“Didyouhave a good time?”
I paused at my spot before the stove where I’d been stirring risotto. Was he trying to parse out information about Hayes and me? Or was he genuinely interested in my happiness? “I did. Thank you.”
“So… this is really a thing?”
“This is really a thing.”
He nodded, leaning back on the island, stroking his chin, watching me.
“What, Daniel? What do you want to say?”
“I want to know how you see this playing out. Even if she says she’s okay with it, I want to know how having a boyfriend that famous is not going to fuck up our daughter. And when he ends it and breaks your heart, and is photographed with some nineteen-year-old model on the cover ofUs, I want to know what you think it’s going to do to Isabelle to watch you go through that.”
The risotto was boiling. There was nothing to say.
“I want you to be happy, Solène. I do. But not at the expense of our daughter.”
By Sunday, four days after the premiere, things had begun to change. Drastically. I logged on to Twitter for the first time since New York and found I had 4,563 followers. Up from my previous high of 242. I thought perhaps it was an accident until I saw my notifications, which were too many to count, too much to process. I began to scroll through them, against my better judgment and Hayes’s advice, and was shocked by what lay within.
Fuck u, u fucking bitch.
You’re pretty but you’re old af.
wtf is all this shit about you and hayes can you just confirm something so i can go on with my life, thanks
When he cums does he scream “Mommy”?
u r so pathetic. I’d be so embarrassed if you were my mom. I bet your daughter hates your guts
Don’t listen to all those bitches, Solne, they’re just jealous. You seem nice.
hi December girlfriend
What does he see in you? I can’t imagine your old ass is worth it. What are you, 50?
Holi is real. Holi is real. Holi is real. Holi is real.
Instagram was no better. Whoever held the account @Holiwater had returned to comment on every one of my photos of the past two and a half years with her signature inquiry: “Hayes?” Another, @hayesismynigga, had written “bitch,” “salope,” “connasse” over and over and over again. And yet another, @himon96, took the opportunity to write in all caps on at least a dozen photos “VINTAGE VAGINA.”
When Hayes called from his place in Shoreditch that night, the sprawling loft that I had yet to see with the Nira Ramaswami and the Tobias James gracing the walls, I tried not to let him hear the anxiety in my voice. The band was both dropping the album and premiering the movie in London on Monday, and I knew he was already overwhelmed. But immediately he sensed something was off.
“What’s wrong?”
“Twitter.”
“I’m sorry, Sol. I’m sorry.”
“They’re animals.”
“Not all of them.”
“Just the ones who write on my page?”
“I told you not to read the comments. They can be really toxic. I’m sorry.”
I thought about closing both accounts, switching them to private settings, blocking every hateful Augie. But in the end, I just put down my phone and walked away. They could not reach me if I did not let them.
On Tuesday I arrived at work shortly before ten. The others had already arrived, but the gallery was strangely quiet. I was going through my emails in the office when Lulit slipped in and shut the door.
