The Idea of You: A Novel

He called.

Five days after Vegas, there was a message on my voicemail at the gallery. His voice: elegantly raspy with that darling British lilt. “Hello, Solène. This is Hayes Campbell. I’m in Los Angeles just for a few days. Was wondering if you’d be up for grabbing a bite.”

I must have listened to it five times.

Hayes Campbell. On my voicemail. For all his coy and calculated charm in Vegas, I was genuinely taken aback. I did not expect the follow-through. And what had passed as harmless flirtation in the underbelly of the Mandalay Bay seemed suddenly lurid in the Southern California light. Grabbing a bite. With a twenty-year-old. From a boy band. Under what circumstance might that ever be construed as acceptable?

I tried to push it to the back of my head and get on with my work. But it remained there all day. Subtle, enticing, like the last piece of chocolate in the box put away for safekeeping. A little gift I was holding onto for myself. I didn’t even share it with Lulit. And with her, I shared quite a bit.

We’d met fifteen years earlier in New York at Sotheby’s exclusive training program. Lulit stood out to me in a class of exceptional people. Sylphlike brown limbs, lyrical Ethiopian accent, a love for Romare Bearden. I adored the way she used her arms when she talked, about art in particular: “Basquiat is so angry, the teeth never fit in the mouth!” “Dead sheep in a box isn’t art! Add some bread, it’s dinner.”

She’d only just received her BA from Yale and I had already completed my master’s when we met, but we shared a sensibility for contemporary art and the desire to be a part of something thrilling and unexpected. We found it in L.A.’s burgeoning art scene.

It was Lulit who’d come up with the idea of only representing female artists and artists of color. She’d spent three years in Sotheby’s contemporary art department following our program. I’d done a year at the Gladstone Gallery before Daniel and I moved to L.A. We’d been married all of five months before I got pregnant with Isabelle and surrendered everything that had made me me. When Lulit arrived on the West Coast, spirited and ready to change the art world, I allowed myself to be swept up in her zeal. Marriage and motherhood had started to deaden mine. “Let’s shake things up a little, yes?” she’d exclaimed over sushi at Sasabune. “You know, white men are so overrated.”

At the time, I was spending my days tending to a willful twenty-month-old while Daniel was out billing 2,800 hours; I was inclined to agree. Within a year, Marchand Raphel was born.

The day that Hayes Campbell left a message on my voicemail, we sold the final piece of our current show. Argentinean-born artist Pilar Anchorena was known for her arresting mixed-media collages. Contemplative works in vibrant colors, always offering some commentary on race or class or privilege. Not for those seeking tame, pretty pictures, but catnip for the advanced collector.

Together with our sales director, Matt, and gallery manager, Josephine, Lulit and I toasted with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. One sweet moment of accomplishment before tending to the logistics of our May show.

In the late afternoon, when the others had gone, I locked myself in the office and took a bite of my metaphorical chocolate. “So, you tracked me down, did you?”

“I did.” Hayes’s gravelly voice filled the phone.

“Very resourceful.”

“I have an assistant…”

“Of course you do.”

“Her name is Siri. She’s quite good at her job.”

I laughed at that. “Well played, Hayes Campbell. What can I do for you?”

“Oh dear”—he cleared his throat—“the first and last name. Kiss of death.”

“How so?”

“Far too formal.”

“What would you like me to call you?”

“Hayes will do.”

“Hayes will do what?” I laughed. “I kid. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.” I stole a glimpse at my watch. I had forty-five minutes before I had to pick up Isabelle from fencing. It would take me anywhere from twelve minutes to an hour to get there. L.A.

“Let me take you to dinner.” It was a statement, not a question.

Dinner? I had been thinking more along the lines of a Starbucks. Maybe Le Pain Quotidien …

My pulse quickened. “I can’t … tonight. It’s short notice and I don’t have a sitter.” This was a half-truth. Isabelle didn’t need a sitter. She was twelve. But dinner seemed too official. Too much of a thing.

“Maybe drinks tomorrow,” I offered as a concession, and then realized my faux pas. He was not yet twenty-one.

It did not seem to faze him. “Can’t tomorrow. We’re playing the Staples Center.”

“Oh.” Yes, of course. The Staples Center. He’d said it so matter-of-factly. No conceit. Like Daniel announcing he had to work late on a deal. “Well, that won’t work then, will it?”

“No,” he laughed, this throaty laugh that made him sound older than twenty. Or so I wanted to believe. “Kind of have to show up for that. How about lunch then?”

I had a client lunch scheduled for Friday. I told him so. “Breakfast?”

He couldn’t. The band was booked on a couple of morning shows. I threw out Saturday and Sunday as dinner options, and he declined. They were playing four nights at Staples and then heading up to the Bay. I tried to imagine how many screaming girls it would take to fill the Staples Center four times over, but I couldn’t begin to wrap my head around it.

“Why don’t we just do this the next time you’re in town, Hayes?”

“Because I want to see you now.”

“Well, we can’t always get what we want, can we? Or do the usual rules not apply to you?”

He laughed at that. “Are you going to make me beg?”

“Only if it’s something you feel you need to do.”

I did not know why I was leading him on. It was absurd. Perhaps if I’d been a bolder person, if I hadn’t cared what people thought of me, I could have entertained the idea of a fling with a twenty-year-old boybander. But I wasn’t, and I did, and so maybe the thrill was in just knowing that I could. We would have lunch and be done with it.

The line was quiet, but something told me I still had him.

“All right,” he said. “I’m begging. Lunch. Tomorrow. Please.”

I glanced at my watch again. I was going to be late for Isabelle. It would not be the first time. She’d be waiting for me in the gym, amidst the clinking of metal and the whir of the fans and the high-pitched hum of the scoring machine. The coaches yelling in Russian. My little bird in that foreign space. She was surprisingly okay with it. And to me, she never looked more graceful than when she was competing. Controlled, powerful, elegant.

“Fine. Lunch tomorrow,” I agreed. “I’ll move around my schedule.”

Canceling a client lunch was irresponsible, but I attempted to rationalize it. The client was an old friend of Daniel’s from Princeton. He wasn’t going anywhere. Plus I had the satisfaction of having just sold out a show. So what if I played hooky for an afternoon?

“Yes!” Hayes made some little cheering sound, and I imagined his smile at the other end of the line, dimples and all. “Let’s do the Hotel Bel-Air, shall we? Twelve-thirty. I’ll handle the reservation.”

Of course he would pick someplace fancy and terribly romantic. Grab a bite, indeed.

“Hayes,” I said before he hung up the phone, “this is just lunch.”

He paused for a moment, and I wondered if he’d heard me. “Solène … what else would it be?”

*   *   *

He was there when I arrived. Tucked away in one of those recessed alcoves against the far side of the restaurant’s terrace, backed by a wall of glass and a view of the gardens. I expected him to be late, strolling in—all bewitching smile and rock star swagger. But he was punctual, early even. And the sight of him sitting there, in a gray-and-white-print button-down (was that a Liberty floral?) and tidy hair, told me he’d made an effort. He was poring over the menu and spinning his Ray-Ban Wayfarers between his thumb and forefinger when we approached. The maître d’ had taken one look at me and—with “Ms. Marchand, I presume”—escorted me to my unlikely date.

Oh, to have captured the expression on Hayes’s face when he glanced up to find me. Like Christmas morning. Joy, surprise, promise, and disbelief rolled into a singular moment. His blue-green eyes brightening and wide mouth giving way to a dazzling smile.

“You came,” he said, standing to greet me. He seemed even taller in the daylight. Six foot two, I guessed … maybe three.

“Did you think I wouldn’t show?”

“I thought there was a chance.”

I laughed, leaning in to graze his cheek. An art world air-kiss. Relatively low on the intimacy level.

“I don’t imagine you’re the kind of guy who gets stood up often.”

“I’m not the kind of guy who begs for dates either. There’s a first for everything.” He smiled, stepping aside and allowing me access to the booth.

“This is okay, I hope? It wasn’t until after I made the call that I realized I had no idea where Culver City was and whether I was asking you to trek from the other side of the world to meet me. Turns out nothing is close in L.A.…”

“That’s true. But no, it’s fine.”

“Okay, good. Because it’s a beautiful space. Feels like being on holiday,” he said, looking out over the terrace bathed in its perfect California light. Potted fruit trees and palms, white tablecloths adorned with purple Dendrobium orchids, boughs of fuchsia bougainvillea spilling in through the slats in the roof.

“Yes, it’s enchanting. It’s the Rockwell Group.”

“Pardon?”

“Rockwell Group. They did the redesign of Wolfgang’s restaurant. Lovely flow of indoor and outdoor spaces. Won a bunch of awards. And there’s a great Gary Lang in the dining room. Painted concentric circles. Aggressive. Unexpected.”

Hayes turned his attention back to me, the left side of his mouth curling into a smile. “Aggressive circles? That sounds sexy.”

I laughed. “I suppose. If you’re into that…”

He was quiet for a second, watching me. “I love that you know so much about art.”

Oh, little boy, I wanted to say, if I could show you the things I know.

“Tell me what you told the maître d’,” I said instead. “How was he able to identify me?”

Hayes opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before shaking his head in laughter. “You’re tough.”

“Tell me.”

“I told him…” He spoke softly, slowly, leaning into me. “I told him I was meeting a friend, and that she had dark hair and haunting eyes and would probably be dressed very well. That she looked like a classic movie star. And that she had a great mouth.”

I sat there, still. “Is that figurative or literal?”

“The mouth?”

“Yeah.”

“Both.”

He was so close to me then I could smell the scent on his skin. Some sort of sandalwood or cedar. And lime. It threw me. The way he looked at me threw me. This was not the plan. Not that I had one, really. But it certainly wasn’t to be turned inside out by this boy five minutes into our date. We hadn’t even ordered drinks.

“What are you thinking?” He smiled that disarming smile.

“I want to know what your intentions are, Hayes Campbell.”

“What are your intentions? Did you come here to sell me art?”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm…” he said, without breaking eye contact. “Well … I came to buy whatever you’re selling.”

In that moment, it didn’t matter how old he was or how many fans he’d amassed. In that moment, he had me. And I realized that just knowing that I could have a fling was not going to be enough.

He nodded then, as if sealing some unspoken pact, and turned his attention back toward the dining room, waving his hand in the air. “Shall we order?”

*   *   *

“How’s Isabelle?” he asked once the waiter had departed.

“She’s fine. Thank you.”

“What’d she say when you told her we were having lunch?”

“I didn’t.”

Hayes raised an eyebrow in my direction. “You didn’t?” He smiled.

I was not proud of this. Keeping secrets.

“Well, that’s telling.”

That morning, for Isabelle’s breakfast I had prepared a bowl of hot chocolate. Like I’d done when she was little, like my mother had for me, like her mother for her. And with it came a flood of memories: summers in the South of France, on the terrace beneath the pines, the hot chocolate accompanied by baguette et confiture, the smell of orange blossoms and the sea. And always most comforting on the mornings when I’d been kept up half the night by the mistral winds rattling the shutters, monsters breaking in.

“Chocolat.” Isabelle’s eyes had lit up on entering the kitchen. “Is it a special occasion?”

I’d frozen before the stove. Was it that obvious, my guilt?

She’d wrapped her thin arms around me and squeezed. “You never make it anymore. Thank you.”

*   *   *

“Are you laughing at me?” I asked Hayes now.

“Nawww… I would never do such a thing.” He had interlaced both hands behind his bonny head and was reclining on the banquette. There was something lovely about how comfortable he was in his skin. How at ease he was with his body. He owned it. He was happy with it. Boys were so different from girls.

“How’s your mum? What’d she say when you told her we were having lunch?”

“Ha!” Hayes threw back his head and let out a deep belly laugh. “You’re good.”

“You have no idea.” I had not meant to say it out loud, but there it was.

“Did you…? You’re flirting with me.”

“I’m sparring. I’m not flirting.”

“Am I to know the difference when I see it?”

“Don’t know. Depends how bright you are.”

He sat up then, erect. And then, without a hint of guile, he said: “I like you.”

“I know you do.”

“Hayes!” Some guy in a suit was approaching the table. Suits were a rarity in Los Angeles. Nine times out of ten, a guy in a suit was an agent. Five times out of ten, he could not be trusted. So said Daniel.

I noted a quick look of annoyance wash over Hayes’s features before he turned to see who was summoning him. And then like that, he turned on the charm.

“Heeeyyy.”

“Max Steinberg. WME.”

“Of course, I know exactly who you are. How are you, Max?”

“How are you? Tour’s going amazing, isn’t it? We’re all really stoked. I’m coming by Staples tomorrow night. Bringing a couple of my nieces. They couldn’t be more excited. And I caught you guys on Jimmy Kimmel last night. They’re just eating you up…”

Jimmy Kimmel? Was that before or after our phone call? Hayes had not mentioned it. I opened my mouth to say something and then stopped.

“It went well, yeah.”

“They loved you. Everyone loves you. That new ballad, ‘Seven Minutes.’ Great. And great banter. Hi, I’m Max Steinberg.” The suit leaned over to shake my hand, having finally acknowledged my presence at the table.

“Max, this is Solène Marchand.”

Max cocked his egg-shaped head, trying to place me. “You with Universal?”

“No.”

“42West?”

I shook my head.

“Solène owns an art gallery in Culver City.”

“Oh … Nice.” He did that thing Hollywood people did when they learned I wasn’t in the industry: he tuned out. “Well, okay, I won’t keep you.

“Hayes, good luck tonight, buddy. We’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll have two squealing teenagers with me. But I guess you’re used to that, huh? Just girls … everywhere … Enjoy it.” He winked. “Solène, nice meeting you. If you two haven’t ordered yet, get the halibut. It melts in your mouth.”

“So, Max Steinberg…” I said once he was out of earshot.

“Max Steinberg,” Hayes chuckled. “I’m sorry, that was rude. That ‘girls’ comment was completely unnecessary … I don’t know what he was thinking.”

“I don’t know that he was,” I said. “I find in this town men don’t even see women over a certain age. And if they do, they register them as either ‘mom’ or ‘business.’ I’m guessing he thought I worked for you. Which should show you just how inappropriate this is.”

Hayes’s mouth was agape. “I don’t even know what to say to that … I’m sorry.”

“Yes, well, good thing this is just lunch.” I smiled. “Right?”

He didn’t say anything then. Just sat there looking at me with an inscrutable expression etched into his features. I had the impulse to reach out and stroke the side of his youthful face, but already I was mixing my messages.

“What are you thinking, Hayes?”

“I’m still processing.”

“It’s okay. It’s not too late to turn back.”

Just then the waiter arrived with our plates.

The second we were left alone Hayes turned to face me. “Look, I’m not going to ask you how old you are because it’s impolite, but I want you to know there’s very little you could say that’s going to deter me. And I really don’t give a damn what people like Max think. If I did, I wouldn’t have asked you here. So no, in case you’re wondering, I’m not turning back.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” I repeated.

“Good. Cheers.”

“Thirty-nine. And a half.”

Hayes lowered his glass of Pellegrino, revealing a huge smile. “Okay. I can work with that.”

Dear God, what was I getting myself into?

*   *   *

“So,” he began, not two minutes into his grilled jidori chicken, “how did your ‘very French’ parents end up in Boston?”

I smiled. He’d remembered. “Academia. My father’s an art history professor at Harvard.”

“No pressure there.”

“None,” I laughed. “My mother was a curator.”

“So it’s the family business, art?”

“Sort of, yes. And you? Is this your family business? Was your dad a Beatle?”

“A Rolling Stone, actually…” Hayes laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No, nothing could be further off the mark. Ian Campbell is a very highly respected QC, Queen’s Counsel. I’m descended from a long line of highly respected people. On both sides. And then somehow something went wrong.”

“Something in the water in Notting Hill?”

He smiled. “Kensington. Close. Yes, perhaps. I came out singing. And writing songs. They were not amused.”

He shifted then, and his leg rubbed up against my bare knee—casual, but there was no mistaking it. For a moment he left it there, and then just as casually he drew it away.

“Did you attend Harvard?”

“I went to Brown. And then Columbia for a master’s in arts administration.”

“Did that piss the professor off?”

“A bit.” I smiled.

“Not as much as blowing off Cambridge to start a boy band, I bet.”

I laughed. “Is that what you did? Did someone put you together?”

“I put us together, thank you very much.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Does that impress you? I’m going to print up some calling cards: Hayes ‘I Put the Band Together’ Campbell.”

I laughed, setting down my fork and knife. “So how did you manage that exactly?”

“I went to Westminster, which is this pretty posh school in London where half your year ends up going to Oxford or Cambridge. And instead of that route, I decided to convince a couple of mates who I’d sung with there to join me in forming a group. We were initially supposed to be more of a pop band, but we kept losing our drummer. And Simon’s bass sucks … and we all wanted to sing lead,” he laughed. “So it was quite a bit of an interesting start. But we were lucky. We were really, really, truly lucky.”

His eyes were dancing. He was so comfortable, animated, happy.

“Is that all stuff I can find online?”

“Um, probably. Yes.”

“Hmm.” I returned to my omelet. “Tell me something I can’t find online.”

He smiled then, leaning back in his seat. “You want to know all my secrets, do you?”

“Just the big ones.”

“The big ones? Okay.” He was fingering his lower lip. I assumed it was an unconscious habit, but it worked wonders in drawing attention to his ripe mouth. “I lost my virginity to my best friend’s sister when I was fourteen. She was nineteen at the time.”

“Whoa…” It was both horrifying and impressive. “What … What did you look like at fourteen?”

“Kind of like this, but shorter. I’d just gotten my braces off,” he laughed. “So, you know, instant swagger.”

“Fourteen is so young.” I was doing my best not to picture Isabelle. Fourteen was around the corner.

“I know; it was naughty. I was naughty.”

“She was naughty. Nineteen? I assume that’s not legal in England.”

“Yes, well, since I spent two years hoping and praying it would happen, I didn’t exactly rush to file charges.” His smile was salacious. “Anyway, you’re not going to find that on the Internet, and if it ever got out it would ruin everything: friendships, the band—”

“The band?” It clicked. “Whose sister did you sleep with? Who’s your best friend, Hayes?”

For a moment, he didn’t speak, just sat there tugging on his lip, debating. And then, finally: “Oliver.”

He reached across the table for his Ray-Bans and placed them on his face.

The waiter arrived to clear our plates. Hayes declined dessert but ordered himself a pot of green tea. I did the same.

“Was it only once?”

He shook his head, a mischievous grin playing over his lips.

“Who else knows?”

“No one. Me. Penelope … that’s her name, Ol’s sister. And now you.”

It hit me, the weight of what he was saying.

“I need to see your face,” I said, reaching for his glasses. He surprised me by grabbing both my wrists. “What?”

He did not speak, lowering my hands to the banquette between us. He’d hooked his thumb inside the double leather band of my watch, and then slowly, deliberately, rubbed it against my pulse point.

“What?” I repeated.

“I just wanted to touch you.”

I heard my own breath quicken then and knew that he’d heard the same. And there I sat, transfixed, while he stroked the inside of my wrist. It was decidedly chaste, and yet he may as well have had his hand between my legs, the way it was affecting me.

Fuck.

“So,” he said after several moments had passed. “Did you come here to sell me art?”

I shook my head. Was this how he did it? The seducing? Subtle, effective, complete. They had rooms here, didn’t they?

He smiled, releasing my wrists. “No? I thought that was your intention, Solène.”

I loved the way my name sounded in his mouth. The way he savored the en. Like he was tasting it.

“You, Hayes Campbell … You are dangerous.”

“I’m not really.” He grinned, pulling off his sunglasses. “I just know what I want. And what’s the use in playing games, right?”

Our tea arrived just then. It was a flawless presentation. A still life.

“You’re on tour,” I said once we were alone again.

“I’m on tour,” he repeated.

“And then afterwards, you’re where? London?”

“I’m in London, I’m in Paris, I’m in New York … I’m all over.”

I took a moment to collect my thoughts, gazing out the window at the greenery. Nothing about this made sense. “How is this going to happen?”

Hayes slipped his hand beneath the table, grabbing mine on the banquette again, curling his finger inside my watchband. “How would you like it to happen?”

When I didn’t say anything, he added: “We can make it up as we go.”

“So I just meet you for lunch when you’re in L.A.?”

He nodded, biting down on his bottom lip. “And London. And Paris. And New York.”

I laughed, looking away. The realization of what I was agreeing to sinking in. The arrangement.

This was not me.

“This is insane. You realize that, right?”

“Only if someone gets hurt.”

“Someone always gets hurt, Hayes.”

He said nothing as he slid his fingers in between mine, squeezing my hand. The intimacy of the gesture threw me. I had not held a man’s hand since Daniel’s, and Hayes’s felt foreign. Large, smooth, capable; the coolness of an unexpected ring.

I shifted in my skirt, legs sticking to the leather cushion. I needed to get out of there, and yet I did not want it to end.

We finished our tea like that: fingers entwined on the banquette away from prying eyes, and the knowledge that we’d made a promise.

When the bill was paid, the maître d’ returned to our table. He asked if everything had been to our satisfaction. And then, very matter-of-factly, he said, “Mr. Campbell, I regret to inform you, it appears someone got wind of your whereabouts and there are a few paparazzi awaiting you out front. I apologize. They’re not on the premises, but they are just across the street from the valet. I wanted to give you fair warning, should you want to stagger your exit.”

Hayes took a moment to digest the information and then nodded. “Thank you, Pierre.”

“What does that mean exactly?” I asked once he’d departed.

“It means that unless you want to be on all the blogs tomorrow, you should probably leave before me.”

“Oh. Okay. So now?” I reached across the banquette for my Saint Laurent tote.

He laughed, pulling me back into him. “You don’t have to go this very moment.”

“I should, though.”

“Here’s the deal,” he said. “If we don’t walk out of the restaurant together, we risk looking guilty. But if we walk to the valet together and the cameras catch us, we risk looking guilty to a much larger audience.”

“So it’s a game?”

“It’s a game.” He slipped on his sunglasses. “You ready?”

I began to laugh. “Remind me how I ended up here again.”

“Solène”—he smiled—“it’s just lunch.”

If I’d managed to forget Hayes was a celebrity during our near two-hour meal, there was no ignoring it when we walked across the terrace of the Hotel Bel-Air restaurant. All six feet two inches of him, in black jeans and black boots. Heads turned and eyes widened and patrons gestured among themselves, and he seemed not to notice. He’d grown accustomed to tuning them out.

In the walkway, just before we reached the bridge, he stopped me, his hand on my waist, familiar. “You go on, and I’ll pop into the lounge for a bit.”

That seemed wise. Not that I couldn’t sell Hayes being a potential buyer to inquiring friends. I just wasn’t sure I could sell it to Isabelle.

He seemed to realize how close he was standing and stepped back, his fingers loosening slowly.

“Thank you,” he said, “for coming today. This was perfect.”

“It was.” We stood there for a moment, at arm’s distance, feeling the undeniable pull.

“Isabelle’s mum,” he mouthed, smiling. I wasn’t sure if he was relishing the moniker or the thought.

“Hayes Campbell.”

“I can’t kiss you here.” His voice was low, raspy.

“Who said I wanted you to?”

He laughed at that. “I want to.”

“Well, that’s problematic, then, isn’t it? You should have chosen a more secluded place.”

Hayes cocked his head, his jaw falling slack. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just messing with you,” I laughed. “This was lovely.”

“Because if you want, I could get us a room…” He grinned.

“I’m sure you could.”

“I just thought you were a respectable lady.”

“Only sometimes.” I leaned into him then to kiss his cheek. Not an art world air-kiss, but the chance to press his skin against mine, breathe in his scent, and lock it in my memory. A little like stealing. “Thank you for lunch, Mr. Campbell. ’Til next time…” And with that, I turned and walked off toward the unassuming paparazzi.