“Solène’s gallery is in this fantastic industrial space. And she and her partner solely represent artists that are women or people of color, which is pretty extraordinary on their part.”
“That’s rather noble,” Ian added.
“Noble?” Hayes laughed. “It’stremendous.”
“Hayes says you have a daughter?” Victoria took it upon herself to change the subject.
“Yes. Isabelle. She’s here with a girlfriend, flitting about somewhere.”
“They’re with Lucy Balfour. They hit it off quite well.”
“How old?”
“Thirteen.”
“Thirteen.” She smiled knowingly. “It goes by quickly.”
Ouch.
“Campbell!” Rory Taylor was leaning in over the velvet rope. All gussied up, but still every bit the bad boy. He was tan, dark hair slightly disheveled, stubble, black suit, black shirt partially unbuttoned, chest tats peeking out. Was that a butterfly? A bird? “Sorry to interrupt. Hi, Mrs. Campbell, Mr. Campbell, Solène… Hayes, they want us to come up to the stage. Some introduction thing.”
“All right. I’ll be back. Don’t go too far.” He kissed me. In front of his parents, he kissed me. And part of me wanted to crawl under the fucking booth and die.
“Soyou’rethe girlfriend?”
Sometime after the band and the director and a handful of studio execs had officially thanked everyone for coming out and posed for a bunch of photos onstage, I ran into Ian near a side bar.
I was three champagnes in and looking for my fourth. “I’m the girlfriend.”
“Wow. That’s impressive. Even for him. However did he…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Never mind. I’m not sure I want to know.”
I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it before, but it was all there: Hayes’s nose, Hayes’s jawline, Hayes’s hands, Hayes’s fingers…
“So, I take it we’re not running tomorrow,” he laughed.
I shook my head, smiling. “Probably not…”
“Yes, that’s probably for the best.”
I could see Hayes across the room, whispering something in Simon’s ear, laughing. His hand dwarfing the mouth of his glass. He’d managed to get himself something besides water, Graham be damned. What were they discussing? I wondered.
My attention turned back to Ian. “Was that your real room number, 4722?”
Hayes’s father smiled, then swilled from his glass. “I’m not going to answer that question.”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s probably for the best.”
Toward the end of the night, when Amara had parted and the girls had returned to the hotel under the supervision of Liam’s parents, Hayes and I sat together in one of the booths. We were alone, but it felt false. The velvet rope, Desmond standing a few feet away with his back to us. Like exotic animals in a cage.
“You know tonight changes everything, right?”
“Because I’ve met your parents?”
“No.” He smiled. “Because there are people with cameras here. And press. People are going to talk. And it’s going to be more than a blind item.”
“I know that.”
“And it’s going to be more than one or two fans calling your name outside of a hotel. It’s going to feel really different. I’m just warning you.”
