“In certain circles,” I said, squeezing my date’s hand.
“But clearly not this one,” Hayes laughed.
“Boy bands are like the Murakami of the music world.” Amara grinned, pleased with her observation. “No one focuses on the pain behind the genius. We can just look at you and be happy…”
Hayes contorted his face for a moment. “In certain doses?”
“In all doses.” She smiled.
“Thank you for that. That was awfully kind. I think…”
She nodded, sipping from her Vittel. “There’s a lot of good in what you do. You wouldn’t have that following otherwise. I mean teen girls and all their angst and craziness, that is the most difficult age to make happy…”
“Besides middle-aged women,” Mary added.
“Besides middle-aged women,” Amara laughed, “and you’ve clearly cornered the market.”
“No pressure,” he chuckled.
I squeezed his hand again. It was good for him to hear that his art was appreciated, especially in this judgmental crowd. Although, in truth, it probably should have come from me.
“And how do you know so much about art?” Christophe continued.
Hayes smiled, his hand sliding to my knee again. “I have an exceptional teacher…”
I could not get him home fast enough. I could blame it on the wine, on Paris, on him spouting informed opinions on Murakamiand Basquiat, but in the end it might have just been the knowledge of what he was capable of. Of the magic I felt when I was with him.
“You weresocharming, Hayes. You made all the girlssohappy…”
We were in the elevator en route to the eighth floor when I quoted Mary, pressed fully against him, my mouth on his neck.
“I did. Ido.”
“Why don’t you show me… how you make the girls so happy?”
He chuckled, salacious. “Here?”
“Here.” My hand slipped in the opening of his coat, finding his belt.
“No.”
“No?” It was not a word I was used to hearing from him.
“There are cameras here.”
I looked up into the corners of the elevator. He was right. And it struck me, the idea that I’d never given them much thought, and that Hayes had a very different awareness of privacy.
“I assume you don’t want your daughter seeing how I make you happy.”
“No. Probably not.”
“Are there camerashere?” I asked when we’d reached our floor and were approaching the door to the penthouse.
He was fumbling in his pockets for the key card. “Typically, yes.”
“That’s too bad, then.” My hands found their way back to his belt, quickly unfastening it, the clasp of his pants, his zipper.
“Fuck,” he laughed, grabbing my wrist. “Was it something I said? Was it the truffles?”
