Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
The cat begins to meow, and my head throbs with every sound from his throat.
“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to choke you,” I whisper to Dexter, who’s at my feet and whining, disappointed because he knows his breakfast is delayed this morning.
I open an eye to see what time it is. My mouth feels like sandpaper, and my head starts to throb so hard I almost throw up. And then I do. Clinging to any surface that can support me, I barely make it to the bathroom. How much did I drink last night?
When I get up and grip the sink to brush my teeth and wash my face, I find a note from Emily attached to the mirror.
‘I had to go to class. I have no idea where Albert is. Maybe Dexter killed him and buried the body. Let’s pretend nothing happened.’
I laugh and immediately regret it. The pain hammering my head is unbearable. When I finally get out of the bathroom, I run into an agonized Dexter lying on the ground and emitting an excruciating lament.
“Stop looking at me like I killed someone. I know it’s late, but meowing like this won’t make me go any faster.” Dexter jumps on the table and stares at me like I’m a murderer. Sooner or later, I’m sure, he’ll kill me in my sleep. When I pour his food and he doesn’t even come near the bowl, I give him the stink eye. Is he trying to make me pay for drinking last night?
While I prepare coffee, I look around, searching for my laptop, and, after a moment of panic, I find it sticking out from under one of the pillows. I open it and approach the table to charge it. When I open my email, I notice that some messages dated last night have been opened. I try to recollect what happened and a series of confusing images of a bottle of tequila and some heated conversation with Albert come back to my memory, but that’s all.
One thing, though, I remember distinctly: Albert had my computer on his lap all evening, doing moronic searches on Google. It bothers me to think he read my emails. They’re mostly work-related articles I’ve written, concerts I’ve been invited to. I have nothing to hide, but they’re still private. I don’t want to share them with anyone, let alone Albert. I check the browser history and am surprised when I find it empty. Before Thomas arrived, I remember working. Is it possible I didn’t open any internet pages? I grab my phone and text Emily. ‘What the hell did Albert do last night with my computer?’
She answers almost immediately. ‘Nothing, I think. He was looking for stupid videos of penguins, as far as I can remember. Is there a problem?’
‘My browser history of the last twenty-four hours is gone.’
‘He must have watched porn while we were drunk. It’s Albert. I wouldn’t be surprised if he downloaded some naughty videos.’
The mere thought makes me search the download folder, and, luckily, it’s empty. I go back to look at my emails and realize that not only were a couple opened, but those that contained some concert tickets were forwarded.
I furiously text Emily: ‘That asshole went through my email to get into some concerts with my tickets! That’s why he deleted the history, so I couldn’t see which links he clicked on!’ I curse between my teeth. Did he think I wouldn’t notice? He was so drunk he didn’t even delete all the outgoing emails to his address. I swear that’s the last time I invite him to my house.
Something else occurs to me. ‘Albert didn’t ask me to give him those pictures of the Jailbirds I secretly took, did he?’
‘I don’t remember exactly what we talked about, but it wasn’t really about the band. He asked you a few questions about Thomas but nothing special.’
My heart pumps into my chest. ‘Questions like what?’
‘If you know where he lives or if you’ve ever been to his house, I think. But he was disappointed when you said no.’
Some of the tension that knots my stomach disappears. Just to be sure, I check some folders where I keep the photos I send to Ron. I hope he didn’t snoop in those too. But they’re all protected by password, and he’d have to go deep into my computer to find them because I don’t keep them in plain sight.
I’m so focused on checking my computer that I almost jump out of my chair when my phone starts ringing. I look at the name flashing on the screen, and anger sends a wave of bile up my throat. Apparently, Albert is the lesser of two evils today.
“Ron, what a pleasure.”
“Can we meet at the usual café?”
Whenever I talk to him, in person or on the phone, I’m always surprised at how rude he is and how little consideration he has for me. Does he not know he’s supposed to say hello to people when he calls them? Then I remember how much of a crook he is, and realize there’s probably no part of his brain that understands these kinds of feelings.
“Are you offering me lunch?”
I hear him hesitate for a few moments, and my anger grows. I bring him photos worth thousands of dollars. I shoot at his command every time he snaps his fingers. I spend hours in the worst places in Manhattan in the sun, rain, or snow. I think I deserve at least a lunch.
“Coffee?” he tries to bargain, and I almost laugh in his ear.
I hang up without even considering answering him. Less than thirty seconds later, his name flashes on the screen again.
“I think the line went dead,” he tells me as soon as I pick up the call.
“No, Ron, I hung up on you. I don’t leave my apartment for less than a lunch.” I say this more because of my headache and not wanting to cook a decent lunch than because I want to see him.
“Okay, all right. In half an hour at the café,” he demands without waiting for an answer.
He must have something vital on his hands if he caved on lunch and called me twice. I’m dying of curiosity, but I wait in my apartment doing absolutely nothing for exactly half an hour, just to piss him off and arrive twenty minutes late.
*
The coffee shop doorbell rings and Ron’s head immediately snaps in my direction. I’m wrapped in a huge jacket over a heavy sweater, a scarf pulled up to my nose, and a cap dropped over my eyes to protect me from the freezing cold and snow-threatening gray sky, but Ron’s eyes immediately find me. I can hide under endless layers of clothing, but that man will always find my face in the middle of a thousand others. His gloomy expression tells me he’s mad at me, and I can’t hold back a satisfied half-smile when I see him. I may need him, but I don’t want him to think I’m his lapdog, running wagging every time he whistles.
“Punctuality is not your forté,” he complains when I sit down.
“No, Ron, it’s that you have a bad habit of demanding things without asking. I arrived when my schedule allowed me to do so,” I calmly tell him, reaching out my hand with my palm facing upwards. He looks at my fingers stretched out, and frowns trying to figure out what I want.
“Your credit card. First lunch, then we talk.”
He looks at me wide-eyed, like I’ve just told him I want to see him dance naked on the table.
“Are you serious?”
“As death.”
“You’re unbelievable,” he hisses between his teeth.
“Thank you.” I wink at him as I grab his card and go get food.
I load the tray with a salad with eggs and chicken, a pastrami sandwich, fruit salad, a lemon cake, a bottle of fruit juice, and a bottle of water. I have every intention of pissing him off properly.
“Hi, Iris.” The guy behind the counter greets me with a sincere smile.
“Hi, Ian. Can you tell me if there’s anything really expensive on the menu?” He looks at me, puzzled for a few seconds. “He’s paying.” I beckon my head toward Ron.
Ian smiles and nods. “I can give you the specialty of the day, the puff pastry stuffed with beef and potatoes.” He winks at me. “Do you want me to warm it up?”
“Yes, thank you, you’re very kind,” I tell him as I pay sixty-four dollars for a meal that could easily feed four people.
I go back to the table with my packed tray and give the credit card to Ron, who looks at me horrified. “How long have you been starving?” He shakes his head with a disgusted expression as I open the salad box and nibble something. My stomach’s still shaken from last night. The truth is, I don’t need a meal like this, but I wanted to spite him.
“What do you want, Ron? Why did you call me?” I get straight to the point.
“I’ve seen from your blog that you’re on very good terms with the Jailbirds, especially Thomas and the Red Velvet Curtains. I want you to sneak into their private lives and get me the scandal I’ve been waiting on for years.”
I maintain an impassive facade even though I am bubbling with rage inside. I linger to look at his eyes shining with victory, and I take all the time to come up with an answer. I don’t want to slip on anything that puts Thomas or me under the microscope of this vicious bastard.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any particular contacts. I simply got an email from their press office to do the interview. And my work as a blogger doesn’t concern you. I bring you the photos I have, but our collaboration ends there. If you called me here to get information about that interview, you came out for nothing because you’ll read it like everyone else when it comes out on my blog. And for the record, the Red Velvet Curtains and the Jailbirds have separate press offices. They’re two different bands. You know that, don’t you?” The sarcastic tone in my voice covers the discomfort I feel right now.
Ron bursts out laughing, and a shiver, not at all pleasant, runs down my back. “First, Thomas shares your blog post on Twitter, when you wrote that preview review of their album, then you get an exclusive interview with the up-and-coming band of the moment, which, coincidentally, is linked to the most famous one in the world. Rumors tell me that a car with darkened glass often roams your neighborhood. You really want me to believe you don’t have any contact with them? They’re so heavily guarded that even Rolling Stone journalists have to wait months before doing an interview.” He spits all this out at me angrily.
As much as the man in front of me is a real bastard, revolting and arrogant, there’s one thing I have to admit he can do well: his job. He finds malice in everything, and ninety percent of the time, he’s right. Plus, he has zero ethics, which leads him to dig into the darkest ravines in people’s closets to bring out the most hidden and dusty skeletons: even ones the owners don’t remember.
“That’s right, I don’t have any contact with them. I won the contest and heard the singles before they came out, that’s all. I was with nine other people,” I shamelessly lie, looking him in the eye and chewing my salad as if the subject doesn’t bother me.
But in reality? My panic is growing because this man has already framed the situation, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he put one of his lapdogs at my house. I’m not the only one working for him. There are dozens of desperate people like me who need money. I carefully avoid getting close to the subject of the car in my neighborhood. For the first time in my life, I regret that I don’t have Thomas’s number. I could warn him to stay away, at least for a while. I don’t know how I’d explain to him how I know paparazzi follow him, but at least I could keep the situation from getting out of hand.
“You didn’t win the contest. I checked the names when I saw your article. Do you think I’m an idiot?” He raises his voice slightly and then immediately composes himself when he realizes that the people around us have begun to stare.
“No, Ron, but I don’t really know what to tell you. I don’t know them.” I shrug and look at him with indifference.
Ron studies me for a while with his jaw rhythmically twitching. He’s furious. “Okay, look,” he says, settling in his chair and inhaling deeply, lowering his gaze before lifting it to mine. “You want to raise the price? I understand that. It’s not like I’m asking you for something small. You’re fucking a great piece of a guy. Not everyone gets this lucky. It shouldn’t be hard for a nice piece of ass like you to slip into his bed. Anyway, if you do this, I promise you’ll have enough money to pay for your mother’s clinic for at least a year...plus all the other bills and hospital bills. In other words, I don’t think your economic problem has exactly disappeared, right?”
Nausea takes over my stomach so fast I find it difficult to swallow the bite of a sandwich I took a few seconds ago. I don’t know if I’m more scared that he knows the amount of my debts—and that I don’t even have medical insurance—or that he thinks I would really prostitute myself to give him the scoop he wants.
“Let me understand. Since when have you become a pimp who places prostitutes in clients’ beds? Because I think this is what you’re proposing.”
The sneer on his face is nothing short of creepy. “Don’t act like a saint with me. I know you need money, and a fuck is no big deal.” His insult isn’t even remotely veiled.
I tilt my head to the side and smile coldly. So much so that for a moment, I surprise him and his facade falters for a second before recomposing. “Let’s get one thing clear here, Ron. I’ve already told you I don’t know them, but even if I did, they’re not for sale. My ethics aren’t for sale. My mother is not for sale. And don’t you dare use your filthy mouth to talk about her again. Have I been clear? Go crawl back into the sewer hole you came out of,” I hiss with a coldness that is the complete opposite of the hot anger I feel.
Ron looks at me for a few seconds, then leans slightly on the table and stares into my eyes. “Remember that you are no one. Even if your blog does have all those visits, it’s not because of your mediocre writing, it’s because someone famous who wants to get into your pants took the easy way to get your legs open. You’re in debt. Sooner or later, you’re going to come back to me on your knees, and then I’m going to dictate the rules and the price, and I’m not going to be as generous as I’ve been now,” he slithers in my ear as he gets up to leave the café.
The exact moment I see him turning the corner, I start breathing again. My hands begin to tremble with tension, and his words ring in my ears. I’m not mediocre. I put my body and soul into my blog, and I know I’m doing it right. I have studied, I have committed, I take care of it down to the smallest detail. I am not who Ron says I am.
I turn to Ian, motioning that I need a paper bag. He gives it to me with a smile. I put my unfinished lunch inside and head toward the subway as fast as my legs will take me.
*
Sitting on the steps leading up to my apartment is Thomas. He’s looking down, clenching his fists. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but something’s wrong, and after meeting Ron an hour ago, nausea rises in my stomach even before I know what the hell happened. His driver, leaning against the car with the darkened glass parked a few meters ahead, seems ready to take off just in case. It’s all wrong, and my heart sinks deeper and deeper into guilt and fear of losing him.
“Is it true?” he asks as soon as I reach him. His expression and posture are serious as he gets up and walks toward me, but not close enough to touch me.
We’ve never been able to stay physically apart since the first day we met. This couple of feet separating us is like a stab wound to the heart. “What?”
“Did you sell Michael’s pictures to that newspaper? Did you take them?”
His voice is broken with anger, and I can’t breathe. “How the hell did you know?” Right now, no reasonable question can find its way to my lips.
“So it is true... The editor of the newspaper called Evan less than an hour ago. Giving your name. Was it really you?” he hisses again, increasingly impatient.
Ron. He wanted me to pay after our meeting, and he did it in the worst way. I didn’t think he’d burn me at the stake—he must have known more than I thought. That meeting was just confirmation to test my reaction. How stupid I was; he doesn’t need me anymore if I start protecting the people I should be photographing instead. I knew when Thomas found out he’d get angry, but to discover I was the one who almost lost them their careers was the coup de grace. What the hell did I expect? That this story would end well?
“Yes.” Lying again would be like stabbing him in the back, and I’m tired of hurting him. I can’t live hiding who I really am from him anymore.
Thomas releases half a laugh in disbelief. “Are you a paparazzo?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He stares at me for a few seconds, then bursts into laughter and runs his fingers through his hair, clutching them hard in fists full of rage. “So you only slept with me because you needed a few juicy shots to sell? For Christ’s sake! I trusted you. I told you private things about my life that I don’t tell strangers. I even suggested you sell your photos to get more money!”
“Let me explain...” My voice is broken by the tears stuck in my throat that are now about to fall.
“No. I don’t want any explanation from you. I want you to stay away from me, or I’ll have you arrested.”
I don’t even see him turn around and get in the car because tears cloud my eyesight, and sobs shake my chest so much it hurts. Or maybe what I’m feeling is my heart breaking because, deep down, I was hoping I had found my fairy tale.
*
Emily looks at me, worried, as I sip the coffee she made and try to stop the constant flow of tears from falling. She ran to my apartment as soon as I texted her about Thomas. I tell her what I know. “Ron must have called Thomas’s manager and told him I’m a paparazzo.”
Emily clenches her fists in an angry ball. “That son of a bitch. If I ever see him again, I swear I’m going to hurt him. I’m assuming Thomas didn’t take it very well.”
I shake my head, thinking again of his disappointed expression. The worst was seeing the pain of betrayal in his eyes.
“Maybe when he realizes that despite having many chances, you’ve never sold a picture of him, he’ll realize you’re not like the rest of those paparazzi.” Her voice is uncertain. Not even she believes what she’s saying.
“Ron told him I sold him the pictures of Michael.”
“Oh…” The sorrow on her face tells me it’s finally dawning on her—there’s nothing I can do to remedy this mess.
“I knew sooner or later he’d find out. It was just a matter of time. How could I expect to keep playing this game? I’ve been telling him lies since I met him. Michael was just the icing on the cake.”
“Yes, but that time it wasn’t your fault. Michael doesn’t need to be doing that shit in a public parking lot.”
An almost hysterical laugh escapes my lips. “I know you’re trying to make me feel less guilty, but it was all my fault. That parking lot is private. It’s for the residents of that building and for the valet parking service of the club. I snuck in there by jumping a railing! And even if it was a public place, I had no right to capture Michael’s vulnerable moment on camera for all the gossip magazines to post. There’s no excuse for what I did.”
Emily’s silent for a while. “What do you think will happen now?”
I shrug and look down at my cup of coffee. “I don’t know. The interview with the Red Velvet Curtains will fall through, I assume. Then the day after tomorrow, I’m going to have to see him parade in front of the Met for the Christmas event. He had invited me. But just now he told me that if I approach him, he’ll have me arrested... I just hope he doesn’t keep his promise at the gala.”
“You think he’ll follow through with it, for real? And maybe the interview won’t fall through. Maybe they’ll decide to do it anyway. After all, they’re two different bands.”
I glance at her, and the grimace on her face tells me she doesn’t believe what she just said either. I inhale deeply and stare at my cup in silence. This is the mess I feared would happen from the first day I met him. What I didn’t imagine was how bad it would feel to have Thomas disappear from my life.