by Robinne Lee
“Show-off.”
“Hey, I’m just keeping the fandom happy. If I were showing off, trust me, mate, you would know.” He smiled before turning his attention back to me. “So, shower?”
* * *
There were many words I would use to describe Hayes Campbell. “Show-off” was not one of them. But his post-tennis performance that morning was undeniably brag-worthy. Because it took a certain level of skill to make me feel dirty in the shower.
After, when we were preparing for a drive into East Hampton, he headed downstairs to find Desmond. I was still in the bathroom struggling with the buttons on the back of my dress when I heard him return to the room.
“Can you do these for me?” I asked, stepping out into the suite.
But it was Oliver who looked up from the ottoman at the foot of the bed, where he was riffling through Hayes’s weekend bag. “Hey.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Searching for headphones. I left my Beats back at the hotel in New York. Hayes said I could borrow his.”
“Do you not knock? Does no one knock here? Are there no boundaries?”
“The door was open. Sorry.”
I wanted to believe him, but something in his eyes said differently.
He turned back to the bag then and fished out Hayes’s headphones. “Got them. Thanks.”
My eyes were glued to him as he made his way across the room. When he reached the door, he stopped.
“Do you want me to fasten your dress?”
“No, thank you.”
“Do you want me to send up Hayes?”
“It’s okay. I can handle it.”
“Right then. Sorry I disturbed you.”
As he was turning to leave, he paused again, peering at something beyond my shoulder. “Chuck Close,” he said, gesturing toward the print. “Nice. Clearly, Hayes got the better setup.”
He’d said it casually, but instinct told me there was more there.
* * *
Hayes, Desmond, and I whiled away a few hours touring East Hampton and Amagansett. On the way back to the house, we made a detour to a pharmacy and Desmond ran inside, leaving us in the air-conditioned car with the engine running.
“We’re almost out of condoms,” Hayes stated, matter-of-factly.
“We are?” I could have sworn he’d opened a box yesterday. Of how many? Twelve? It took me a moment to process. “You sent Desmond in there to buy us condoms?”
He nodded from the front seat of the SUV. “I wasn’t going to send you, and it’s not like I can be seen casually buying condoms in the Hamptons on a Saturday afternoon.”
“He’s your bodyguard, Hayes.”
“Well, it is guarding a part of my body.” He smiled. “I was trying to be responsible.”
“Yes, I appreciate that. It’s just … Your life is so bizarre.”
An understatement. We’d spent most of the day in the car, thwarting any would-be photographers. I had not protested.
“Not that we really need them…” he said.
I pitched forward on the seat in order to see his face. “What do you mean, ‘not that we really need them’?”
Hayes was quiet for a moment and then he turned back to me. “I know you’re on the Pill, Solène.”
This threw me. How he knew, what it meant, what he might have been insinuating. “You went through my stuff?”
“I’ve racked up quite a few hours in hotel rooms with you these past couple of months. I might have seen it in your wash bag.”
“Might have?”
He leaned back through the gap between the seats. “Might have.”
“I’m not having sex with you without a condom, Hayes.”
“Have I asked you to?”
“I don’t know what you do when you’re not with me.”
“Why is it you think I’m doing something?”
“Because you haven’t convinced me that you’re not.”
He paused, tugging at his lower lip. I couldn’t see his eyes through his sunglasses. “They test us regularly, you know.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Management. They have to do it for insurance purposes.”
“Well, good for them. They can sleep with you, then.”
He laughed. “All right, you’ve made your point.”
I scooted back in the seat then. The elephant in the room. The idea that he was randomly hooking up with other people. That I had tacitly accepted it. I had thought the less I knew, the better. But maybe not.
“Fuck.”
I thought I said it under my breath, but he heard.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
Desmond stepped out of the pharmacy just then and started toward the car. The stocky, tattooed ginger fellow in head-to-toe black. Desmond stood out in the Hamptons.
“Can we discuss this later?” Hayes asked.
I did not respond. Later we would have sex again and again and again, and he would manage to make me forget that at this moment I was angry.
* * *
By midafternoon we were out by the pool drinking sangria in the heat. The D’Amatos’ cook had mixed a few more pitchers at our request, and Hayes, Ol, and I plowed through them with ease, while Desmond and Fergus played video games inside and Charlotte napped.
“I think I could be happy with a house in the Hamptons,” Oliver said at one point. We were all three sitting in the spa, and the millennials were discussing multimillion-dollar real estate like middle-aged men in Brentwood.
“You’d never get to use it. I’m thinking London, New York, Barbados, Los Angeles,” Hayes said. His pronunciation of Angelees always made me smile.
“I might just move in here with Dominic and Mrs. D’Amato,” Oliver teased. “I like what she’s done with the place. Solène, did you see the Hirst in the dining room?”
“I did.”
Hayes’s eyes traveled back and forth between the two of us. “How did you know that?”
“Because my mother collects art, you idiot. What does your mother collect? Right, ponies.”
“Fuck you, HK,” Hayes laughed, splashing Oliver on the far side of the spa.
“Hayes Philip Campbell is not the culture vulture he makes himself out to be.”
“Solène”—Hayes tightened his grip around my waist—“do I make myself out to be a culture vulture? Or do I mostly just sit in awe when you talk about art?”
“You mostly just sit in awe.”
“Thank you.” He beamed before turning to Oliver and sticking out his tongue. Lest I forget I was dating someone half my age.
“What are you? Twelve?”
“Sometimes…”
“All right,” I laughed, “I’m getting more sangria.”
I was already out of the spa and wrapped in my towel when he called out to me. “And see if they have any more crisps, please.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Oliver? Anything?”
“I’ll help.”
Oliver followed me up to the house, snatching a towel and wrapping it around his narrow hips en route.
“I didn’t know your mother collected art,” I said as we headed beneath the loggia and through a set of French doors leading to the kitchen.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
I stopped then, turning to look at him. Golden hair wet and swept back off his brow, hazel eyes piercing, serious mouth. He was beautiful, in a certain unattainable way.
“I suppose that’s true.”
He slipped into the pantry to find a bag of “crisps” then while I headed across the kitchen to one of the two Sub-Zeros on the far wall.
I was grabbing the pitcher of sangria from the refrigerator when I felt it: a cool fingertip tracing the span of my back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. And then it was gone. For a moment I could not move, and when I finally turned around he was on the far side of the room, bag of chips in hand, heading out.
I stood there, shaking.
Not knowing quite how to react. Because it was so subtle he could have easily denied it. So faint, I could have imagined it. But I hadn’t, and there was no mistaking his intention.
I returned to the pool eventually and dropped off the pitcher before making some pathetic excuse about needing a break from the sun and retiring to our room. He and Hayes had been laughing about something, and I could not even bring myself to look at them.
I felt sick.
Within half an hour Hayes appeared at the bedroom door. “Hey, what are you doing in here?”
“Reading,” I said, barely looking up.
“You all right? I missed you.” He planted himself at the foot of the bed.
“I just wanted to be alone for a little bit.”
“You sure everything’s all right? ’Cause I can’t really leave you alone,” he said, wrapping his hands around my feet. “I mean that kind of defeats the purpose of you being here.” He lowered his head then, kissing my ankles, my shins, my knees.
“I can’t have half an hour to myself?”
He shook his head, forced my knees open. “Nope. What are you reading?”
I held up the book. Adé: A Love Story by Rebecca Walker.
“A love story,” he said, planting kisses on the inside of my thigh. “Is it any good?”
“Yes.”
“Very good?”
“Very good.”
“Is it as good as ours?”
I laughed at that. He had my attention. “Is ours a love story?”
“I don’t know. Is it?” He took the book from my hands then and placed it on the night table, before peeling off the bottom of my bikini.
“What are you doing, Hayes?”
He smiled. “I brought my mouth.”
The thought occurred that it might not be the most opportune time to mention Oliver’s transgression.
* * *
In truth I did not know how or what exactly I would say to Hayes about what had happened. Because their relationship was already so peculiar and complicated and because what Oliver had done was relatively benign and because I did not want to be stuck in the same house with the two of them if and when things were to blow up, I kept it to myself. I managed not to be alone with him for the remainder of the weekend. And Oliver went back to being his occasionally charming, occasionally disdainful, amusing, aristocratic self. And all was well, on the surface.
* * *
On Sunday, Hayes and I took a long bike ride before having lunch in Sag Harbor and then returning for a swim. The others were elsewhere, and we relished the solitude.
“How is it I don’t tire of you?” he asked. We were drying in the sun, our lounge chairs drawn in beside each other, cozy.
I laughed at that. “Do you tire of people easily?”
He nodded, his fingertips tracing over my back. I’d untied the straps of my swimsuit to avoid tan lines but taken care to shade my face with a large hat, and he’d managed to wedge his face in next to mine beneath it.
“But not you,” he said, soft, his lips against my temple. “I never tire of you.”
“And yet…”
“And yet?”
I said nothing.
“This is about yesterday, isn’t it?”
“Here’s what I’m going to say. Once…” I rolled into him. He reached out to finger my nipple, and I stilled his hand. “Are you listening to me?”
He nodded.
“I understand you’re in this unique position, and girls are constantly falling in your lap, but you always have a choice. At some point, one way or another, you make a choice. And I’m not inclined to let this go on much longer without you making a choice. I trust you’ll let me know when that happens.”
He nodded again, slow. “I’ll let you know when that happens.”
los angeles
On the Wednesday of the second week of September, Daniel and I attended Windwood’s Eighth Grade Back-to-School Night. All summer our exchanges had been civil, perfunctory, business as usual. But there was something about him that evening that I could not quite put my finger on. He was oddly charming, attentive. After the welcome and the walk-through and the mediocre coffee, he insisted on escorting me back to the parking lot. And as we neared my car, he came out with it. “Are you seeing someone?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. You just seem happy.”
“I can’t just be happy? I have to be seeing someone?”
“That’s not what I said.” He smiled.
I watched him wave to Rose’s parents across the lot. So polished, controlled, Hollywood. The very qualities that had drawn me in that first year of grad school. He, the cocky Columbia Law student with the intense eyes and perfect pedigree. He, who had wooed me over Viennese coffee at the Hungarian Pastry Shop on Amsterdam. How quickly I’d fallen.
“Do you remember Kip Brooker?” He turned back to me. “He left Irell a few years back to go in-house at Universal? I had lunch with him the other day … His wife’s family has a place in the Hamptons. They summer in Sag Harbor every year. He told me he could have sworn he saw you there, at a restaurant, with one of those guys from August Moon. Like on a date. Which seems crazy, because…” He shook his head then, laughing. “That would just be crazy, right? For a million reasons that would be crazy.”
I smiled at that, deflecting. “Is there something you want to ask me, Daniel?”
“I thought I already did.”
“He’s a client.”
He stopped. He was not expecting confirmation. “A client?”
I nodded, watching him process. His poker face failing him.
“Is that his story or yours? Never mind. Sorry. None of my business. Get home safe,” he said, tapping the side of the Range Rover.
I’d already started the car and was adjusting my belt when he turned back and indicated for me to roll down the window.
“That’s not entirely true.” His expression was stern. “I’m going to take your word for it. But on the off chance you’re lying, I want to point out that your having any kind of relationship with this kid would likely kill Isabelle.”
“Duly noted,” I said, and closed the window.
* * *
Hayes arrived at my doorstep that Friday. In the weeks that had lapsed since our Hamptons tryst, August Moon had completed recording their album in New York. They’d taped a bunch of footage for their upcoming documentary in London. They’d performed on a popular TV show in Germany and accepted an MTV Video Music Award via satellite because they were tied up recording a charity single at home for the BBC. But Isabelle’s return from camp and the start of the new school year made it so I could not join him for any of the above. And so when Hayes booked a ticket to visit his first free weekend, I was thrilled. That it coincided with the opening of our September show made it all the more satisfying. Hayes had come to L.A. for me.
I hugged him for a very long time. And the feeling I had in his arms—protected, safe—was one I could not remember having felt in a while.
“One would think that you’d missed me,” he laughed, his face buried in my hair.
“Just a little.”
“Are you going to invite me in? Or are the Backstreet Boys still here?”
“Actually, the Monkees,” I laughed, leading him inside.
Isabelle was at school, and then fencing. We were alone.
“So, this is home?”
“This is home.” It was strange to have him in my space, his large frame filling the threshold. I had a flash of me and Isabelle dragging in our Christmas tree the previous winter and fretting it would not fit through the door.
Hayes made his way through the entry into the great room and its walls of glass. The Palisades, the Pacific, and points south dominating the view. Catalina rising like a purple phoenix at the horizon. “Bloody hell. I am truly speechless. You live here? You wake up to this every day?”
“Every day.”
“How do you manage to leave this paradise?” His eyes
were green in the light. Oh, pretty, pretty boy.
“It isn’t easy.”
“No, I don’t imagine it is.” He turned his attention to the interiors, surveying the space: the Finn Juhl coffee table and Herman Miller Tuxedo sofa in the living room, the Arne Vodder table and Hans Wegner credenza in the dining area off to the left. “Is this your midcentury furniture?”
I nodded. “You know midcentury furniture?”
“I know you like it.”
“How do you know that?”
“You told me”—he smiled—“in Las Vegas.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything … especially the things you like.”
I might have blushed then.
“Did you paint all these?” His attention had turned to the myriad watercolors I had mounted and framed salon-style on the far wall.
“Most. A couple are Isabelle’s.”
He made his way across the room to better inspect them. A mélange of landscapes and figures and still lifes. Moments I thought worth capturing. “These are beautiful, Solène. Truly.”
“Thank you.”
“I want one. Have you sold any?”
“No,” I laughed. “It’s just a hobby. I don’t sell them.”
“I still want one. Make me one.”
“Make you a watercolor? I don’t take commissions, Hayes. I do it for myself.”
He did not seem altogether satisfied with that response, but he let it go and we continued on our tour. Down the corridor with the collection of mounted family photos. Most of Isabelle, a few of younger versions of me. We’d had to rearrange them all when we removed the ones with Daniel. It was not a painless process.
Hayes stopped before a black-and-white self-portrait I’d taken my senior year at Buckingham Browne & Nichols, when I was morphing from would-be ballerina to artsy Euro prep stage. An interesting phase, to be sure: long thick hair, oversized leather jacket, angst.
He reached out to touch the frame. “How old are you here?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen,” he repeated, his finger tracing over the glass. “This. Fucking. Mouth.”
I smiled up at him.
“I dream about your mouth.”
“I dream about your dick. We’re even.”