The Idea of You: A Novel

There was no definitive plan. We’d parted without making specific arrangements; I went back to my full life, and he to his. And yet almost immediately, I found myself wanting to see him again.

He called from the road, every three days or so, beckoning. “Come to Seattle, Solène … Meet me in Denver, Solène … Phoenix … Houston…” And each time I declined. We were swamped at work: opening our May show for conceptual painter Nkele Okungbowa, prepping our pieces to be shown at Art Basel. Isabelle had the school play. Much as I wanted, I could not just hop on a plane at his whim and allow myself to be whisked away. I had responsibilities. I had priorities. I had concerns about how it would look.

But in mid-May, it all came together nicely when the Frieze New York art fair fell on the same weekend August Moon was scheduled to do the Today show. The trip had been on my calendar for months, and the realization that I would have the satisfaction of seeing Hayes without the moral dilemma of flying across the country for that sole purpose felt like a win. This I was able to rationalize. Even to my daughter.

I picked her up from school the Friday before, and she was still riding high from her performance in A Midsummer Night’s Dream earlier that week. “Scott, the drama teacher at the Upper School, came up to me in the hall and said he couldn’t remember when last he saw a more compelling Hermia. He said that! To me!”

She was gushing as I pulled out of the carpool area. Her smile bright, eyes dancing.

“That’s great, peanut. You were compelling. You were very, very good.”

“Yeah, but you have to say that because you’re my mom. Oh, and Ella Martin, her brother Jack played Lysander. She’s a junior and she’s like beautiful and smart and everyone loves her, and she congratulated me.”

“That’s awesome,” I said, drinking her in. Her long hair, wild, free. “How’d the algebra quiz go?”

“Blech.” She stuck out her tongue. “Torture. I’m never going to be good at math. Clearly, I didn’t get Daddy’s gene.”

“Sorry,” I laughed.

“It’s not your fault. Well, maybe a little bit.” She smiled. She was syncing her iPhone with the car stereo, thumbing through her various playlists while I navigated the traffic on Olympic. Eventually she found what she was looking for.

A piano intro began, vaguely familiar, melancholy. She leaned back in the seat, closed her eyes. “I love this song. I love this song so much.”

I did not need to ask. The vocals kicked in, the voice deep, raspy, unmistakable.

“‘Seven Minutes,’” she said. “Hayes has the sexiest voice ever…”

I could not say anything for fear of giving myself away. We sat there quietly, Hayes filling the space between us. Will you catch me if I fall? I could feel my face growing hot, his thumb on the inside of my wrist. My thoughts, indecent.

“Is my fencing tournament in San Jose next weekend?” Isabelle sat forward, breaking the spell. “Who’s taking me, you or Daddy?”

“Daddy. I’m in New York next week for Frieze. Remember?”

She sighed, sinking back into the seat. “I’d forgotten.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re always gone—”

“Izz—”

“I know, I know. It’s work.”

I reached over the console then and squeezed her hand. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

*   *   *

New York was a dance, coordinating our itineraries so that Hayes and I might steal a few hours together. He was in midtown. I was staying in Soho, but commuting up to Randall’s Island for the fair. We were not exhibiting this time around, so I’d come alone to meet with clients while Lulit held down the fort at home. There were business lunches and festive dinners and few opportunities to fraternize outside of work. But Hayes’s schedule made mine look like child’s play.

It was his grandeur, in a town as big and bustling as Manhattan, that affected me in ways I did not expect. An album promo plastered across the side of a city bus. The band’s image looming large in Times Square. The occasional tween sporting the now-familiar Petty Desires tour T-shirt. Hayes’s face greeting me at random turns. At once lovely and unsettling.

On Friday morning, I’d met Amara Winthrop, a former classmate who was now working with Gagosian’s camp, for an early breakfast at the Peninsula. I’d arrived fifteen minutes late, apologizing profusely for the abominable traffic. “Oh please,” she’d said, waving her hand. “It’s Friday. It’s the Today show. I should have warned you. I think that British boy band is playing. It’s madness out there. Latte?”

It hadn’t dawned on me until that moment that when Hayes had mentioned doing the show, he was talking about performing before close to twenty thousand in the middle of Rockefeller Plaza. That the ripple effect of him and the group singing alfresco on a Friday morning in midtown would affect me and a million others attempting to negotiate our morning commutes. I’d had this naïve idea that if I just ignored his celebrity, I would become immune to it; that it might cease to exist for me. I was wrong.

*   *   *

We had made tentative lunch plans. I was to meet him at the Four Seasons after spending the morning up at Frieze. He’d warned me it might be hectic, but nothing could have prepared me for the onslaught of fans surrounding the entrance of the hotel. It appeared to be some three hundred of them, swarming, swooning, waiting for a glimpse of their idols. Augies clutching photos and cell phones. Paparazzi convened and at the ready. There were barricades erected on both sides of the main entrance and the opposite side of the street. At least a dozen of the band’s security milled about, dressed in black with identifiable lanyards. Another seven or so guards in suits blocked the hotel’s entrance. And half a dozen or so of New York’s Finest. My heart was racing as I exited the Uber car. As if I’d somehow caught the girls’ excitement by my proximity. These fans were older than Isabelle and her brood. More impassioned, more determined. And being near them left me with a feeling I could not quite articulate. Along with the rush and the nerves, there was a sensation not unlike fear.

I had no problem walking into the hotel. Hayes had said I wouldn’t. That hotel security would assume I was a guest and not question my being there. I was the right age and socioeconomic background, and I imagined most groupies did not wear The Row. Regardless, he’d had one of the band’s detail meet me in the lobby: Desmond, a stocky redhead who greeted me with a little bow before escorting me to the elevators and up to the thirty-second floor. I could only imagine what he thought my visit might entail, but if he assumed anything improper, he did not let on.

There were two additional security detail on Hayes’s floor, strolling the corridors. Perhaps this was what it felt like to have an audience with a head of state. Or clearance at the Pentagon. I’d begun to sweat.

At the end of the hall, Desmond withdrew a key card and opened the door to Hayes’s suite. I was not prepared for the commotion within. The room was cluttered with floral arrangements and fruit platters and mini-bottles of Pellegrino, although no one seemed to be eating. There was a young South Asian guy, all business, wheeling and dealing on his cell phone; two PR-type women congregated on a sofa, texting madly; a wardrobe lady holding suit jackets in both hands and giving orders to her assistant in a British-by-way-of-Jamaica accent; the aforementioned assistant traipsing back and forth to the bedroom with numerous shopping bags; a nattily dressed fellow plunking away on a laptop at the desk; and in the midst of it all: Hayes. His eyes met mine from the far side of the living room where he stood, arms outstretched, Jesus-like, while the wardrobe woman wrestled him into one of the jackets.

“Hi,” he mouthed. His lips parting into that megawatt smile.

“Hi,” I mouthed back.

Heads turned then, the entourage not so furtively checking me out. I was trying to read their looks without being read. No easy feat.

“Everyone, this is my friend Solène. Solène, everyone,” Hayes announced.

There were genuine smiles from the stylists and a nod from the guy on the phone, but there ended the hospitality. The laptop fellow was dismissive, and the sofa women were surprisingly cold. The fact that my role there had already been assessed and discredited was startling. This was precisely what I had dreaded.

It struck me then that I could not have looked like a typical groupie, and for them to dismiss me so summarily, it was quite possible that Hayes Campbell had a “type.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just going to be a few minutes more,” he said.

“No problem.”

“I don’t like this shirt, pet. Maggie, check the Prada bag in the bedroom and see what shirts they sent over.”

“What’s wrong with this shirt?” Hayes made a face. “Beverly doesn’t like my shirt.”

“I’m not crazy about the fit.” Beverly pulled at the extra material on his sides, drawing the shirt tight across Hayes’s abdomen, revealing his narrow waist. “See all this. You don’t need all this. I can take it in, but let’s see if something else fits better.”

“We have a fancy dinner tonight,” Hayes explained, “at the British Consulate General’s residence. That’s all, right?” He turned toward the women on the sofa.

“That’s all.” The blonder of the two smiled. “I’m emailing you the itinerary now. Along with your notes about Alistair’s charity.”

I was right: they were PR girls. Well-dressed, well-accessorized thirty-something women with matching Drybar blowouts. This was how I suppose Max Steinberg saw me. Perhaps he had not gotten the memo about Hayes’s type.

“I like the cut of this suit on you, but not the shirt,” Beverly mused. “Maggie!”

The wardrobe assistant emerged from the bedroom holding two dress shirts. Beverly looked them over quickly, grabbed the one on the right, and instructed Hayes to remove his clothes.

Hayes peeled off the trim suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt before grabbing option no. 2. For a prolonged moment he was there, shirtless, in the middle of the living room. The others were consumed with whatever it was they were doing, but I could not resist the temptation to ogle. He was a vision: smooth, creamy skin; broad shoulders; taut abs; sculpted arms. Flawless. So this was what twenty looked like. That sweet spot between adolescence and the moment things begin to unravel.

“Perfect,” Beverly announced when he was done buttoning the replacement shirt. “You need to stick with the Italians, pet. They cut for a slimmer build. Maggie, be a love and get me the skinny tie on the bed.”

I watched Beverly as she fussed with her muse. Arranging his collar, smoothing his lapels, tying his tie. Like a mom … if Hayes were to have a forty-something Jamaican mom.

“All right. I’m happy with this. I’m leaving a pair of dress shoes for you in the bedroom.”

“Can’t I just wear my boots?”

“No,” Beverly, Maggie, and the nattily dressed fellow on the laptop said in unison.

“Absolutely not,” one of the PR women added.

Hayes laughed, and then his eyes narrowed, sly. “I’m wearing my boots.”

Beverly made some disapproving clucking sound with her mouth as she and Maggie began assembling their various wardrobe and shopping bags. “Leave the things hanging in your closet and I’ll make sure to press them before tonight. I’ll send someone up later to polish your boots.”

“Thank you, Bev. Ooh, whose suit is that?”

“That one is for Oliver.”

“How come Ol gets all the dandy suits? Maybe I want to be a dandy. Is he wearing a bow tie? I want a bow tie.”

“You want a bow tie now?”

“Maybe.”

“Lawd Jeezum.” Beverly’s Jamaican was coming out.

“I know, I know … I’m swagger,” he laughed, turning to find me in the corner. “Solène, did you know I was ‘swagger’? That’s my official archetype. Lest you think we were interchangeable. That’s what you think when you see me, right? You think, ‘Oh, he must be the swagger one.’”

I laughed at that. As did all the other women in the room. Hayes and his loyal subjects.

The business guy who had been consumed with his phone call up until then let out a little whoop, calling our attention. “You, my friend, are going to owe me big-time.”

“TAG Heuer?” Hayes asked.

“TAG Heuer. Hi, I’m Raj. Pleasure.” He leaned in to shake my hand before turning back toward Hayes. “Yes, they’re sending over someone at three o’clock with several watches. You’re to choose one appropriate for this evening. And then another more casual for every day.”

“Well done, Raj,” laptop fellow said.

“This could be huge, Hayes. If they offer it to you, you can’t say no,” the darker of the blondes said.

“Yes, but isn’t it off-brand?”

“It’s off August Moon brand. It’s not off Hayes Campbell brand.”

Hayes was doing that thing where he pulled at his lower lip, pensive. “I just think it’s kind of elitist. I mean fourteen-year-old girls aren’t buying TAG Heuer watches.”

“They are in Dubai.” Laptop fellow again.

“You’re reaching beyond fourteen-year-old girls, mate. That’s the whole point. You’re expanding your brand. You’re redefining yourself. You’re not going to be in a boy band forever.”

Hayes turned to me then. He was so dashing in his suit. Were these people ever going to leave? “They want me to do an ad campaign for TAG Heuer. Solo. What do you think?”

All eyes were on me then, and I assumed they were wondering if and why my opinion should matter. “Who else has done them?”

“Brad, Leonardo,” Raj said.

“Who’s shooting it?”

“They have a couple of people they use for all their projects. Very competent, impeccable work, but not celebrity names.”

“So he can’t request Meisel or Leibovitz or Afanador?”

“I’m sorry, what is it you do again?” The fellow at the laptop stopped plunking.

Hayes broke into one of his half grins then. “Solène owns an art gallery in L.A.” He sounded almost boastful. “I trust her taste implicitly.”

I would have laughed at him had he not been staring at me so intensely. So much for secrets.

“Well,” I said after a charged moment, “if it’s good enough for Brad and Leo … go for it. Give them swagger.”

*   *   *

“I missed you.” Not long after the entourage had parted and Hayes had changed out of his suit, we found ourselves on the sofa. Alone.

The heightened energy of his celebrity had dissipated in the absence of those whose job it was to fawn and dote and cater. As exhilarating as the fame aspect could be, there was something appealing about him not having to be “Hayes Campbell, pop star.” Something raw, naked, accessible.

“It’s only been two weeks,” I said.

“For you it’s been two weeks. For me it’s been ten cities.” He reached for my hand then, sliding his fingers between mine. Suggestive.

“Well, if that’s how you’re measuring time—”

“Ten cities … What, thirteen shows? Three hundred fifty thousand screaming girls … who were not you.”

“No. I’ve never been a screaming girl.”

“Well, we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”

God, he was good. The ease with which he slipped in these little lines: seemingly innocuous, but loaded.

The side of his mouth was curling up in that way that I had come to adore. “What are you smiling at, Solène?”

“Nothing,” I laughed.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?”

He nodded, his free hand reaching up to finger my hair. I could smell whatever fragrance it was he had put on his skin. Wood and amber and lime. “You’re thinking, ‘God, I could really use some lunch right now.’”

“Yes. Exactly. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

For a moment he did not speak, and I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as his thumb traced the side of my jaw. So faint I might have imagined it.

“Okay … Let’s go out and get something to eat.”

He’d already crossed the room before I registered what was happening. “Outside?”

“Yeah. There’s a great sushi place not far from here. Do you like sushi? We can walk, it’s such a beautiful day,” he called from the closet.

It dawned on me that, sheltered in the Four Seasons fortress, he was probably not aware of the commotion he had caused on Fifty-seventh Street. “Have you seen what it’s like out there?”

He returned from the bedroom then with a pair of black boots in hand. The infamous boots, I gathered. “What? Are there a lot of fans? All right, so I’ll have Desmond take us over in a car then—”

“It’s not a matter of not walking, it’s … I don’t think you can leave the building.” The idea of trying to get through that throng accompanied by one of the objects of their desire terrified me.

“It’s really that bad?” His eyes searched mine before he made his way over to the window. But the window did not open and there was no way at that angle that he could see the street.

“Well, that’s crap,” he said, tossing the shoes aside. “They followed us over from Rockefeller after the show. Swarming the cars. Complete insanity.” He turned back to me. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.”

“I really hate being locked up in here … All right, so, plan B, then? Room service? Bloody hell, that sounds not romantic at all.”

I laughed at that. “Were you trying to do romantic?”

“I was giving it a shot. Unless…” His eyes widened then. “Come with me.” He grabbed my hand, leading me toward the bedroom. Romantic, indeed.

I followed him into the room, past the bed and a wardrobe trunk marked AUGUST MOON/H. CAMPBELL, and out onto a large terrace. Spread before us was an unobstructed view of Upper Manhattan and Central Park in all her spring glory. A green oasis under a clear blue sky.

“So…” He squeezed my hand. “Lunch? Here?”

“Lunch here would be divine.”

*   *   *

Hayes wasted no time calling up our order, and then joined me at the railing, drinking in the view, the smell of spring, the sun. There was something so comfortable about being near him in that space. Bumping up against his tall frame. His closeness, now familiar.

“What would happen if we blew off the rest of the day and spent it together?”

“Your management would not be happy. And my partner, less so.”

“But think of the fun we could have.” His eyes lit up. They’d gone from green to blue in the sun. Mutable, like water. “Getting into trouble. Running amok in New York…”

“It’s not like we could leave. You’re like … Rapunzel up here. Locked away in your castle … with all your hair … Hayes Campbell, the new-millennium Rapunzel.”

“Rapunzel of the Four Seasons…” he said.

We laughed.

For a moment, he held my gaze and I felt that distinct rush. The realization that this attraction had ceased to be just physical. That somewhere I’d crossed over. That I liked him.

“When I was ten, I came here for the first time with my parents. We stayed in a hotel in Times Square and we visited the Statue of Liberty and did all these touristy things. We went to see Ground Zero and they were just starting to build again…”

I realized that this, what he was talking about, was only ten years ago. That I was living in Los Angeles by then, still somewhat happily married, and with a two-year-old. Our references were so far off. When the Towers came down, Hayes would have been in the equivalent of the third grade.

“There was this one afternoon,” he continued, “that we spent up in Central Park. Just walking around. And there was so much going on. These huge Latin families picnicking and playing music. People roller-skating. Blokes playing football … soccer. It was so alive and full of energy and happy. And I remember feeling it was wicked that for one afternoon I was a part of that.

“I was talking to Rory this morning, and I was telling him how brilliant it was to lose a day walking in Central Park because he’s never been. He’d never been here before the group. But then I realized, we can’t do that. I can’t do that anymore. He may never have the opportunity to do that. Which is weird, yeah? It’s a trade-off…” He was quiet for a moment, looking out toward the greenery. His stunning profile. His beautiful bones.

He turned in my direction suddenly, pressing his back up against the railing. “I’m rambling, aren’t I? Sorry. I just get going sometimes and—”

Hayes’s lips were still moving when I kissed them. This warm, wide, inviting pool that beckoned. I could not resist the bait. His youth, his beauty. And everything, everything about the moment, was wonderful.

“Oh-kay,” he said when he finally allowed me to pull away. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“Sorry. I just … Your mouth.”

“Really?” He smiled. “It wasn’t the hair?”

I began to laugh.

His large hands circled my waist, drawing me into him. “It wasn’t me waxing nostalgic about my childhood holidays? Because this one time we were in Majorca…”

“Shut up, Hayes.”

“You know this means I win, right? Because I held out longer.”

“I didn’t know it was a competition.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know it wasn’t.”

“That’s because you’re twenty.”

“Yes, well … You seem to like that.” He stopped talking and leaned in to kiss me again. Deliberate, intense. God, I had missed this. This exploration of someone new.

Eventually, he withdrew, a grin plastered across his exquisite face. “Soooo, lunch?”

*   *   *

Our meal passed all too quickly. Time bending and behaving in unpredictable ways. And him, sucking me in.

“Where’d you spend your childhood holidays? France?”

“Mostly.” I was watching his finger trace the lip of his glass. He had barely touched his sandwich. “Christmas in Paris with my dad’s mom. And summers in the South with my mother’s family.”

“Are they still there?”

“My grandparents have all passed away.”

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay. It happens when you get to ninety.”

He smiled then. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”

“I have cousins in Geneva. I don’t see them as often as I’d like.”

“That’s not entirely a bad thing,” he croaked, his voice still hoarse from the morning’s show. “Mine serve as a brutal reminder that I’m not doing something more noble with my life.”

I smiled. “You still have time.”

“You’ll remind my parents of that, won’t you? Not that they’re not proud. I do think they’re genuinely proud. But I believe they see this as a temporary thing. Sort of ‘Oh, Hayes and his little pop group. Isn’t that nice?’”

“The burden of being an only child…”

“Yes. Sole bearer of all their dreams. Utter torture.”

I smiled at that. And yet I understood. If I calculated the time and energy Daniel and I had put into Isabelle thus far, cultivating this extraordinary person—French-immersion toddler programs, private school, fencing lessons, sleepaway camp, ballet, theater, all of it—I imagine it might be a bit of a shock if she decided to quit school and run off to join the circus. (Despite the fact that we’d footed the bill for trapeze lessons.)

“What?” He’d pushed away the dismantled turkey club and was reclining in his chair. “Your expression tells me you’re siding with them.”

“Not siding exactly…”

“But?”

I laughed. “I’m a parent. We have expectations. This is not to say I never went against my parents’ wishes, or went after things solely for me, because I did. And some of it I lived to regret and some of it I didn’t. But I think you kind of have to do that. That’s what growing up is all about.”

He was quiet for a moment. “What did you live to regret?”

“Getting married at twenty-five … which isn’t ridiculous, per se, but for me it was too young…”

“Is that why it didn’t last?”

“Partly. We were young. I was young. I was still figuring things out: who I was, what I wanted. And ultimately we wanted different things. I don’t think it was anyone’s fault. We’re just really different people.”

He nodded. “What is it you want, Solène?”

I hesitated. There was more than one way to interpret the question. “What everyone wants probably: to be happy. But I’m still defining that for myself. I had to redefine myself. Because I didn’t want to be just ‘Daniel’s wife’ or ‘Isabelle’s mom.’ I wanted to go back to work, and Daniel did not want that.”

“Did you resent him?”

“Eventually. And still … I don’t want to be put in a box. I want to do things that feed me. I want to surround myself with art and fascinating people and stimulating experiences … and beauty. I want to surprise myself.”

Hayes smiled then, slow, knowing. “It’s like unfolding a flower.”

“It’s what?”

“You, revealing yourself. You, who vowed to share as little as possible.”

I sat there for a moment, not speaking.

“That sounds totally corny, doesn’t it?” His cheeks flushed. “Okay, pretend I never said that.”

I laughed then. “Okay.”

*   *   *

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 humongous head in 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 this kid. 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, midthirties-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.

“You are trouble.”

“I thought you knew that…”

“How would I? One of your many blogs? Tumblr?”

He laughed. “Oh, don’t read those, those are rubbish. Promise me you won’t read those.”

“I have no desire to,” I said. I should have added “again.” It would have been more truthful.

That first night after our lunch at the Hotel Bel-Air, while the boys were jumping around onstage across town at the Staples Center, I had locked myself in my bedroom and Googled “Hayes Campbell.” The search revealed thirty million matches, which did not seem fathomable to me. And so I hit refresh. Twice. And then over the next three hours consumed half a bottle of Shiraz while wading through site after site of all things Hayes: news items, photos, videos, blogs, fan fiction, odes to his hair.

The entire time, Isabelle had been just across the hall on the phone with her friend, oblivious to her mother going down the rabbit hole. Face-first.

But here, in the intimacy of a hotel bar, I didn’t feel any of the anxiety I had while searching the Internet. I did not feel as if I were sharing him with his twenty-two million Twitter followers. Here, tonight, in this space, he was mine. He’d made that clear.

“You’re not wearing your watch,” he said. We were two drinks in and the crowd had thinned somewhat. The music had mellowed, atmospheric trip-hop.

“I’m not.”

His hand had slipped down between the two of us and encircled my wrist. “Where is it?”

“Upstairs.”

“I’ve come to depend on your watch.”

“It’s not TAG Heuer.”

“No. It’s Hermès,” he said.

“Wow. You’re good.”

He smiled, his thumb stroking my pulse point. “I’ve gotten very good at watches lately.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. Just sat there, allowing myself to be hypnotized by his touch. When his hand moved from my wrist to my thigh, I flinched. “Watches, huh?”

“Watches.”

“What else are you good at?”

His eyes widened then, and he let loose one of his sly smiles. “Is that a trick question? All right, I’ll have a go. Football, I mean soccer … Tennis … Downhill skiing … Chess … Foxhunting…”

At that, I laughed. “Foxhunting?”

“I was just seeing if you were paying attention.” His fingertips slipped beneath the hemline of my skirt, grazing my knee. I was paying attention, all right.

“Rowing … Squash … Badminton … Poetry … Breakdancing…”

“The worm?”

“The worm,” he laughed. “You remember that, do you? I think I won you over with that.” His fingers were moving over my skin, sensual.

“I don’t know. ‘Won me over’ sounds a little strong.” I uncrossed my legs and watched as his hand found its way between my knees. He had large, beautifully wrought hands, long fingers.

“You were interested.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re interested now.”

I nodded. My heartbeat had begun to accelerate. I took the liberty to finish what little was left in my glass. He leaned into me. But he did not kiss me, I assumed because we were not alone. Because there was another couple two seats over, and a room half filled with strangers—most certainly with cell phones. It was probably for the best.

“Your turn, Solène. Tell me what you’re good at.”

“Watercolors. French. Ballet.”

“Ballet?” His hand had migrated north, his fingers pressing at the inside of my lower thigh.

“I used to do ballet. I was good.”

“Why’d you stop?”

“Wasn’t good enough.”

“Mm.” He nodded, fingers mounting. “Go on.”

“Umm…” I was losing focus. “Running. Cooking. Pilates. Spinning.”

“I’m trying to picture you doing all those at once…”

I laughed, uneasy, under the spell of his touch. Trembling, intoxicated, wet.

“I sing. Did I say that? How’d I bloody forget that?” he chuckled. “I sing. I’m quite good. I write songs. I perform. I’m good with people. I like kids.”

“I don’t think you should be talking about liking kids with your hand up my skirt.”

He smiled his half smile. “Is it up your skirt?”

“It’s up my skirt enough.”

“Do you want me to stop?” He started to withdraw.

I grabbed his wrist. “No.”

He leaned forward then and kissed me. His mouth soft, smoky from the Scotch; his tongue supple. It was brief, but he’d made his point.

His fingers persisted, the pressure alternating between soft and strong. “You know what else I’m good at?”

I nodded. Slow.

“Okay.” He smiled. “Shall we get a room?”

“I have a room.”

“Shall we go to it, then?”

“No.”

He laughed. “Do you not trust me?”

“I don’t trust me.”

“I won’t let you do anything you don’t want to do. Promise.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m not going to have sex with you, Hayes Campbell.”

“Awww.” He dropped his head. “Are we back to the first and last name?”

“That’s who you are, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but that’s more like the idea of me than … Never mind,” he trailed off. “Look, we don’t have to have sex, we can just cuddle.” He’d said this with his right hand wholly between my thighs. That he wasn’t touching my underwear was a calculated tease. Cuddle, my ass.

“Okay,” I said, my breathing labored. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to go upstairs. We’re going to fool around. We’re not going to have sex. And you’re not going to spend the night. Deal?”

“Deal.”

*   *   *

The rooms at the Crosby Street Hotel were finely done: individual, warm, eclectic. Unexpected patterns juxtaposed in soothing colors. Dressmaker mannequins as art. The light was low when we entered, the mood inviting. Fitting for a tryst.

“I like this,” Hayes said, laying his jacket neatly over the arm of the sofa and stooping to remove his boots.

“You’re getting awfully comfortable.”

“Am I not allowed to be? Is that not part of the deal?”

I laughed at his inquiry. He was clearly more used to this than I. Being physically and emotionally naked before someone whose middle name you did not know. I did not want to calculate how often he did this.

“Last bit.” He smiled, emptying his pants pockets onto the coffee table. An iPhone, a wallet, lip balm, and a pack of gum. Noticeably absent: a condom. Or perhaps it was in his wallet. Or his jacket pocket. I was overthinking this.

“I want to see the view. Do you want to see the view?” I stalled, making my way across the room and opening the curtains, unveiling the floor-to-ceiling industrial windows. There was something extraordinary about Manhattan at night: twinkling lights and indigo sky.

I stood there for a moment, my hands pressed against the cool panes, wondering how I’d ended up here with the boy from Isabelle’s posters. And what that would mean for our relationship going forward. She would hate me, and yet still …

“You nervous?” Hayes approached me from behind, his hands running the length of my arms.

“No,” I lied.

“Don’t be nervous, Solène. It’s just me.”

Yes, that was precisely the problem.

His closeness, which had felt so reassuring on the balcony at the Four Seasons, felt reckless here. I was suddenly aware of his height, his power. The fact that maybe I was no longer in charge.

He sensed it. His fingers slipped in between mine, holding my hands while my nerves settled. And then, when enough time had passed, he wrapped his arms around me, drawing me in closer. I could feel him—all of him—pressed up against my back.

“Hiiii,” he said, and I laughed. “You good?”

I nodded, meeting his eyes in our reflection in the glass. “I’m good.”

“You sure?” He leaned forward then and kissed my bare shoulder.

“Sure.”

“Good.” He kissed me again, and again. And again. His mouth moving over my shoulder, toward my neck, to the crook just behind my ear. He breathed me in, and I could feel it in my toes. His mouth, his tongue, his teeth on my flesh. His hand moving up over the sequins of my top to stroke my throat, angling my head toward his. He smelled of soap and Scotch, and he tasted … warm. I turned to him, devouring his mouth. And oh, the feel of his hair in my hands: thick and smooth and substantial. I probably pulled on it a little too hard.

We moved to the bed.

Hayes seated himself on the edge and had me stand in front of him. “I just want to look at you,” he said. We stayed there, my hands in his hair, his hands at my hips, running to and fro over the material. “God, you are so unbelievably sexy.”

I leaned over to kiss his dimples. They had been beckoning since the Mandalay Bay. The mileage he got out of a muscle flaw … “I bet you say that to all your fans’ mums.”

He laughed, his hands sliding down over my ass, along my thighs, to the hem of my skirt. “Not so much, no.”

I could feel the coolness of his rings at the back of my knees, teasing. I had not planned how far I’d intended this evening to go. I wasn’t certain if there was a protocol for postdivorce sex. Second date? Third? I assumed the etiquette was different than it was in one’s twenties. The need to be respected in the morning seemed less dire. Maybe none of that mattered anymore. Maybe it was all about the thrill. And surely rock stars played by different rules. We were pioneers out here, Hayes and I. Forging new territory. Making up shit as we went along.

“You know,” he said, his hands rising, hot against my skin, “I find this skirt really flattering. Truly. But I think I would like it better on the floor.”

I laughed then. “Well, that would be convenient, wouldn’t it?”

He nodded, his mouth finding mine.

“But actually,” I continued, “I’m more interested in seeing what you can do with the skirt still on.”

Hayes laughed, tossing back his head. “I appreciate the challenge.”

“I knew you would.”

He undid his tie and tossed it across the bed before lying on his back. “Come here,” he ordered. I obeyed, only pausing to remove my heels with their bondage-like ankle strap. Tonight they’d earned their keep.

Hayes hoisted me atop himself with ease, and I quickly became aware of just how inconsequential my clothing was. It did not matter that I was still wearing my skirt. I could sense his solidness beneath me, the breadth of his chest, the tightness of his stomach. His thighs … Jesus fuck, was that his dick?

“Oh.”

“Oh?” he repeated, smiling. He had one hand in my hair, the other cradling my jaw, his thumb moving over my mouth.

“Oh, that’s you,” I laughed.

“I hope it’s me. I mean, I hope someone else didn’t come up here in my stead.”

“In your ‘stead’?” I licked his thumb. “I love how proper you are.”

“Do you? Because I can do this proper thing all night long. Or I can stop … What do you want, Solène?”

“I want you to show me what you’re good at.”

He nodded, his lips curling into a smile. And then, with little effort, he rolled me onto my back. For a moment he hovered above, his dominance palpable. “Just let me know when you want me to stop.”

My pulse had once again begun to rush. His fingers were tracing my jawline, my lips. “God, I love this mouth,” he said before moving on to my neck, pausing at the hollow, and then continuing down over my breastbone and across the fabric of my top. His touch was measured—light, but deliberate. And when the back of his hand grazed over my breasts, I heard myself inhale. His own breathing was shallow, his mouth near my ear enticing. His fingers skimmed the underside of my arm and I shuddered. That he could make something so innocent feel suggestive was a skill.

In no time, his hand was between my thighs again, forcing my skirt up north of my knees. “I’m not taking it off,” he said. But at that point it didn’t matter. I would have let him.

He shifted above me, his mouth melting into mine. His hips pinning me to the bed. His fingers titillating.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“You sure?” His voice was low, raspy. His hand had reached my crotch, and by then I was so wet it was hard to discern where my panties ended and I began.

“Yes.”

“Not taking these off either,” he reassured me, his hand stroking the thin material. “I’m not even going to push them to the side … And I’m still going to make you come.”

*   *   *

He kept his word.

I don’t know where I got the idea that someone his age would be overeager or inept, or that a person in his position would be used to being indulged and thus inadequate at returning the favor. But Hayes dispelled every myth. And he did so with one hand tied figuratively behind his back. The way he touched me: unhurried, focused, exact. He knew precisely what he was doing. His movements accelerating and then slowing down, repeatedly, taking me to the brink and then stopping, teasing, over and over and over again. His fingers pushing inside of me, his thumb massaging my clitoris, his pressure intense, and all this through my underwear. God bless him.

I came. And it was so unbelievably powerful, for a moment I thought I might black out. There, in Hayes Campbell’s arms, in room 1004 of the Crosby Street Hotel.

For a long time I lay there, shaking. My limbs numb from pleasure; my mind reeling, unable to digest the magnitude of what I had just let happen. What, if given the opportunity, I would let happen again. I’d been so intoxicated. By his smell and his taste and his touch. By his breath in my ear and his Scotch on my tongue and his fucking fingers. And the illicit thought that he was barely an adult and I had not let that stop me. That it had not stopped him.

And then I had the sobering realization that I could not remember the last time I had come with someone else in the room. The very idea that I had denied myself that for so long struck me. Hard.

And there, still in his arms, my mind began to race and I fought it. I did not want to think about the repercussions just then. I did not want to think about Isabelle, or Daniel, or how this would look to my clients or the other mothers at the Windwood School (dear God!). I wanted to bask in the glow for a little while longer. Savor this present from him.

But the thoughts were there, right below the surface.

“Are you happy?” he asked, once my breathing had calmed. Not “Are you good,” or “all right,” or “okay.” Are you happy?

I nodded, trying to find my voice. “Yes. Very.”

“Good.”

“I can’t wait to see how you play badminton.”

“Sorry?” He paused for a moment and then it clicked. “Yeah,” he laughed, “I might be a little better at this than I am at badminton.”

“Luckily for me…”

“Luckily for you, yes.”

We lay there for a moment, curled up in each other, taking in the quiet of the room. It felt a little like magic to me, this in-between time. This shared moment. But I could feel it rising again, the thoughts, the guilt, the panic. Mounting. And I could not stop it.

“Oh God, what have I done?” I heard myself say. “This was just supposed to be lunch. Jesus. What am I doing here with you? You could be my kid. This is so wrong. You’re twenty. And you’re like a rock star. What the fuck am I thinking?”

Hayes sat up beside me, his eyes wide. “Are you serious?”

I was as surprised as he was by the verbal diarrhea. Even as it poured out, I recognized that it was very American of me, and that my mother would have scoffed. “Kind of, yes.”

“What? Are you feeling guilty now? You were happy two seconds ago. Very happy.”

“I can’t believe I let you do that. I’m sorry. That was totally inappropriate of me.”

“Were you forcing me? Did I miss something? We both wanted this,” he said, sounding every bit the rational one. The adult in the relationship.

I glanced up at him then, all disheveled in his wrinkled Prada shirt and his hair sticking out in fifty-one directions and his eyes tired and the slightest hint of stubble shadowing his jaw, and the thought occurred to me that he was a man.

I needed a moment.

“Don’t mind me. This is just my postorgasmic freak-out.”

He laughed. “Is this going to happen every time? Because if I know that I’ll just plan ahead.”

I smiled then. “No. It won’t. It shouldn’t.”

“I’m serious, Solène. I can’t … You cannot freak out like this. I don’t do well with women who freak out. I pegged you differently.”

“You what?”

“Fuck. I’m sorry. I just…”

“Come here.” I reached for him.

“Fuck,” he repeated, lying back beside me.

He was quiet for a moment. And then: “Once, when we were in Tokyo, there was this girl who … Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it. Just promise me you’re not going to go crazy.”

“Okay.” I smiled. “Promise.”

He jumped up again. “And I checked in with you, right? I asked if you were okay. Several times. Right?” He sounded uncertain.

“Yes, you did.”

“I just want to make sure I’m not losing my mind.”

It was fascinating to see his anxiety. The things that tormented him. I couldn’t begin to imagine what life for him and the other guys in the group must have been like. Not knowing whom to trust, and worried that at any time something could be used against them. I assumed there was probably much at stake.

“And don’t let the rock star rubbish get to you,” he said, lying down again. “Because it’s not real, it’s crap. It’s like this idea and it’s not who I am and … I’m always going to be real with you, okay?

“Fuck, it’s late,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I have a six a.m. wake-up call. Which is in three and a half hours. And I’ve been up since four. God, I just want a bloody break.”

“Is that the watch?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“Nice.”

“It’s kind of sleek, isn’t it? This one is the Carrera … Carrera Calib-something … I don’t remember. It’s late.”

“It’s a good-looking watch.”

“I think it’s too sleek for me,” he said, slipping it off his wrist. “It’s fancier than I usually am. Here, you try it.”

I let him put the watch on me. It was stainless steel: clean, masculine, elegant.

“Wow, that looks good on you. Keep it.”

“No, thank you.”

“I’m serious. It looks good on you and I’m probably never going to wear this one. They gave me two others. Just keep it.”

“I’m not keeping your watch,” I said, handing it over.

“Okay, just borrow it, then.”

“Hayes, I’m not the woman who’s going to accept gifts like this from you. Thank you, but no.”

“Don’t think of it as a gift. I’m lending it to you. If you borrow it, it kind of ensures that you’ll have to see me again.”

“You still want to see me again? Even after I freaked out on you?”

He nodded, a lazy smile spreading across his wide mouth. “Yeah. Because you have to return the favor. And I’m too exhausted to let that happen now.”

I started to laugh. “Really? So we’re going to do this again because I owe you?”

“Yes,” he laughed, sitting up and inching across the bed. “And because I have lots more things I want to do to you, I’m just too knackered to think of them.”

I sat up and watched him collect his belongings, zip his boots, smooth his hair, reapply his lip balm.

He made his way back over to the bed to kiss me. “This was fun,” he said, slow, sensual, his eyelids heavy. “I really like you.”

“I really like you, too.”

“Thanks for giving me the pleasure.”

“Ditto.”

On the way out of the room, he stopped and placed the TAG Heuer atop the stenciled credenza in the corner. “I’m going to be in the South of France next month. You can return it to me there.”

And then he was gone.