“Do you want to just take me back home then?”
“Ishould…” His hand had found its way beneath my “you don’t look like a mom” dress, no time wasted.
“Is this your hello?”
“This is my hello.”
“Hello, Hayes.” I trembled. His fingers, pulling aside my underwear.
“Hello, Solène.”
There was a song playing that I did not recognize, the smell of new leather, sleek lines on the dash. Where did he get this car? Did someone like Hayes Campbell just walk into Budget or Enterprise and ask for an Audi R8 Spyder? Was he evenoldenough to rent a car? So many questions. His rings, cool against my skin. His fingers.
“Did you miss me?” I spoke after several minutes, my breathing erratic.
“Not at all,” he slurred, his breath hot in my ear. “I quite enjoy being six thousand miles away from you. Especially when I come to town and you can’t manage to get a fucking sitter.” He withdrew his hand then suddenly and turned back toward the steering wheel. “Where am I going?”
It took me a moment. “Whoa. Oh-kay… Make a right on Sunset and then take it all the way down to the PCH.”
He didn’t say anything after that, but he reached out to hold my hand while he drove. And we remained that way, all the way up the coast.
Hayes’s people had found him a 5,500-square-foot sleek, contemporary house on the cliffs with heart-stopping views and retractable walls of glass and a chef’s kitchen and designer everything, and the fact that we were just visiting saddened me. Because for a moment I allowed myself to imagine what life could be like if we played house there. And maybe I could sell my half of the gallery and send Isabelle to Malibu High School and spend my days painting watercolors and making love and being happy. And then I attempted to picture Hayes as Isabelle’s stepfather and I started to laugh.
“What?” he said.
We were in the master suite and I was drinking in the view from the oversized window seat while he was riffling through his luggage.
“Nothing. I… It’s perfect here.”
“It is.”
“Is it for sale? Do you know?”
“I don’t,” he said, curt. “I’m jumping in the shower. We have reservations for Nobu at seven-thirty. That leaves about an hour to do the things I want to do to you. Don’t go anywhere.”
At Nobu, we dined under the stars. A luxuriant feast of sushi and sake and Hayes’s fingertips playing over my palm at the table. He filled me in on developments in his schedule. The album being released in December to coincide with the documentary,August Moon: Naked. The film premiere scheduled for New York. The tour that would begin in February, last a little over eight months, and take him to five different continents. I tried not to think about it all because much of it translated to time apart. And the thought of that made me miserable.
No fewer than nine people stopped by our table. Those who knew him, or claimed they knew him; three fans. Hayes was gracious at every turn, but I could see it wearing away at him.
“I probably should have picked someplace more low-profile,” he said. “But it’s Sunday. And it’s November. I assumed it would be quieter.”
“It’s still Nobu.”
He was silent for a moment, staring out toward the water. A splattering of stars, a half-moon, a seamless black horizon.
“What if I quit the band?”
“I thought you said that was impossible.”
“It’s not impossible, it’s just…complicated.”
“What would you do if you quit?”
“I don’t know.” He turned back to me then, and reached out to finger my bracelet. The cuff he’d given me in Paris. I had yet to take it off. “I’m just tired. I want a break.”
For a moment neither of us spoke. I watched his fingers tracing over the filigree. His movements slow, hypnotic.
“Why did you get into this business, Hayes? What were you expecting from it?”
