by Robinne Lee
I nodded. “All right.”
* * *
There was something mind-bending about emerging from an intimate conversation with a member of the biggest boy band of the last decade and being thrust into an arena with twelve thousand of his shrieking fans. There was a shift of equilibrium, a disconnect. For a moment I lost sense of where I was, how I’d gotten there, what my role was supposed to be. The girls were buzzing with excitement and rushing to find our floor seats, and I was spiraling. I was not prepared for the onslaught: the roar, the pitch, the energy level of so many adolescent girls at the peak of arousal. That this, all of this, could be for the boys we’d just left in the basement seemed inconceivable. They were bewitching, yes, but still flesh and blood.
The screamfest started before the guys hit the stage and continued without pause for the next two and a half hours. Lulit had been right. It was at a decibel level that was near impossible to get used to. Particularly for a woman pushing forty.
The year I turned sixteen, I saw the New Kids on the Block at Foxboro Stadium during their Magic Summer Tour. A handful of us went for Alison Aserkoff’s birthday. Her father had finagled floor seats and backstage passes. It was loud and unwieldy and not typically my thing. Boy bands were not part of the prep school culture. We grew up listening to the Stones, U2, Bob Marley. Music that never got old. So five working-class boys from Dorchester, Mass., should theoretically not have had any appeal.
But there was something there. The rush, the hormones, the heat from the stage. The idea that they were longed for and lusted after by so many made them exponentially more appealing. And for a brief moment I thought I could let myself go, in the madness. But then I realized how indelicate that would seem, how unbecoming. And I remembered who I was supposed to be, at my core. And whatever wanton adulation might have occurred I stopped before it could take root. Well before the encore at the New Kids concert.
A near quarter-century later, it was threatening to play out again.
Despite the noise and the hormones coursing through the Mandalay Bay, the band put on a great show—although whether a group could truly call themselves a band if they didn’t play instruments was unknown to me. Rory stroked the guitar for a handful of songs, and Oliver sat down before the piano once or twice, but other than that, the only instrumentation came from the accompanying backup band. Mostly the guys sang and jumped about onstage like young virile pogo sticks. There was lots of roughhousing and clowning around and very little choreography, but the fans did not seem to mind.
“I love them! I love them! I love them!” Georgia proclaimed after a rousing rendition of “Fizzy Smile,” the titular track from the band’s first album. There were tears streaming down her doll-like face, and her curls had begun to frizz in the humidity. “They touch my soul.”
Rose was clearly in agreement, shrieking every time Liam walked the extended platform that brought him within feet of us. Isabelle was in her own trance, singing and swaying deeply with the music. They were a happy bunch. And in that moment, I forgave Daniel for welshing as he often did, because his flounder had gifted me the opportunity to witness the girls’ rapture. One could not put a price on that.
Like clockwork, a burly black man wearing credentials arrived at our section just as the band exited the stage after the final encore. Hayes had kept his promise.
“Is one of you Isabelle?”
I barely made out what he was saying through the incessant hum in my ears, the sense of conversing underwater. But we followed him to the gate, where he presented each of us with wristbands and all-access lanyards.
No words were spoken on the long walk backstage. I suspected the girls did not want to ruin the moment, to be woken from the dream. Their expressions were expectant, serious. They could barely look at one another for the excitement. Our lives begin tonight.
I got the impression that the security guard was used to this, plucking young girls from the audience to hand-deliver to the band. For a moment I feared what we might be getting ourselves into. Where was he taking us exactly? And at what point might I be liable for child endangerment? Because certainly handing over a trio of twelve-year-olds for consumption would constitute some sort of misdemeanor, if not felony. No, I would not let them out of my sight. This was Vegas, after all.
But as we entered the after-party it became apparent that my worries were unnecessary. Girls for consumption seemed few and far between: a couple of unrecognizable models, the Dane from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, a reality star, and an actress from the new Netflix series. Other than that, it appeared to be family and close friends: a bunch of Brits and industry types and a handful of well-behaved, lucky young fans. It felt decidedly safe.
Eventually the band emerged, freshly showered, hair damp and void of product. There was applause and whistles and the pop-popping of champagne. And I had to wonder if this happened every night. This sort of self-congratulatory celebration. Isabelle and her friends wasted no time flocking to Simon and Liam at the party’s core. Composure regained, they were once again on a mission. I wasn’t certain what that mission was exactly: “Make said member of August Moon fall in love with me” sounded about right, and yet surely they must have realized that was highly unlikely. As it was, Rory was chatting up the swimsuit model in a corner. Beanie pulled low on his brow, hands jammed deep into his pockets, forcing the waist of his black jeans lower than their already ridiculous latitude. The incline of his head and his body language conveyed all: he had claimed her.
Oliver was deep in conversation with what I took to be a record exec—some guy in a gray shiny suit who might or might not have been hitting on him. He was the most elegant of the group. Willowy and thoughtful with hazel eyes and golden hair. The type I would have fallen in love with in college only to discover he was gay. Or far too profound to be interested in an art history major. Either way, he would have broken my heart.
And then there was Hayes. Holding court like Simon and Liam, but in a manner that seemed more deliberate, intense. From my vantage point on the far side of the room, where a writer from Vanity Fair was chatting me up, I could see Simon goofing off and Liam being young, both captivating their fans. But Hayes was harder to read. Hayes’s attention appeared sincere. Even from a distance, his conversation with his sycophants seemed earnest.
It wasn’t until thirty minutes or so later, when I’d almost polished off a glass of Perrier-Jouët and extricated myself from the writer, that Hayes approached me in the corner.
“Well, hello, Isabelle’s mum…”
“It’s Solène.”
“So-lène…” He took his time with it. “Like, ‘So, lend me some money and I’ll pay you back’?”
I laughed. “Exactly.”
“So-lène,” he repeated. “I like that. It’s French? Are you French?”
“My parents are. Very.”
“So-lène.” He nodded. “I’m Hayes.”
“I know who you are.”
“Yes. Fancy that.” He smiled this half smile, the left side of his mouth turning up at the corner, putting precious dimples into relief. His mouth was too big for his face—wide and unapologetic. But he had dimples, and what might have been arrogance came across as endearing. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I am, thank you.”
“Good.” He stood there, grinning, arms folded across his broad chest. He was doing that thing that tall guys sometimes do, copping a very wide stance to bring him closer to my eye level. “Did you like the show?”
“It was … entertaining.”
His smile widened. “You didn’t like it.”
“It was surprisingly loud,” I laughed.
“No one warned you? I’m sorry, Solène.”
There was something about the way he kept saying my name: raspy voice, unwavering gaze, the roll of his tongue. It felt … intimate.
“I was warned, just not enough, clearly. Your fans are—”
“Excitable.”
“That’s one
way of putting it.”
He laughed, tossing back his head. He had a beautiful jawline. “They’re a wild bunch. Next time we’ll get you headphones.”
“Next time?”
“There’s always a next time.” He said it with a straight face, but there was something there that gave me pause.
“How old are you, Hayes?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty,” I repeated, and then downed the rest of my champagne. One gulp. Well, at least that was better than nineteen.
“Twenty.” He bit down on his bottom lip and smiled.
Right then would have been a good time to excuse myself. Collect the girls and call it a night. But I could see the expressions on their faces from across the room. Simon was patting Georgia’s hair again, and Liam was showing off his breakdancing moves, and the euphoria was palpable. We’d been there less than an hour. Pulling them now would be cruel.
“You’re thinking about leaving, aren’t you?” Hayes’s voice drew me back in. “Please don’t. I’m going to get you another drink.”
“No, I’m good, thank you.”
“Rubbish. It’s Vegas.” He winked before taking the empty flute from my hand and heading over to the makeshift bar.
There hadn’t been many since Daniel: a series of dates with one of the dads from Isabelle’s fencing team and a two-month dalliance with the TV writer from my spin class. Neither had been consummated. Once they’d threatened to go beyond casual flirtation, I’d closed up. I’d shut down. And while three years of accidental celibacy had been oftentimes miserable, I was not going to jump into bed with a rock star barely half my age because he’d winked at me at an after-party. I was not going to be a cliché.
Before I could fully plot my exit, Hayes returned with another glass of bubbly and a bottle of water for himself. His hair had dried into an enviable mop of silken curls. There were blogs dedicated to Hayes’s hair—this I would learn later—but there in the belly of the Mandalay Bay, I resisted the urge to touch it.
“So, Solène, what is it that you do when you’re not attending August Moon concerts?”
“You are amusing, Hayes Campbell.”
“Ha. You know my last name…”
“Yes, because I live with a twelve-year-old girl.”
“But not your ex-husband?”
“Not my ex-husband, no,” I laughed. “I could be your mother, you know.”
“But you’re not.”
“But I could be.”
“But you’re not.” He held my gaze, smiling his half smile.
I felt it then, that little flip-flop in the pit of my stomach that told me that whatever this twenty-year-old was doing, it was working.
“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.”
“Yea
h. 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.
