“I’m not sure what you’re insinuating.”
“Nothing.” He smiled. “Nothing at all.”
On the way back through the main corridor, we popped into Gagosian, where I introduced Hayes to my friend Amara Winthrop. It was Amara I’d met for breakfast at the Peninsula the morning August Moon did theTodayshow and made me and everyone else in midtown Manhattan fifteen minutes late. But if she recognized him there in the Grand Palais, she did not let on. Even though I’d used his first and last name and presented him as my “friend.” Not my “client.” I was trying it on for size.
“You’re looking fabulous, as usual.”
I watched as Amara reconstructed her chignon. She wore a fitted peplum blazer over a pencil skirt. The tailoring impeccable, likely British. In grad school, she was the blonde from Bedford Hills who’d intimidated us all.
“Yes… well, you know the drill: multiple degrees, and it still all comes down to your legs. But must sell art, right?”
I smiled at that. Lulit and I had lamented the same on numerous occasions. “Yes. Must sell art.”
“You’re still coming to dinner tonight, yes?”
“I am.”
“Dinner?” Hayes cocked his head.
“I told you about it. It’s my one business dinner this week.”
“I think I conveniently forgot.”
There were two young women, early twenties, circling one of the John Chamberlain sculptures near the front of the booth. It was clear to me they’d recognized Hayes, as they’d kept sneaking looks in our direction. Hayes managed to ignore it.
“She keeps abandoning me,” he told Amara. Which pretty much laid out… everything.
She took a second to compute and then responded, “Well, then, you should come.”
He looked to me, a wry smile forming. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Pardon.” One of the young women finally made her approach. “Excusez-moi, c’est possible de prendre une photo?We can take a picture?”
“De l’art? Oui, bien sûr,” Amara replied.
“Non. De lui. Avec Hayes.” She had that adorable way the French had of not pronouncing theH. “You can take a picture with us, ’Ayes, please?”
Hayes obliged them, while Amara looked on, visibly confused. And when he returned to the conversation with “So, tonight…” as if posing for photos with total strangers who knew his name was not completely out of the ordinary, Amara stopped him.
“Oh. You’re somebody, aren’t you?”
“Somebody? Yes.” He smiled.
“Okay, I’ll figure it out. But yes, you should come. It’s a fun bunch. Bring him.” She turned to me before looking back toward my “somebody.” “Make her bring you.”
We had a late reservation at Market on Avenue Matignon. There were ten of us, and they gave us the large table in the back room. It was secluded, sleek, warmly lit. And following a dalliance and a shower at the hotel, I was happy Hayes had joined us. I feared he might be slightly out of his element. But surely all that fine breeding and three years as a world-class celebrity had to amount to something.
When we were still dressing at the George V, I received an amusing text from Amara:
Just googled your boy toy. WTF? How’d you swing that??? If you don’t want to come out with us old artsy-fartsy types, I will totes understand. I probably wouldn’t either. But I’m going to need details later. Many. Xoxo
But at the restaurant, she maintained her discretion. It was a lively group: Amara; Lulit; Christophe Servan-Schreiber, who owned galleries in Paris and London; the painter Serge Cassel, one of Christophe’s artists; Laura and Bruno Piagetti, collectors from Milan; Jean-René Lavigne, who was with Gagosian’s Paris outpost; Mary Goodmark, an art consultant from London; and us.
There was more wine than I could keep track of, and we were loud. The Italians especially. Hayes and I sat on the banquette side of the table, our backs to the window, flanked by Christophe, Lulit, and Serge. He managed to hold my hand the entire night. And I did not stop him.
“So how do you know Solène?” Christophe asked my date. We’d been there for the better part of an hour and were working our way through the shared appetizers: scallop tartare with black trufflesand black-truffle-and-fontina pizza. Half of the table was discussing the sale of an Anish Kapoor the previous day for an alleged two million dollars. The others were trading war stories of art fairs past, Mary and Jean-René filling us in on what we’d missed at Frieze London. Which left Hayes fielding questions from the revered art dealer.
He grinned, turning toward me. “Solène”—his voice was deep, raspy, full of innuendo—“how do I know you?”
