“It’s beautiful, Solène. It’s perfect.” He set the frame down before taking me in his arms. “I love it. It’s the perfect gift.”
We stood there for a long time, losing ourselves in the painting, in the moment.
“I don’t remember seeing you do this one, in these colors. They’re extraordinary.”
They were. Teal waters, charcoal mountains, the sun bursting apricot beneath a lilac sky. “I did it one morning when you were still sleeping. I thought the colors would complement the pieces you have in London.”
He stared at me for a minute, an inscrutable expression on his face. He reached to tug on his lower lip, and then: “Do you remember the house where we stayed in Malibu? It’s for sale. I looked at it yesterday. I thought you should know.”
It was loaded. What he was telling me. What I was taking from it. What he’d intended for me to take from it.
“Oh,” I said.
He laughed, uneasy. “Do you think that’s insane?”
“Maybe. A little.”
“Yeah. I thought so, too. But not so insane that I’m not considering it.”
August Moon did not win their Grammys, but that did not put a damper on our celebration. I skipped the actual awards show, and joined Hayes and the rest of them at the Ace Hotel downtown for the Universal after-party. It was crowded and loud and full of little clusters of sycophants swarming the likes of Rihanna and Katy Perry, and Sam Smith basking in the win of his myriad trophies.
The guys, whose live performance went flawlessly, were all on a high. Rory, whom I passed entering the ornate theater, literally. His eyes glazed, his face buried in the neck of some Victoria’s Secret Angel. Liam talking animatedly with a young singer I did not recognize. Green eyes dancing, pouty lips, freckles. As adorable as he was, he was never going to be the sexy one. Simon and Oliver were at the band’s reserved table, deep in conversation, when I arrived.There were a handful of pretty girls standing around the perimeter, waiting to be acknowledged, eager puppies in sequins and spandex. I leaned in to greet the guys, and Simon rose to hug me, but Oliver did not budge.
“Are you not going to say hi?”
“No. I was told I’m not to talk to you anymore. So I’m not talking to you.”
“Okay.” I smiled.
“Nice dress,” he said, and Simon laughed.
“You can’t stop yourself, mate. You’re a fucking mess.”
They were both a wee inebriated.
“I have no idea where your boyfriend is. He ran off. Champagne?”
I found Hayes eventually, on the other side of the theater, talking to a model. For fuck’s sake. Young, thin, wide-spaced eyes. She looked to be Brazilian, or Portuguese. Some exotic ethnicity that was completely his type. And for a second I felt it in my gut, the impulse to turn and run. But he looked up and his expression on seeing me was so completely smitten, if he’d felt an ounce of guilt it did not show.
“Hi. You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
He took my head in his hands and kissed me, and he smelled of citrus and amber and Scotch. And all was forgiven. Almost.
“You look amazing,” he said, low.
“Ditto.”
“This is Solène.” He turned toward the model. “And I’m sorry, what was it you said your name was?”
“Giovanna.” She smiled. Her teeth were not perfect.
“Giovanna,” he repeated. He turned back to me, a wide grin on his face. “Giovanna was just telling me how many Instagram followers she has.”
I tried not to laugh as Hayes did his best to disengage and bid his new friend adieu.
“What are you doing?” I said when we were heading back acrossthe space, weaving through the crowd and potted oversized bonsai.
