“Are you going to give me that glass? Or did you just bring it over here to tease me?”
“To tease you,” he laughed, and took a sip of my champagne before handing it over. “Cheers.”
I stood there, staring at him, not drinking. Enjoying it. “You’re bad…”
“Sometimes…”
“Does that work for you?”
He laughed then. “Mostly. Is it not working now?”
I smiled, shaking my head. “Not as well as you think it is.”
“Ow, that hurts.” His eyes darted across the room then, searching. “Oliver!”
Oliver looked up in our direction. He was still being cornered by the guy in the shiny suit and seemed eager to have an out. I watched as he excused himself and made his way over to us.
“Ol, this is Solène.”
“Hi, Solène.” He smiled, charming.
The two of them stood peering down at me, equally tall, equally confident. And for a moment I wished I hadn’t worn flats, because even at five foot seven, among these boys I felt small.
“Tell me, Ol, could Solène be my mother?”
Oliver raised an eyebrow, and then took an extended moment to look me over. “Most definitely not.” He turned to face Hayes. “And your mother is a very beautiful woman…”
“My mother is a beautiful woman.”
“But she doesn’t look like this.”
“No, she doesn’t.” Hayes smiled.
Oliver’s eyes were arresting. “What are you doing slumming in Vegas?”
I took a sip of champagne then. Game on. “I got roped into attending an August Moon concert. You?”
They were both quiet for a second. Hayes laughed first. “And a brilliant wit, to boot. Ol, you can go.”
“You just invited me to the party, mate.”
“Well, now you’re being uninvited.”
“Hayes Campbell. Doesn’t play well with others,” Oliver said, deadpan.
“I just saved you from the wanker in the bad suit. You owe me.”
Oliver shook his head before extending a graceful hand. “Solène, ’twas a pleasure, albeit brief.”
Albeit brief? Who were these guys? This rakish quintet. Clearly Isabelle and the other umpteen million girls around the world were on to something.
“‘Doesn’t play well’?” I asked once Oliver had departed.
“I play very well. I just don’t share.”
I smiled up at him, taken. His face, like art. His mouth, distracting. And that which crossed my mind was not all pure.
“So,” he said, “tell me about you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What are you willing to share with me?”
I laughed at that. Hayes Campbell, twenty, and making me sweat. “As little as possible.”
He smiled his half smile. “I’m listening…”
“So you are.” I took a sip from my glass. “Where to start … I live in L.A.”
“Are you from there?”
“No. The East Coast. Boston. But I’ve been there for a while now, so … it’s home, I guess. I own an art gallery, with my girlfriend Lulit.”
“Girlfriend?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Not that kind of girlfriend.”
He smiled, shrugging. “Not that I was judging…”
“Just that you were fantasizing?”
He laughed, loud. “Did we just meet?”
“Do you want to know more or not?”
“I want to know everything.”
“We own an art gallery. In Culver City. We sell contemporary art.”
He let that sit there for a second, and then: “Is that different from modern art?”
“‘Modern art’ is a broad term that covers about a hundred years and encompasses many different movements. Contemporary art is current.”
“So your artists are all still alive, I gather?”
I smiled. “On most days, yes. So…” I was going to need more champagne. “What is it you do when you’re not attending August Moon concerts?”
He laughed at that, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not sure that I remember. This has kind of consumed the last few years of my life. Touring, writing, recording, publicity…”
“You write your own music?”
“Most of it.”
“That’s impressive. You play piano?”
He nodded. “And guitar. Bass. A little saxophone.”
I smiled at that. Clearly I’d been underestimating boybanders. “Do you ever just go home and do nothing?”
“Not often. Do you?”
“Not as much as I’d like.”
He nodded slowly, sipped from his water, and then: “What does it look like? Your home?”
“It’s modern. Clean lines. Lots of midcentury furniture. It’s on the Westside, up in the hills, overlooking the ocean. There are walls of glass, and the light is always shifting. The rooms change, at dawn, at dusk. It’s like living in a watercolor. I love that.” I stopped then.
He was standing there, staring at me in a way that he probably should not have been. He was so ridiculously young. And I was someone’s mother. And in no world could this lead to anything good.
“Wow,” he said, soft. “That sounds like a pretty perfect life.”
“Yeah. But for—”
“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 party ever! 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.