“Do you want to still be doing this in your forties?” The idea seemed absurd.
“I don’t know. I think I just want to do it until it’s not fun anymore. Sometimes I think that could be sooner rather than later. But then, look at the Rolling Stones. They’re still having a heck of a good time.”
August Moon wasnotthe Rolling Stones. But I did not want to be the one to tell him that.
The Monday morning after the closing of Basel, I flew directly to Nice and barely had time to unpack and shower at my hotel in Cannes before Hayes sent a car and driver to retrieve me. I’d rejected his offer to stay at their villa, not liking the impression it gave, but I’d agreed to join him for the afternoon.
The estate of Domaine La Dilecta was breathtaking. Iron gates rolling back to reveal a rambling drive, acres of lush lawn, a sizable guesthouse, a majestic villa perched atop the hill—stark white against an azure sky. I could get used to this, rock star living.
He was standing there beneath the portico. Tall and slim-hipped, in head-to-toe black and Wayfarers. His jeans, skinnier than mine.
“So…” I said, stepping out of the car. “This is you?”
He smiled, leaning into me. Oh, the smell of him. “This isus.”
“It’s not a bad pad you’ve got.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Thirty million records will do that for you. Welcome. No bags?”
“I told you: I’m not staying.”
“Right.” He smiled his half smile, dimples beckoning. “No pressure.”
He took my hand then, leading me into the house, through the foyer, and up the stairs to the main floor, past room after oversized room. The architecture was Art Deco, the décor ornate. Not particularly my style, but impressive nonetheless.
“So all is well in Basel?”
“All is well in Basel.”
“Did you sell a plethora of art?” He smiled. His skin was bronzed, kissed by the Riviera sun.
“A plethora of art.” My laugh echoed over the marble floors.
It had been a week of wining and dining and posturing in a variety of languages: English and French and Italian, a smattering of German and Japanese. Lulit had bemoaned the fact that, despite the three Ivy League degrees between us, it still came down to the length of our skirts, but we’d stuck to our mantra—Go. Sell. Art. To rich white men—and sold out our entire booth at the fair.
“This place is massive.”
Hayes and I had happened into a drawing room. There was a baby grand piano in the center, and he ran his fingers over the keys as we walked through. The motion was simple, and yet the melody he’d produced was so pure, it stayed with me.
“You have to see the rest of the grounds,” he said as he continued across the space. “The record company’s treat. A little ‘Well done, lads! Have a spot of fun and then back to work, all right? But if you’re inclined to do some writing in the interim, we won’t stop you.’”
He threw open a set of doors, opening onto a grand terrace, revealing the yard in all its vast verdant glory. A bit of a ways down there was a sizable pool, a handsome pool house, and way, way beyond the rolling hills and the horizon of trees, there was the Mediterranean.
The two of us stood for a minute, soaking it in. I could barely make out a few bodies prostrate on the lounges poolside. But other than that, it felt like we had the place to ourselves.
“So,” Hayes continued, “we’re here for a few more days, and then we head into the studio to work onWise or Naked.”
“Wise or Naked?”
“The new album.”
“Oh. So which one are you?”
He laughed. “Which one would you like me to be?”
“Ideally, both.”
“Ha! That’s a flirt, not a spar.”
