For a moment he was quiet, staring out at the street. “My God, Sol,” he said, low, “what are people going to think?”
It struck me: the fact that in the midst of all this he was thinking about appearances and judgment. It was base and unappealing. And I had to wonder if this is how I’d come across to Hayes. Caring about how things looked and what people thought and not what truly mattered.
A couple of hikers were descending the hill, and Daniel paused until they were fully out of earshot.
“How did this even happen?” he asked. “How long has this been going on?”
I didn’t answer. My mind was off in a thousand different places, a dozen different hotel rooms. New York. Cannes. Paris.
“Are you in love with him? My God, what am I asking? He’s like eighteen.”
“He’s not eighteen.”
“Youhaveto end this.”
“Please don’t tell me what Ihaveto do.”
“Youhaveto end this. It’s like my wife is Mary Kay Letourneau.”
“I’m not your wife, Daniel.”
He froze then, realizing his error. It took him a moment to collect himself, and then: “I mentioned it to Noah, and Noah already knew. How the fuck did Noah know? Have you been talking to Noah?”
“No.”
“Then how the fuck did he know?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Soho House…”
“Soho House?”
I watched him processing, as if in slow motion. The sun glaring in his eyes.
“That washim? That washimwho came over to our table at lunch? Were you fucking him then? Were youfuckinghim when he came over and introduced himself?”
“Daniel…”
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
“Please, stop.”
“Eva’s pregnant. We’re getting married,” he spat.
If he had punched me in the face, it would not have hurt more.
“I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but it never came. I’m sorry.”
He stood there for a moment, not knowing quite what to do. And then he got into his BMW and drove away. Leaving me, once again, with the baggage.
On Monday, the day after August Moon performed “Sorrowed Talk” on the American Music Awards and walked away with four trophies, Hayes came to visit.
I had spent much of the previous Monday and Tuesday at the house in Malibu, crying. He’d held me and comforted me, and not once did he reprimand me for having waited so long. And then he expressed the desire to talk to her when things calmed down.
“I think it will only make things worse,” I’d said. We were sitting on the balcony, staring out at the waves, the rolling hills behind us.
“I don’t think it will. Part of what’s alienating her is that I don’t quite seem real. Like I’m the bloke in the poster and, to her anyway, I’m not tangible. She’s put me on some pedestal where I can’t possibly live up to whatever it is she has in her head. And she needs to see that I’m just kind of normal and human.”
“You? Normal? Human?”
