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 humongousheadin 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 thiskid. 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, mid-thirties-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.
