“But for the ex-husband,” he finished my thought.
“Yeah. And everything that comes with that.”
As if on cue, Isabelle skipped up to us, wide-eyed and happy. “Mom, this is the best partyever! We were talking about it, and this is even better than Harry Wasserman’s Bar Mitzvah.”
“Not Harry’s Bar Mitzvah?” Hayes had snapped out of wherever his thoughts had taken him and returned to teen idol mode.
She blushed, covering her mouth. “Hiiii, Hayes.”
“Hiiii, Isabelle.”
“You remembered my name?”
“Lucky guess.” He shrugged. “What’s Liam doing over there? Is he showing you how he does the worm? You know I taught him everything he knows, right? Shall we have a worm-off? Liam!” Hayes called across the room. “Worm-off! Now!”
I could sense Isabelle bursting out of her skin when Hayes threw his arm around her shoulders and began leading her away. “Excuse us, Solène. There’s a competition to be had.”
The sight of the two of them, my awkward daughter and the comely rock star, making their way across the room was so bizarre and ironic, I had to laugh.
Hayes was in his element. In no time, he’d become the center of attention, lying prostrate on the floor, psyching himself up for the competition, his bandmates and fans swarming around him. While Liam’s wiry frame and jerky moves might have made him the more natural dancer, Hayes was far more captivating. There was a grace to him, sliding across the floor in his black jeans and boots. His feet kicking high up into the air, lifting his hips intermittently off the ground. Arm muscles straining with each thrust. A sliver of abdomen peeking out from beneath his thin T-shirt. He was such a vision of virility, it almost felt dirty to watch.
There was hooting and whistling, and when Hayes finally rose from the floor, Simon grabbed him in a man-hug. “This lad right here!” he howled, his blue eyes wide, his blond hair standing on end. “Is there nothing he can’t do?!”
Hayes threw back his head and laughed, hair in disarray, dimples blazing. “Nothing.” He beamed. But at that moment his eyes caught mine and the charge was so strong, I had to look away.
We left shortly after the “worm-off.” When a lithe, questionably legal brunette had situated herself atop Liam’s lap, and Rory’s lips were on the neck of the swimsuit model in the corner, and at least half a dozen of the crew had slipped out and then reappeared glassy-eyed, I figured it might be a good time to get the girls out of there. TheVanity Fairwriter was long gone.
“We’ve had such a lovely time. Thank you for inviting us.”
We had congregated by the door, Rose wilting, Isabelle yawning, Georgia’s hair growing to impressive proportions.
“I can’t convince you all to stay longer?”
“It’s late and we’re flying out in the morning.”
“You could change your flight.”
I could feel my eyes narrowing, some involuntary tic I must have picked up from my mother.
“Right, okay, so that wouldn’t be a good idea,” he backpedaled.
“Probably not. No.”
“This was the best night ever,” “Brilliant,” “Epic,” the girls all said at once.
“Glad you had fun.” Hayes smiled. “We’ll do it again sometime, yeah?”
There was unanimous agreement from my entourage.
“So, um…” It was he who was stalling, eyes searching, fingers running through his poufy hair. “What did you say the name of your gallery was? You know, should I ever be in California and desire some contemporary art…”
“Marchand Raphel.” I smiled.
“Marchand Raphel,” he repeated. “And you would be—”
“She’s the Marchand,” Georgia volunteered.
“Solène Marchand.” His smile widened. His teeth were decidedlyun-English. Big, straight, white. Someone had spent good money on those teeth. “’Til next time, then?”
