Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
Sitting on the subway, I smile like an idiot when I think back to last night. The hours I spent laughing and joking with Thomas, Damian, and Lilly, then him taking me home and wishing me goodnight with a sweet kiss at my door. A kiss that became two, then three, and finally a night between the sheets—the memory makes me blush.
I’ve always wondered what rock stars were really like. I’ve made a thousand guesses about their personalities over the years, but I never expected Thomas to be such a sweet, at times insecure, generous person who’s usually utterly oblivious to how the female universe works.
The lady next to me chuckles as she steals glances at me. I must really be smiling like crazy if I managed to cheer her up. When I arrive at my stop and get off, I wave my hand, and she reciprocates good naturedly. I give some spare change to the homeless man huddled with his dog just outside the entrance to the subway, and walk at a quick pace toward the café where I usually meet Ron.
For the first time in my life, I’m meeting him without the weight of guilt on my conscience, without feeling like I’m losing part of my soul by selling the photos. I called Agata, the editor of a competing newspaper—the other shark in this tank—who has no qualms about running gossip stories. There was a period, between 1990 and 2000, when the paparazzo profession was at its most profitable. Some of those celebrity photographers became famous for their shots and their reckless behavior. The newspapers went out of their way to go after photos, until it got to a point where people were put in life-threatening situations. Celebrities were forced to flee from photographers at top-speeds, and at all hours of the day or night, endangering ordinary people who happened to be in their way.
Photographers and newspaper editors came together and honored their consciences, took a step back, and put a limit on what was allowed. Since then, the decline of the paparazzo profession and its earnings has been slow but steady. Everyone in the media was at that meeting, but Ron and Agata were clearly elsewhere. Although they stick to this non-harassment agreement by buying most of their photos from the agencies, they still pay generously under the counter for great shots. To raise your fee, you just have to involve both of them, and the bid rises with each phone call. Thanks to editors like them, I sometimes manage to get prices that compete with the golden years of our profession.
For what I’m going to sell to Ron, Agata has offered me seven thousand dollars. I’ve never received such a large proposal. With him, I can play the game of buy low sell high. Worst case scenario, I can go back to that despicable woman, though I was almost tempted to raise the price on her to avoid coming here. I also considered accepting her money and not contacting Ron so I didn’t have to see his face. But then I thought back to the satisfaction I’d feel getting the money for a job that’s nothing more than a setup. It won’t hurt Damian, Lilly, or the Jailbirds’ career—they’re just fake photos.
I enter the café, and the aroma immediately makes my mouth water. I notice Ron at a table in the corner waving at me, but I take my time, letting him sit on pins and needles. I approach the counter where a new girl smiles and asks me what I want. I order a coffee and a piece of cake, enjoying the luxury of eating more, since I’ll be leaving here decidedly richer than when I entered.
“Take your time. It’s not like anyone has work to do,” Ron says as I sit down, the irritation in his voice making me sneer, satisfied.
“I’m working. Aren’t you?”
“Don’t come in here and play Miss Know-it-All with me. Let me see what you have,” he demands, his tone implying this had better be good. I move slowly on purpose, pulling out my old, run-down iPad with the photos, and slide it in front of his eyes.
His eyes immediately light up like a child at Christmas time, but he quickly recomposes his poker face to hide his true reaction. He’s been doing this for so long he probably can’t even recognize his own emotions in front of the mirror anymore.
“I’ll give you five thousand for those.”
His voice has no particular tone, impassive. He’s in bargaining mode.
The laugh that escapes my lips is so genuine it surprises him. “Honey, Agatha offered seven thousand. And you know she’s stingy, too. Go ahead, call her,” I challenge, because I know he’s quivering with curiosity to see if what I told him is true.
After five seconds of hesitation, he sends a text. The reply doesn’t give him much pleasure because his face looks like he’s just swallowed a sour lemon. “Eight.”
“She would’ve offered me at least ten if I hadn’t mentioned coming to you.”
“Eleven.”
“You can do better than that,” I venture, knowing he desperately wants them.
“Twelve. I’m never going to get to fifteen, and you know that.”
I smile and nod. I know fifteen would make him look weak. I’m okay with twelve thousand dollars for twenty photos. With that money, I can breathe for a couple of months and pay the bills I owe.
“I’ll upload them to the site. As soon as I get the money, you can automatically download them,” I remind him, because if I don’t charge him in advance, he “forgets” to pay.
His bitter laugh is almost gruesome. “What’s this? Now that you’re fucking the drummer, you snub your nose at me and don’t trust old friends anymore?”
I decide not to go into the details of my relationship with Thomas. “You’ve already screwed me enough times when I was a naïve little girl. I just learned who my friends really are and who I can’t trust.” My voice is calm, as I’d hoped, despite the anger mounting inside me.
Ron gets up and looks at me with his usual arrogance before moving closer, icily whispering to me: “Remember that you are still a whore. You sold yourself to the drummer to get close to them and take these photos. You just earned twelve thousand dollars sleeping with him.”
“Look, these photos exist because of your phone call to Thomas that detonated a bomb in the band. Don’t blame me for something I didn’t do,” I hiss between my teeth.
“Exactly. My phone call revealed that you opened your legs to get something in return...in this case, twelve thousand dollars. How does it feel selling yourself to get what you want? Are you really different from a street whore? At least they’re honest about their profession,” he shoots at me before walking out the door.
He would’ve almost convinced me if I didn’t remember that Thomas helped me plan this whole thing. If there’s one thing Ron can do right, it’s get into your head and use your insecurities to get what he wants. But not this time.
Not even five minutes after he leaves, I get a notification that the money has been sent. I immediately transfer it to my personal account and breathe a huge sigh of relief. I’ll be able to pay the hospital bill, the monthly fee I owe at my mother’s clinic, and maybe even start paying back the thousand dollars Emily lent me almost a year ago. For once in my life, I leave this café with a smile on my lips and the prospect of a bright future ahead of me.
*
I enter the small restaurant in the Tribeca area, and with its rustic wooden coffee tables and red and white checked tablecloths, I feel like I’m in a parallel world, outside the glittering, modern buildings of Manhattan’s financial district. The clientele amazes me: casually dressed customers sitting next to businessmen poured into ridiculously expensive suits. No bulky backpacks or Macy’s bags scattered everywhere. These are no tourists.
I spot Thomas at one of the tables near the back, under a pergola of fake bougainvillea next to a red brick wall. I’ve never been to Tuscany, but the rustic wood, flowers, and other outdoor décor mimic a farmhouse in the hills, and it makes me smile. When Thomas sees me, his face opens up in a sincere smile that illuminates his face in a way that makes me almost faint. He stands up, kisses me on the cheek, and with his hand lightly touching my lower back, seats me across from him at the small table. A bottle of red wine is already open and has been poured into two glasses.
“How long have you been waiting?” I ask him.
Thomas smiles and shakes his head. “Not long, but the waiter suggested I pour the wine because it has to ‘breathe.’ I have no idea what that means,” he chuckles as he sniffs the contents and furrows his forehead.
“Don’t ask me,” I say, shaking my head.
Thomas studies me for a few seconds, then inhales deeply and, while he hands me the menu, asks me the question that is obviously nagging at him “So? Did you sell the photos?” There’s no scolding in his voice.
“Twelve thousand dollars,” I answer as I smile behind my glass of wine.
Thomas’s eyes widen, surprised, then his forehead creases, as though he’s puzzled. “I just realized I have no idea if that’s a good price or not,” he chuckles amusedly, and I echo him.
“I’m happy with it. Ron has never paid me that much,” I admit, ashamed of it. After all, those pictures aren’t even genuine.
“I’m glad. Lilly will be thrilled by the news.” He smiles amusedly but his expression shows his tenderness. She must really be special to him. I noticed it last night when the three of them were so in sync they finished each other’s sentences.
“That girl is crazy. Who would’ve thought of a fake fight?” I admit with a laugh.
Thomas nods vigorously. “She must be. Otherwise, she couldn’t be with someone like Damian. As much as I love him like a brother, you’d have to have an infinite amount of patience and madness to put up with him.”
I’d like to ask him more, how they met, what they did before they became famous, but fear of sounding like I’m investigating holds me back. I’m always afraid he’ll think I’m with him just to get a story, rather than the pleasure of spending time together.
“What do you want to eat?” I ask, looking at the menu, whetting my appetite.
“They have an excellent Sicilian pasta with eggplant and mozzarella,” he says. “What sounds good to you?”
“I think I’m going to have the Gnocchi Sorrento,” I smile, thinking about when he made me the pesto gnocchi that day he brought me groceries.
Thomas looks up and smiles at me triumphantly. “Then I impressed you with that dish!” He puffs his chest out in a way I’ve come to recognize.
I smile and nod, giving him this well-deserved victory. “A man who cooks always impresses. If he cooks a fantastic dish, he gets even more points.”
When he looks at the menu again, I steal a glance at him. He’s comfortable being in a public place with me, at the risk of people thinking we’re a couple. Suddenly, I realize how important this moment is, for me, for him, for what we are together. He could have chosen anywhere far from the prying eyes of strangers: my apartment, his, even the record company offices. But he decided I’m important enough to show me to the world, and the fact that he came back, after he knew I had lied, gives me confirmation that Thomas has no intention of pretending that our relationship is only about the sex. The warmth that invades my chest, the irrepressible joy that overwhelms me, makes me smile and, when he looks up at me again, I see in his eyes the feeling is mutual.
*
Yesterday’s scenario seems to be repeating today: he’s in front of my door, calling on me like a true gentleman and kissing me on the cheek. I smile shyly, though I must have a puzzled look on my face because he stands there staring at me with one eyebrow raised.
“Did I do something?” His question is hesitant, like he doesn’t know what to expect for an answer.
“No, absolutely not. In fact, you’re a perfect knight,” I reply candidly.
“But?” he presses me, and I feel my cheeks burning. I didn’t want the conversation to veer off into this topic.
“No buts, I swear...it’s just...I don’t know... Usually, the guys I go out with don’t even give me time to shut the door before they’ve already jumped on me. But you kiss me on the cheek and wait for me to make the next move... I’m not used to this.” I’m stuttering in embarrassment. He’ll think I’m a teenager with zero experience. He’s probably used to confident women who don’t have a problem jumping him while I’m here waiting for a kiss on the cheek.
The frown on his face almost worries me. “Rule number one: never talk about the guys you went out with the one that takes you back to the door. Our egos are very fragile...I don’t want to have to go and smash someone’s face in.”
“Are you jealous?” I want to make a joke, but he seems to be taking it very seriously.
For a few endless seconds with his forehead crinkled, Thomas observes me, then bursts into amused laughter. When he looks at me again, I see an infinite number of emotions I can’t decipher. I don’t have the time anyway, because his lips are immediately on mine in a frantic, sensual kiss full of affection that I didn’t think he could feel. His hands wrap my face as his body gently pushes me into the apartment, closing the door with a slight kick.
“This is the first time in my life that I’ve gone out with a woman, taken her home after a date, and not even thought about sex. I don’t know how to behave. I feel like an idiot sometimes,” he whispers to my lips as he pushes me toward the bed, lifting my hips to meet his.
I smile when I feel his hands under my skirt, stroking the skin of my thighs between the stockings and panties; his lips trace the skin of my neck as he gently strips me. Alone in this apartment, our sighs and groans blend together and fill the air as our bodies merge in perfect harmony. Making love to Thomas is a mixture of sensuality and sweetness that inebriates me to the point of near madness. His rock-star confidence disappears in an unceasing pursuit of our pleasure. When he sinks between my legs, we’re pushed to the brink of an ecstasy that consumes us until we whisper each other’s names. He has me lie on the bed while with his hands, he grabs my legs and rests them on his shoulders, taking the liberty of sinking more into me, making me reach that pleasure peak that makes me tremble.
“Thomas,” his name slips from my lips a moment before I steal a kiss that leaves him breathless.
I feel him sinking into his own pleasure while making sure not to crush my body underneath him. This is Thomas: protective and vulnerable at the same time.
“I don’t know how to woo a woman, take her out, entertain her, but I swear I’m working on it...” he whispers breathlessly as he lays beside me.
I put a finger on his lips before he can say anything else. “You’re perfect just how you are.” I kiss him as he grabs a blanket and wraps us in a warm cocoon that feels like home.