Do you know all that off the top of your head?”
I nodded. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. Plus, I’ve stayed here before.”
“Ha.” He seemed to slow down, allowing the high of wherever he was coming from to settle. His attention zooming in on me. “You look stunning.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
“God. Wow.”
It was new, my Jason Wu. Purchased especially for this trip. Oyster sequined tank and an ivory pencil skirt. Paired with Isabel Marant heels. Sexy, because I knew I would be seeing him. And because—if I was being honest with myself—I wanted to leave him wanting more. I wanted to torture him.
“I can’t even believe you’re with me,” he laughed, unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m like this kid. And you are clearly not. And I mean that in the most flattering way possible.”
“Okay, don’t ever bring that up again.”
“Okay.” His hands reached for the cocktail menu. “Are we drinking?”
“That was the plan.”
I watched him peruse the menu. Unlike Daniel, he did not need to squint, even in the half-light.
Our server showed up eventually. I chose a tequila-peach-chili-pepper concoction. And without the slightest hesitation, Hayes ordered a Laphroaig 10. Neat. The server, male, midthirties-ish, did not bat an eyelash.
“Scotch?” I asked once he’d left the table. “What are you? Sixty?”
Hayes laughed, running his hands through his hair, mussing it strategically. He’d been deconstructing since he arrived. I wasn’t certain what he was going for. Elegantly disheveled, perhaps.
“I find in America they’re less likely to ask me for ID if I sound like I know what I’m talking about. And,” he added, “I like the taste. Earthy.”
He allowed that to sit in the air. And then he smiled, coy.
“You are trouble.”
“I thought you knew that…”
“How would I? One of your many blogs? Tumblr?”
He laughed. “Oh, don’t read those, those are rubbish. Promise me you won’t read those.”
“I have no desire to,” I said. I should have added “again.” It would have been more truthful.
That first night after our lunch at the Hotel Bel-Air, while the boys were jumping around onstage across town at the Staples Center, I had locked myself in my bedroom and Googled “Hayes Campbell.” The search revealed thirty million matches, which did not seem fathomable to me. And so I hit refresh. Twice. And then over the next three hours consumed half a bottle of Shiraz while wading through site after site of all things Hayes: news items, photos, videos, blogs, fan fiction, odes to his hair.
The entire time, Isabelle had been just across the hall on the phone with her friend, oblivious to her mother going down the rabbit hole. Face-first.
But here, in the intimacy of a hotel bar, I didn’t feel any of the anxiety I had while searching the Internet. I did not feel as if I were sharing him with his twenty-two million Twitter followers. Here, tonight, in this space, he was mine. He’d made that clear.
“You’re not wearing your watch,” he said. We were two drinks in and the crowd had thinned somewhat. The music had mellowed, atmospheric trip-hop.
“I’m not.”
His hand had slipped down between the two of us and encircled my wrist. “Where is it?”
“Upstairs.”
“I’ve come to depend on your watch.”
“It’s not TAG Heuer.”
“No. It’s Hermès,” he said.
“Wow. You’re good.”
He smiled, his thumb stroking my pulse point. “I’ve gotten very good at watches lately.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment. Just sat there, allowing myself to be hypnotized by his touch. When his hand moved from my wrist to my thigh, I flinched. “Watches, huh?”
“Watches.”
“What else are you good at?”
His eyes widened then, and he let loose one of his sly smiles. “Is that a trick question? All right, I’ll have a go. Football, I mean soccer … Tennis … Downhill skiing … Chess … Foxhunting…”
At that, I laughed. “Foxhunting?”
“I was just seeing if you were paying attention.” His fingertips slipped beneath the hemline of my skirt, grazing my knee. I was paying attention, all right.
“Rowing … Squash … Badminton … Poetry … Breakdancing…”
“The worm?”
“The worm,” he laughed. “You remember that, do you? I think I won you over with that.” His fingers were moving over my skin, sensual.
“I don’t know. ‘Won me over’ sounds a little strong.” I uncrossed my legs and watched as his hand found its way between my knees. He had large, beautifully wrought hands, long fingers.
“You were interested.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re interested now.”
I nodded. My heartbeat had begun to accelerate. I took the liberty to finish what little was left in my glass. He leaned into me. But he did not kiss me, I assumed because we were not alone. Because there was another cou
ple two seats over, and a room half filled with strangers—most certainly with cell phones. It was probably for the best.
“Your turn, Solène. Tell me what you’re good at.”
“Watercolors. French. Ballet.”
“Ballet?” His hand had migrated north, his fingers pressing at the inside of my lower thigh.
“I used to do ballet. I was good.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“Wasn’t good enough.”
“Mm.” He nodded, fingers mounting. “Go on.”
“Umm…” I was losing focus. “Running. Cooking. Pilates. Spinning.”
“I’m trying to picture you doing all those at once…”
I laughed, uneasy, under the spell of his touch. Trembling, intoxicated, wet.
“I sing. Did I say that? How’d I bloody forget that?” he chuckled. “I sing. I’m quite good. I write songs. I perform. I’m good with people. I like kids.”
“I don’t think you should be talking about liking kids with your hand up my skirt.”
He smiled his half smile. “Is it up your skirt?”
“It’s up my skirt enough.”
“Do you want me to stop?” He started to withdraw.
I grabbed his wrist. “No.”
He leaned forward then and kissed me. His mouth soft, smoky from the Scotch; his tongue supple. It was brief, but he’d made his point.
His fingers persisted, the pressure alternating between soft and strong. “You know what else I’m good at?”
I nodded. Slow.
“Okay.” He smiled. “Shall we get a room?”
“I have a room.”
“Shall we go to it, then?”
“No.”
He laughed. “Do you not trust me?”
“I don’t trust me.”
“I won’t let you do anything you don’t want to do. Promise.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m not going to have sex with you, Hayes Campbell.”
“Awww.” He dropped his head. “Are we back to the first and last name?”
“That’s who you are, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but that’s more like the idea of me than … Never mind,” he trailed off. “Look, we don’t have to have sex, we can just cuddle.” He’d said this with his right hand wholly between my thighs. That he wasn’t touching my underwear was a calculated tease. Cuddle, my ass.
“Okay,” I said, my breathing labored. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to go upstairs. We’re going to fool around. We’re not going to have sex. And you’re not going to spend the night. Deal?”
“Deal.”
* * *
The rooms at the Crosby Street Hotel were finely done: individual, warm, eclectic. Unexpected patterns juxtaposed in soothing colors. Dressmaker mannequins as art. The light was low when we entered, the mood inviting. Fitting for a tryst.
“I like this,” Hayes said, laying his jacket neatly over the arm of the sofa and stooping to remove his boots.
“You’re getting awfully comfortable.”
“Am I not allowed to be? Is that not part of the deal?”
I laughed at his inquiry. He was clearly more used to this than I. Being physically and emotionally naked before someone whose middle name you did not know. I did not want to calculate how often he did this.
“Last bit.” He smiled, emptying his pants pockets onto the coffee table. An iPhone, a wallet, lip balm, and a pack of gum. Noticeably absent: a condom. Or perhaps it was in his wallet. Or his jacket pocket. I was overthinking this.
“I want to see the view. Do you want to see the view?” I stalled, making my way across the room and opening the curtains, unveiling the floor-to-ceiling industrial windows. There was something extraordinary about Manhattan at night: twinkling lights and indigo sky.
I stood there for a moment, my hands pressed against the cool panes, wondering how I’d ended up here with the boy from Isabelle’s posters. And what that would mean for our relationship going forward. She would hate me, and yet still …
“You nervous?” Hayes approached me from behind, his hands running the length of my arms.
“No,” I lied.
“Don’t be nervous, Solène. It’s just me.”
Yes, that was precisely the problem.
His closeness, which had felt so reassuring on the balcony at the Four Seasons, felt reckless here. I was suddenly aware of his height, his power. The fact that maybe I was no longer in charge.
He sensed it. His fingers slipped in between mine, holding my hands while my nerves settled. And then, when enough time had passed, he wrapped his arms around me, drawing me in closer. I could feel him—all of him—pressed up against my back.
“Hiiii,” he said, and I laughed. “You good?”
I nodded, meeting his eyes in our reflection in the glass. “I’m good.”
“You sure?” He leaned forward then and kissed my bare shoulder.
“Sure.”
“Good.” He kissed me again, and again. And again. His mouth moving over my shoulder, toward my neck, to the crook just behind my ear. He breathed me in, and I could feel it in my toes. His mouth, his tongue, his teeth on my flesh. His hand moving up over the sequins of my top to stroke my throat, angling my head toward his. He smelled of soap and Scotch, and he tasted … warm. I turned to him, devouring his mouth. And oh, the feel of his hair in my hands: thick and smooth and substantial. I probably pulled on it a little too hard.
We moved to the bed.
Hayes seated himself on the edge and had me stand in front of him. “I just want to look at you,” he said. We stayed there, my hands in his hair, his hands at my hips, running to and fro over the material. “God, you are so unbelievably sexy.”
I leaned over to kiss his dimples. They had been beckoning since the Mandalay Bay. The mileage he got out of a muscle flaw … “I bet you say that to all your fans’ mums.”
He laughed, his hands sliding down over my ass, along my thighs, to the hem of my skirt. “Not so much, no.”
I could feel the coolness of his rings at the back of my knees, teasing. I had not planned how far I’d intended this evening to go. I wasn’t certain if there was a protocol for postdivorce sex. Second date? Third? I assumed the etiquette was different than it was in one’s twenties. The need to be respected in the morning seemed less dire. Maybe none of that mattered anymore. Maybe it was all about the thrill. And surely rock stars played by different rules. We were pioneers out here, Hayes and I. Forging new territory. Making up shit as we went along.
“You know,” he said, his hands rising, hot against my skin, “I find this skirt really flattering. Truly. But I think I would like it better on the floor.”
I laughed then. “Well, that would be convenient, wouldn’t it?”
He nodded, his mouth finding mine.
“But actually,” I continued, “I’m more interested in seeing what you can do with the skirt still on.”
Hayes laughed, tossing back his head. “I appreciate the challenge.”
“I knew you would.”
He undid his tie and tossed it across the bed before lying on his back. “Come here,” he ordered. I obeyed, only pausing to remove my heels with their bondage-like ankle strap. Tonight they’d earned their keep.
Hayes hoisted me atop himself with ease, and I quickly became aware of just how inconsequential my clothing was. It did not matter that I was still wearing my skirt. I could sense his solidness beneath me, the breadth of his chest, the tightness of his stomach. His thighs … Jesus fuck, was that his dick?
“Oh.”
“Oh?” he repeated, smiling. He had one hand in my hair, the other cradling my jaw, his thumb moving over my mouth.
“Oh, that’s you,” I laughed.
“I hope it’s me. I mean, I hope someone else didn’t come up here in my stead.”
“In your ‘stead’?” I licked his thumb. “I love how proper you are.”
“Do you? Because I can do this proper thing all night long
. Or I can stop … What do you want, Solène?”
“I want you to show me what you’re good at.”
He nodded, his lips curling into a smile. And then, with little effort, he rolled me onto my back. For a moment he hovered above, his dominance palpable. “Just let me know when you want me to stop.”
My pulse had once again begun to rush. His fingers were tracing my jawline, my lips. “God, I love this mouth,” he said before moving on to my neck, pausing at the hollow, and then continuing down over my breastbone and across the fabric of my top. His touch was measured—light, but deliberate. And when the back of his hand grazed over my breasts, I heard myself inhale. His own breathing was shallow, his mouth near my ear enticing. His fingers skimmed the underside of my arm and I shuddered. That he could make something so innocent feel suggestive was a skill.
In no time, his hand was between my thighs again, forcing my skirt up north of my knees. “I’m not taking it off,” he said. But at that point it didn’t matter. I would have let him.
He shifted above me, his mouth melting into mine. His hips pinning me to the bed. His fingers titillating.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“You sure?” His voice was low, raspy. His hand had reached my crotch, and by then I was so wet it was hard to discern where my panties ended and I began.
“Yes.”
“Not taking these off either,” he reassured me, his hand stroking the thin material. “I’m not even going to push them to the side … And I’m still going to make you come.”
* * *
He kept his word.
I don’t know where I got the idea that someone his age would be overeager or inept, or that a person in his position would be used to being indulged and thus inadequate at returning the favor. But Hayes dispelled every myth. And he did so with one hand tied figuratively behind his back. The way he touched me: unhurried, focused, exact. He knew precisely what he was doing. His movements accelerating and then slowing down, repeatedly, taking me to the brink and then stopping, teasing, over and over and over again. His fingers pushing inside of me, his thumb massaging my clitoris, his pressure intense, and all this through my underwear. God bless him.
I came. And it was so unbelievably powerful, for a moment I thought I might black out. There, in Hayes Campbell’s arms, in room 1004 of the Crosby Street Hotel.