The Idea of You: A Novel
The Idea of You: 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 her Invisible collection. The fact that he 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?”

“I did. 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.”

“I did. And she said, ‘Have her get in touch with my people.’ So…” Hayes dug into the pockets of his jeans and withdrew his wallet 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.

“I promise you, I’m not. And you know who Oprah is very, very good friends with?”

Lulit and I looked at each other and smiled. “The Obamas.”

“The Obamas,” Hayes said. “And last I checked, Sasha was still prime August Moon age.”

“Shut up,” Lulit laughed.

“And you thought your best friend dating a guy in a boy band was going to lead to nothing but trouble.”

“I never said that.”

Hayes cocked his head and rolled his eyes before walking out.

“Fuck, he’s good.” She smiled at me.

I nodded. “He’s good.”

* * *

After, we scooped up Isabelle from her fencing class, and the look on her face when Hayes walked into the gym was priceless.

“That’s quite a getup.” He smiled. “You look like a Musketeer.”

She laughed. A big, bright, confident laugh. She’d gotten her braces off two weeks prior and she was sharing it with the world.

“Holy fuck.” Hayes turned to me. “That’s your mouth.”

I gave him a look, and he turned away, and we never spoke about it again.

* * *

We made a quick detour to the Whole Foods in Brentwood, and no one stopped him to request a photo or an autograph or his time. And watching him openly pick out wine while Isabelle sifted through the cheese selection made me content in a way I had not been in a long time. The idea that maybe this could work.

We dined at home: ratatouille and rack of lamb. The three of us seated around the oblong table, the lights of Santa Monica twinkling in the distance. Hayes, at turns amused by Isabelle’s tales of middle school, and seemingly enamored, stealing glances at me, wistful. When Isabelle got up to clear her plate, he leaned forward, his hands flat against the rosewood.

“Do you know what this table makes me think of?” His voice was low, raspy.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said. “So long as you’re thinking of it, too.”

* * *

Following dinner, when Isabelle excused herself to FaceTime her friends, I took the opportunity to lure him into my office on the pretense of checking my availability for the South American tour dates. But the second he stepped into the room, I shut the door.

“I have something for you. I wanted to give this to you before Aspen, but it wasn’t ready.”

Hayes raised an eyebrow, curious, as I handed over the large flat package that had been propped up against the far wall.

“Did you get me something for my birthday? You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s small.”

“It doesn’t feel small. Is it art?”

“Open it.”

I watched him carefully unwrap the brown paper to unveil a float-mounted watercolor. Sunrise, as viewed from our bedroom in Anguilla. For a moment he did not speak, his eyes taking it in, and when he finally looked up at me, they were smiling. “You made this.”

“I made this.”

“You’re giving it to me?”

“I’m giving it to you. I made it for you.”

“It’s beautiful, Solène. It’s perfect.” He set the frame down before taking me in his arms. “I love it. It’s the perfect gift.”

We stood there for a long time, losing ourselves in the painting, in the moment.

“I don’t remember seeing you do this one, in these colors. They’re extraordinary.”

They were. Teal waters, charcoal mountains, the sun bursting apricot beneath a lilac sky. “I did it one morning when you were still sleeping. I thought the colors would complement the pieces you have in London.”

He stared at me for a minute, an inscrutable expression on his face. He reached to tug on his lower lip, and then: “Do you remember the house where we stayed in Malibu? It’s for sale. I looked at it yesterday. I thought you should know.”

It was loaded. What he was telling me. What I was taking from it. What he’d intended for me to take from it.

“Oh,” I said.

He laughed, uneasy. “Do you think that’s insane?”

“Maybe. A little.”

“Yeah. I thought so, too. But not so insane that I’m not considering it.”

* * *

August Moon did not win their Grammys, but that did not put a damper on our celebration. I skipped the actual awards show, and joined Hayes and the rest of them at the Ace Hotel downtown for the Universal after-party. It was crowded and loud and full of little clusters of sycophants swarming the likes of Rihanna and Katy Perry, and Sam Smith basking in the win of his myriad trophies.

The guys, whose live performance went flawlessly, were all on a high. Rory, whom I passed entering the ornate theater, literally. His eyes glazed, his face buried in the neck of some Victoria’s Secret Angel. Liam talking animatedly with a young singer I did not recognize. Green eyes dancing, pouty lips, freckles. As adorable as he was, he was never going to be the sexy one. Simon and Oliver were at the band’s reserved table, deep in conversation, when I arrived. There were a handful of pretty girls standing around the perimeter, waiting to be acknowledged, eager puppies in sequins and spandex. I leaned in to greet the guys, and Simon rose to hug me, but Oliver did not budge.

“Are you not going to say hi?”

“No. I was told I’m not to talk to you anymore. So I’m not talking to you.”

“Okay.” I smiled.

“Nice dress,” he said, and Simon laughed.

“You can’t stop yourself, mate. You’re a fucking mess.”

They were both a wee inebriated.

“I have no idea where your boyfriend is. He ran off. Champagne?”

I found Hayes eventually, on the other side of the theater, talking to a model. For fuck’s sake. Young, thin, wide-spaced eyes. She looked to be Brazilian, or Portuguese. Some exotic ethnicity that was completely his type. And for a second I felt it in my gut, the impulse to turn and run. But he looked up and his expression on seeing me was so completely smitten, if he’d felt an ounce of guilt it did not show.

“Hi. You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

He took my head in his hands and kissed me, and he smelled of citrus and amber and Scotch. And all was forgiven. Almost.

“You look amazing,” he said, low.

“Ditto.”

“This is Solène.” He turned toward the model. “And I’m sorry, what was it you said your name was?”

“Giovanna.” She smiled. Her teeth were not perfect.

“Giovanna,” he repeated. He turned back to me, a wide grin on his face. “Giovanna was just telling me how many Instagram followers she has.”

I tried not to laugh as Hayes did his best to disengage and bid his new friend adieu.

“What are you doing?” I said when we were heading back across the space, weaving through the crowd and potted oversized bonsai.

“I was killing time until you got here.”

“With eighteen-year-old models?”

“I was avoiding Rihanna,” he laughed. “Stop. You’re walking too fast. I want to look at you.”

I turned to face him. He looked ridiculously sexy, even for him. Black suit, sheer black shirt partially unbuttoned, long silk scarf draped around his neck. Hair, elegantly disheveled. The fact that he was still wearing a light dusting of makeup from the show didn’t even bother me.

“Hi,” he said, again.

“Hi. I’m sorry you lost.”

He shrugged. “It happens. Where did you get this dress?”

“Balmain,” I said. “A few years ago.”

It was easily one of the sexiest things I owned. An intricate lace top, a high-waisted, studded fitted skirt ending just above the knee, my Isabel Marant bondage shoes. Daring, black, rock-and-roll.

I turned and continued heading toward the table, still pissed about the model.

Hayes’s hands were on my hips, pulling me into him. His mouth at my ear.

“Bloody hell, I just want to fuck your arse in this dress.”

I laughed. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the guy who gets to fuck your arse in this dress.”

His words stopped me. There, in the middle of the theater at the Ace Hotel. Surrounded by music execs and wannabe starlets and Grammy winners. My rock star boyfriend pushed up against my back.

“You wanna go now?”

“I want to go now,” he said. “There’s a GQ and Armani party in Hollywood, and we have to swing by there because I have to show my face. And then we’re going to stop by Sam’s party in Bel-Air because I told him we would. And then we’re going to go back to the hotel so I can fuck your arse in this dress … Are you okay with that?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You always have a choice.”

“Do you have lube?”

He laughed. “We’ll improvise.”

His hand was spanning my abdomen, pressing me into him. All of him.

“Okay. Call our driver.”

“Done.”

* * *

Later, much later, when Hayes was passed out in a signature suite at the SLS Beverly Hills, I lay awake, watching him sleep. The night had passed in a blur of champagne and music and sex. It was going to hurt in the morning. It was already hurting now.

My eyes scanned the room, plush and slick with Philippe Starck touches and an overabundance of leather ottomans. The floor-to-ceiling mirror facing the bed was anything but subtle.

“Who chose this place?” I’d asked when we arrived, sometime after one. Two? “I feel like a hooker.”

“You’re going to feel even more like a hooker when I’m done with you,” Hayes said, making me laugh.

He was rough. And fun. And I loved everything about it.

At one point, when he was lying above me, inside of me, his chest against my back, his arms splaying mine, fingers entwined, he brushed his mouth against my ear and said, low: “Do you feel like you could be my mother now?”

* * *

There was a faint knocking in the hall. A knocking and a whimpering of sorts. I looked over to see if Hayes had heard it, but he was snoring, oblivious. His postorgasmic slumber.

I grabbed a robe and peeked out the peephole but could not make out much, a lone figure in the corridor, knocking on the door across the hall. A girl.

“Liam, please open the door,” she was saying, soft. “Please. I’m so sorry. I screwed up. Please open it.”

She continued to knock and whimper, and Liam’s door did not open, and finally, I cracked ours.

“Are you okay?”

She was young. Very. Brown hair, big doe brown eyes, sullied with makeup. She was crying.

“My phone is dead and I don’t have a charger and my girlfriend has my wallet in her bag but I can’t replace her and I just want to go home.”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay. What do you need? Do you need me to charge your phone?”

“Please.”

My eyes were scanning the corridor for security, but there was none. “How did you get up here?”

She shook her head. Her dress was mature beyond her years. Red, Herve Leger. A lot of effort for a little girl.

“Did you come up here with someone?”

“Simon,” she said, wiping her eyes. She was clinging to a set of keys and what looked like a student ID.

“Where’s Simon now?”

“In his room. Sleeping.”

“Which one’s Simon’s room?”

She pointed to the suite next to ours.

I was confused. “Then why are you knocking on Liam’s door?”

She shook her head, and the tears started to fall again.

“Okay. Okay. Give me your phone and I’ll charge it and we’ll replace your friend and get you a ride home.”

Hayes was stirring in the bedroom. “What are you doing up? Who are you talking to?”

“There’s a girl, in the hallway. I don’t know if she’s a fan or a groupie or what. But she’s young, and she’s out there, and she’s crying.”

“Well, get Desmond to deal with it.”

“I don’t know where Desmond is. It’s four o’clock in the morning, Hayes. There’s no security out there.”

“Fuck.” He rolled over, burying his head under the pillow.

“Oh-kay. I guess I’ll take care of it then.”

“She’s not your problem. Don’t get involved.”

“She’s someone’s daughter, Hayes.”

“Everyone is someone’s daughter, Solène. Don’t get involved.”

I returned to the girl in the hall once her phone was charging. “Where’s your friend? The one you came with?”

She shrugged. “She disappeared with the drummer.”

“Who’s your drummer?” I turned back into the suite. Hayes was now up, in the living room, in his underwear, looking for his phone.

“Roger,” he sighed. “He’s a good guy.”

“Yeah, they’re all good guys.” I stepped back into the hallway. “Where do you think she could be now?”

“The last text I got from her said she was going home. And I told her to go because I was with Simon and he said he’d get me a ride…”

“But he didn’t.”

“But he didn’t…”

“And you ended up with Liam?”

She started crying again.

I was trying to imagine how it had played out, and every possible scenario was ugly and seemed very un-Simon/un-Liam like to me. But what did I know? How well did I really know these guys? And how crazy was I to have trusted my daughter with them? I excused myself and rejoined Hayes in the suite.

“Desmond isn’t answering his mobile,” he said. “Neither is Fergus.”

“She’s a mess. We can’t just leave her there. Let’s just let her sit in here until her phone charges and she replaces her friend and we can put her in a cab and send her home.”

He shook his head, his eyes wide, his hair sticking in sixty-nine directions. “She can’t come in here. She’s freaking out. I told you I don’t do well with women who freak out.”

“Is she a woman or a girl? Because she looks like a girl to me.”

“She’s borderline.”

“Hayes, that’s someone’s daughter.”

“I understand that. But she can’t come into this room.” He said it with such conviction it alarmed me.

“I’m just going to make sure she’s okay and call her an Uber.”

“She can’t come into this room.”

“Who are you?”

“Right now? I’m Hayes Campbell. And I can’t have that girl’s DNA in my room.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Look at me, Solène. I’m completely serious right now. I cannot have that girl’s DNA in my hotel room. I don’t know what happened with Simon and Liam, and I love them like brothers, but I cannot get involved.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll take care of it. But tell your friends they can’t fuck underage girls and leave them crying in the hallway.”

His hands were at his head, pulling at his hair. “See. This is why I don’t mess with anyone under thirty.”

“That’s because you have mommy issues.”

He cocked his head. “What?”

“You heard me. Just go. Go back in the bedroom. Go lie down in your own DNA. I’ll take care of it.”

* * *

“How old are you? Be honest with me,” I said to the girl, back out in the hallway. She’d eaten off most of her lipstick and I found myself wondering whose dick she’d sucked.

“Sixteen.”

Shit. “How old did you tell them you were?”

She paused. “Eighteen.”

Fuck. “You are not supposed to be here.”

“I know. I just want to go home.”

“Do you need to go to a hospital?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? This would be the time to go if you’re going to go.” I felt awful throwing Simon and Liam under the bus. Where was Desmond and why wasn’t he handling this?

“I’m sure. I’m okay. I just need to go home.”

I sighed. “Okay, I’m going to call you an Uber.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking up at me, her brown eyes smeared with mascara. Like a baby panda. What the hell had they done to her?

“You look really familiar to me,” she added then. “Do you have a kid at Windwood?”

My heart stopped. Fuck. “What’s your name, honey?”

She told me.

“Where do you live?”

“Brentwood.”

“I’m going to go inside for a second. Stay here. Don’t move. Okay?”

Hayes was lying in bed, texting like a demon when I returned to the bedroom.

“How is she doing?” he asked.

“She fucking goes to school with Isabelle.”

“Holy shit.”

“Ya think?” I’d located my purse and was tearing through my wallet. “I’m giving her cash for a cab. I can’t have an Uber car on my account taking a sixteen-year-old girl back to Brentwood. How the hell did I end up here? I did not sign up for this. This is not cool, Hayes.”

He sighed deeply, placing down his phone. “I called the front desk. They’re sending someone up to make sure she’s okay, and they’re going to put her in a courtesy car and take her home.”

I spun to look at him. “Did you really do that?”

“I really did that.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome. Will you come back to bed now?”

* * *

In the morning, things were not pretty. My head ached, my body ached, I was no longer twenty-four. Hell, I wasn’t even thirty-five.

We showered and ordered up room service, and then got back in bed. The shared realization that we were running out of time. That he was leaving. That things would not be the same. I was starting to get a feel of what life on tour might be like for him. And I did not like it.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. His voice was craggy, his eyes red, but he was still beautiful to me.

“She was young.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I want to believe that if that were Isabelle, you would have helped her. You wouldn’t have left her out there in the hallway crying at four in the morning.”

Hayes sighed. “Obviously I would have helped Isabelle because I know Isabelle. But there are so many, Solène. There are so many. And I can’t know them all.

“Come here,” he said. He pulled me into him, tucking me into the crook of his arm. “I’m going to tell you a story, okay. But don’t say anything until I’m done.”

“Okay…”

“Two years ago, we were in Tokyo, on the Fizzy Smile tour. We were staying at the Palace Hotel, like on the twentieth floor. Incredible views. And after our show, this girl came back to the hotel with me. She wasn’t super-young. Like twenty-three or something. When we were done, I said to her, in the most polite way possible, ‘This was lovely, but I have a very early wake-up call tomorrow and it would probably be best if you didn’t spend the night.’ And she looked at me like she didn’t understand what I was saying. I mean it’s possible she didn’t understand what I was saying, because I speak like five words of Japanese: ‘hello,’ ‘please,’ ‘good luck,’ and ‘thank you for the fish.’”

I looked at him dumbfounded.

“Although I didn’t say that. I promise. But those are like my only five words. Anyway, she insists on staying and I tell her no and then she gets out of the bed and walks to the other side of the room and I think she’s getting her clothes, but then she opens the door to the balcony and walks out there, completely naked, and she manages to climb up onto the fucking railing and threatens to pitch herself off. And she’s sitting on it, facing me, but leaning back and she’s crying hysterically, like not playing a game or teasing, she’s bawling, and all I could think was, HolyFuckHolyFuckHolyFuckHolyFuck. And I couldn’t scream for help because I thought it would just set her off, and I couldn’t call or text anyone because my mobile was back in the room, and I couldn’t leave her, and all I could do was plead with her to come down and it was the longest, most horrific seven minutes of my life. And then finally, finally, I get her off the railing and lure her back into the room and into bed and then I just held her until she stopped crying and fell asleep, which took like two hours, and at that point I texted Desmond and he came and got her the fuck out of there.”

For a moment I was speechless. And then a random thought came to mind. “Seven minutes.”

He nodded, slow. “Seven minutes, yeah.”

“Do people know what it’s about?”

“No one knows what it’s about. Well, maybe Desmond…”

“Oh, Hayes, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well … It taught me to be a little more selective about who I bring back to my hotel room.”

I was quiet for a moment, respectful. “I thought it was about falling in love.”

He shook his head. “It’s about falling.”

* * *

On Tuesday, the boys headed out to Bogotá. And I went back to work.