I did not want it to end.
When he was close to coming, he leaned in and bit down on my lower lip so hard that I anticipated the taste of blood, but it never came.
“You. Are fucking everything to me,” he said. His breath coming in short spurts. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Afterwards, when I was reveling in the joy of my third orgasm and he’d passed out beside me, his body slick with sweat, I thought long and hard about what he’d said. It was just us. Fuck everything else.
In all the months of slipping off to various locations, Hayes and I had never flown in and out of the same terminal together. We had never departed and arrived as a couple. It was something I’d not made note of until we touched down at LAX Monday evening.
“It’s going to be crazy out there,” he said as our plane was taxiing. “Just a warning.”
“Like photographers?”
“Photographers, fans, all of it. It’s Grammy week. It’s going to be bad.”
“Okay,” I said.
But “all of it” did not quite capture the madness. We had no fewer than three airport escorts who met us at the gate and accompanied us to baggage claim, and the entire time, walking at a relatively fast clip, we were hounded by a handful of paparazzi. Hayes walked one pace ahead of me, clinging to my hand, protecting me from the brunt of it. And what struck me most was not the intrusiveness of the experience, but the running commentary spewing from the guys with the cameras. “Hey, Hayes. Happy Birthday, Hayes! How does it feel to be twenty-one? How was Aspen? Hi, Solène. Did you get a lot of skiing in? You gonna go out drinking tonight? What bars you gonna hit? You excited about the Grammys? You’re looking good, man. I love your work, dude. I love the new album. Your girlfriend is very beautiful. What do you think of Rory’s new tattoo?” Dear God. Who were these people?
And then, as we exited into the chaos of the baggage claim, the full scale of Hayes’s celebrity hit. There were over a hundred girls squealing with cell phone cameras and throwing themselves in his path attempting to take selfies and yelling his name and falling down and crying, and it was terrifying. The paparazzi’s flashes, blinding. I spotted Desmond with our driver, and even his familiar ginger head did not alleviate my panic. They were touching him and pulling at him, and he was squeezing my hand harder.And they were at turns euphoric, diplomatic, and violent. “Get the fuck out of the way.” “Make a path.” “Hi, Solène.” “You’re so pretty, Solène.” “Guys, let them through, please.” “Happy Birthday, Hayes!” “Can you sign my face?” “There’s a girl on the floor.” “OhmyGod!OhmyGod!OhmyGod!” “Can I get a picture, please?” “Let them through!” “Happy Birthday!” “HayesHayesHayesHayesHayes.” “Let him go!” “He doesn’t want to take your picture. Just let him go!” “Get off of him!” “They’re gonna think we’re animals!” “Move, bitch!” “Hayes, I’m so sorry about this.” “You guys, let him go. Jesus fucking Christ!”
By the time we got into the back of the Escalade, I was hyperventilating. And he was as cool as a fucking cucumber. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
It took me a minute to catch my breath, to gather my wits, to assess that I had not been physically harmed. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s just you and me in this relationship. Fuck everything else.”
beverly hills
The Fifty-Seventh Grammys were scheduled to take place the following Sunday evening at the Staples Center. The guys were performing “Seven Minutes,” their nominated single. Their week filled with press leading up to the awards show and the tour, including a day in Santa Barbara shooting an exclusive interview with Oprah. And by that, I was a little impressed.
Things at Marchand Raphel were once again busy after the holiday lull. Hamish Sullivan Jones, the curator from the Whitney Museum, was coming to town and had scheduled a visit at Anya Pashkov’s studio to see more of herInvisiblecollection. The fact thathe was still interested was noteworthy. If we could land Anya an exhibition at the new Whitney with all its expectation and hype, it would be a coup. At the same time, Lulit and I were organizing our pieces to be shipped to New York for the Armory Show the first week of March.
It felt good to be back in the groove of working. To not put too much energy into the offensive voicemails and the occasional fans who showed up at the gallery randomly during the day, hoping to get a glimpse of their idol. Josephine solved our problem by hanging a “By Appointment Only” placard on the door. She fielded questions from the media with her rote response: “I’m sorry. It’s the Marchand Raphel policy to not comment on any of our associates’ private lives.” They seemed to buy that.
On Friday evening, after a day of interviews and a rehearsal at the Staples Center, Hayes dropped by the gallery to see the Finnsdottir exhibit and say hello. Matt and Josephine seemed so charmed with his genuine affability, you would have thought his celebrity hadn’t put us all out. That we hadn’t received death threats.
Lulit was a tougher nut to crack.
“So,” he said, sidling up to her in the kitchen where she was brewing a cappuccino, “I met Oprah.”
“I heard.”
“And I got a tour of her Montecito house…”
I watched him as he crossed his arms and leaned back on the counter, smiling, smug.
“She’s recently redone it and she’s got quite an art collection… but I think it’s missing a few key contemporary pieces.”
“Ha!” Lulit said, the hint of a smile. “Did you tell her that?”
“Idid.And I told her I knew just the women to sell it to her. She has a few African pieces and she does all this charity work in South Africa, and so I specifically told her about you…”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Idid.And she said, ‘Have her get in touch with my people.’ So…” Hayes dug into the pockets of his jeans and withdrew hiswallet before proffering a folded sticky note. “Oprah’s people. They’re expecting your call.”
Lulit stood there with a goofy look on her face and then turned to me in the doorway. I shrugged.
“You’re pulling my leg,” she said.
