Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
I wake up with something tapping on my face. It takes me a minute to open my eyes and understand that Dexter is sitting on my chest, pressing his paw on my face. I stretch my arm out looking for Iris’s perfect body, but I can’t find her. My heart sinks a little, wondering if maybe I was too honest yesterday and she got scared.
I sink my fingers into Dexter’s fur and stroke him so he will stop torturing me with his paw and he immediately begins to purr.
“I’m glad to see that he doesn’t just wake me up.” Iris’s voice makes me raise my head just enough to see her sitting at the kitchen table, her laptop in front of her and a smile plastered on her face.
I get lost gazing at her beauty, studying how perfect her face is even in the morning when she’s just woken up—even more than usual. There’s something about this time of day that makes her particularly radiant.
I sit up despite Dexter’s protests—he’d spend the whole morning on my chest—and I feel her eyes on me. I slip on my boxers and look for my shirt, but I can’t find it anywhere, even in this small apartment.
“I think you’re looking for this…” Her words make me look up, and I realize what happened to the t-shirt. It’s so sexy on her that I struggle to hide an erection.
“Keep it. It looks better on you than me.” I smile as I approach her and grab her by the waist, lean against her back, and kiss her on the neck.
“Would you like to have breakfast? I haven’t cooked anything yet,” she asks hesitantly.
Does she really think I’d leave without looking for an excuse to spend as much time with her as possible? The thought almost frightens me. Since when have I been so attached to a woman that I’m looking for an excuse to stay? Usually, it’s the opposite: I make up the most absurd stories to be out of their bed as soon as I’m done.
“What do you want me to cook for you?” I whisper in her ear as I deeply inhale the scent of her hair.
“You don’t have to do anything. I can do it.” I can’t tell if there’s any irritation or mockery in her voice, so I decide to split the tasks between us.
“Make the coffee while I look at what’s in the fridge?”
She nods, jumping down from her chair and freeing herself from my embrace. It feels like she peeled off a layer of my skin and left me exposed.
“Sweet or salty?” I ask as I stick my nose in the refrigerator, which thankfully has been filled since I was here last time.
“Salty is fine.”
I take out the eggs, bacon, and sliced bread and find the pots on the kitchen shelves. I spot the dishes and cutlery and realize how natural it is to move around this apartment with her as she hands me a cup of steaming coffee and the eggs start to fry in the pan. It’s a routine I never thought I’d do with anyone, and it’s both reassuring and terrifying. It doesn’t come naturally to me. I wasn’t born to trust people. But she’s like a drug—I tried her once, and she sucked me into addiction. Like all drugs, though, in the corner of my mind, I know she’s going to kill me someday. I can’t shake the thought, despite feeling extremely happy with her. Maybe it’s because the only time I’ve ever been this happy is when I was a kid. I forgot how it feels.
I put our breakfast on the table, and she follows me, carrying the cups of coffee.
“How does a paparazzo’s life work? Do you go hang out in certain places looking for famous people?” I ask, genuinely curious.
Iris shrugs and makes a slight guttural sound of pleasure as she tastes a bite of the food. It takes considerable effort for me not to pull her into my lap and make love to her for the fourth time in less than twenty-four hours.
“No, not always. I usually take my laptop to one of the cafés in an area where celebrities are known to frequent, then I start searching online for the various accounts that report spotting celebrities. People who hang out on the streets, using social media to report someone’s presence. There’s usually five or six of us working the same area. I have friends that I trust, and we alert each other in a chat when we hear about celebrity sightings. When a restaurant waits for a high-end customer, there’s more frenzy. Often their assistants will call ahead to make sure everything’s in order. This gets everyone all excited: waiters are reassigned, tables are freed and reserved... Basically, clues that something is happening. And some of our friends are waiters or drivers who call us with tips.”
“Really? What restaurants? Can you tell me?’
She bursts out laughing, clearly amused. “Do you want a tip about where you should never show up?”
“I’m just curious.”
“The Mandalay is full of waiters who would easily sell other people’s private lives.”
“Is that why I met you there a few weeks ago?”
She nods blushing, like she’s embarrassed for lying to me. “But I wasn’t there to photograph you. Ron called me, saying Alicia was going to be there with her new boytoy. Sometimes, very often lately, it’s these people’s managers who tip us off.”
“If Evan did something like that, I’d punch him in the face,” I say with a smile on my lips and seriousness in my voice.
“That night you caught me outside the Mandalay, Alicia played her part and so did the kid. They took their time getting in that car, and they didn’t particularly hide themselves from the shots. We were there for major national news outlets—in fact, the next day, the photos came out in the three largest print magazines in the United States.”
I feel a little relieved hearing this. “Do you work only for Ron or for other magazines?”
“I don’t work for anyone. Photos are usually uploaded to agency websites where magazines pay a monthly subscription. Ron and Agata are the only two people unscrupulous enough to get photos under the table that agencies would never touch—either because they were illegally obtained or too raw to be published without warning the reader. Michael’s pictures would never have passed an agency’s guidelines, but Ron would sell his own mother for something like that.”
“It’s absurd how morbidly attracted people are to this kind of news.”
My statement is mostly me thinking out loud, but I see Iris nodding. “I feel sorry for Alicia. Really. She’s the one who found herself with an unfaithful husband and a marriage that was falling apart. But the news is so perverted they made it about him running away with a man. What difference does his sexuality make? If he’d run away with a woman, it would have been no different: Alicia’s the victim in this case. And yet she gets massacred by the media. People are attracted to what they think is the most scandalous, and the media gives them what they want. They know exactly how many times a link is clicked on their site, what topic attracts the most readers, and what keeps them glued to the page. So–it’s more of a scandal in America if you’re gay than a cheater.”
From her tone and the two small wrinkles that form between her eyebrows, I get how annoyed she is by this, and it’s all the more reason I can’t understand how she does this job. It’s clear that she doesn’t want to hurt people; following them and taking pictures like this without feeling something for them is not in her nature.
“But what do you like to do? What does a musician do when he’s not on tour?” she asks, smiling, lightening the heavy mood that my questioning brought on.
“We’re now at the stage where...we have nothing to do,” I admit, chuckling.
“Nothing? Don’t you have an album coming out?”
“Yes, but we’ve finished recording, we’re just making the final tweaks, and the marketing staff, along with the press office, has been preparing for the launch for months. In a few weeks, the promotional campaign will start with radio, television, newspaper interviews...basically, we’ll be targeted day and night. At its most intense, right around the release date, we’ll be doing three or four television appearances a day.”
“It must be stressful. The fact that you can’t stretch out the promotional appearances over time, I mean.”
“It’s just a crazy time. Over the years, I’ve learned to completely trust the people around us who organize our every move. Basically, we do nothing, just show up where we’re told. The assistants are the ones who have the worst life.” I smile, embarrassed, because we sound like spoiled children.
Iris, however, seems fascinated by this topic and nods. “So, you don’t even know which interviews or appearances you’ll be doing?”
“No, to be honest, we approved that list months ago. We have the last say in everything we do, but the list is given to us months in advance. When the appointments come up, the assistants get going to keep up. Do you want me to have Evan contact you for an interview on your blog?”
Iris’s gaze snaps on mine, and I almost regret proposing it. “My blog isn’t at the level of your band.”
I smile and watch her mouth settle into a stiff grimace. “If you mean the fact that it doesn’t have as many followers as other blogs that are more famous than yours, yes, you’re right. But if you mean it’s not as professional as the others, you’re wrong. It’s one of the best music blogs I’ve seen in recent years and is as good as the most famous magazines or websites in the industry.”
She seems to relax at my statement and even blush a little.
“Look, I’ll speak to Evan, but he’s not the one to decide either. It’s going to be the press office.”
“Okay.” She seems more convinced than before, as she brings the dish to the sink, and I follow her.
I put my hands on the kitchen cabinet, trapping her in my arms, and when she turns, she rests her fingers on my chest, a shy smile appearing on her lips. She tiptoes to kiss me on the mouth, a light gesture, not at all mischievous.
“Thank you for making breakfast.”
I smile at her, put my hands on her hips, and lift her up until she sits on the cabinet behind her. “Don’t thank me, I had ulterior motives,” I tease, sinking my head into the hollow of her neck, kissing her, and pushing my erection between her thighs.
She giggles and, with one hand, stretches to one side of the counter where there is a new box of condoms. Seeing her struggling to move her dislocated shoulder, I wonder if she shouldbe seen by a doctor before she does more damage. Still, I’ll need to bring it up calmly, suggesting something that doesn’t make her feel embarrassed. I can’t do it now anyway, with my brain clouded by her hands exploring my body.
In less than five seconds, my boxers are on the floor and her fingers are sticking a condom on me with a delicacy I’m not used to. When I finally get between her legs, I move her panties to the side and sink into her with a slow movement, enjoying every moment she wraps me with her warm body.
Like last night, we take our time, enjoying each other, and when we finally get to the peak of our pleasure, I feel her sink her teeth into my shoulder gently, making me shudder. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of her. Despite panting and almost out of strength, I want to start over, get lost in her like I’ve never done with a woman. Enjoy her breath, her hair falling on her forehead partly covering her eyes, wide open and full of pleasure, her small and perfect breasts that rise with each of my breaths, becoming swollen against my chest. I wish I could hug her like this for the rest of our lives, and that thought terrifies me to death.
*
The sense of discomfort seizes me when I leave Iris’s apartment, and I walk quickly toward Max’s car waiting for me. I need to breathe fresh air, talk to someone.
“Can you take me to Michael’s?” I ask Max as he opens the door for me.
He looks a little perplexed and maybe even worried, but he doesn’t say anything. He just gets in the car and slips into traffic, casting a few glances in the rearview mirror every now and then. I need to talk to my cynical, realistic friend. He can help put my feelings into perspective. Damian and Lilly would only make it worse. Those two, since they met, have been on an eternal honeymoon. I shudder at the thought.
Max takes me to Michael, who is on the roof of a building by the Hudson River playing golf. I didn’t even know there was such a place in Manhattan, let alone on a rooftop, but the fake grass and protective nets contrast wonderfully with the view of New Jersey across the river. The practice cubicles are practically empty since it’s morning on a work day in the middle of winter, with a cold that penetrates your bones.
“Since when do you play golf?” I ask him amusedly.
Michael throws a glance my way before hitting the ball with the golf club in a swing I wouldn’t exactly call elegant. “Playing isn’t quite the word. It’s more like hitting those poor balls without having any idea how to do it,” he chuckles, teeing up another ball and hitting it worse than before, sending it only a few feet in front of him.
I watch him, amused, and sit in the chair a safe distance away. “So I see.”
“It’s relaxing. I found that hitting a ball in a purely mechanical way loosens my tension.”
“I need to try it too.”
“Isn’t it enough to be fucking the redhead?” He raises an eyebrow and then sits next to me, following my gaze toward the river.
“I think she makes me more tense.”
“Because she isn’t good at fucking or because you’ve decided to do it exclusively with her?” he jokes in his usual irreverent way.
“The latter, definitely the latter.” I rub my face and try to put my thoughts together.
“It’s not a bad thing, I don’t think. I mean, look at Damian. He looks happy with the same woman. I’d go crazy, but you two seem like normal people.” He shrugs.
I look at him, shocked. I didn’t expect this. I thought he’d say I should go out and fuck the line of women waiting for me in the Manhattan clubs. “I’ve never wanted a relationship, and now I find myself so deep in it I’m scared to death.”
Michael can’t hold back a laugh. “It’s pretty clear that you’re in up to your neck. But can you tell me why? Is it still about that story and my pictures? That’s all water under the bridge for me, I swear.”
“No, I made my peace with her job. If you say it’s not a problem, it certainly isn’t for me.”
“Then what is it? That shit about you not trusting women? You already know how I feel about that.”
“This morning I woke up at her house, she was at her computer, wearing my shirt. It all seemed so perfect: I got up to make breakfast and talked about our day like it was the most natural thing in the world. And that’s what terrifies me.”
“Don’t you like her enough to consider living together? I don’t get it.”
“I’m too happy.”
Michael stops fiddling with the ball in his hand and turns to me with a confused look. “And is that a problem?”
“No, it’s just that happiness never lasts for me, and I’m afraid one of these days I’ll get up, and it’ll all be over. I’ve taken her home for two nights now, and when I’m at her door, I don’t know what to do. I kiss her on the cheek. Can you believe that? I kiss her on the cheek, and I stand there like an idiot, wondering if it’s too much to suggest going inside. She’s the one who makes a move every time. I have no idea how to be in a relationship, and every time I think about it, I wish I could ask my mom or my sister, who’s married with three kids, but I can’t. I’ve lost the only women my life, the most important ones, and it’s been my own fault. I’m afraid of repeating the same mistake.”
Michael smiles and I expect him to make a joke, like he always does when the topic of women comes up between us. He leans toward me and remains silent for a moment, thinking carefully about what I just told him. “Do you remember when Evan offered to represent us, and you were hesitant at first? You said we shouldn’t delude ourselves because, in this industry, fame comes and goes, that it’s not a guarantee. Even then, you were terrified, you just tried not to show it with that know-it-all attitude. You were afraid our good fortune would suddenly disappear overnight...but it didn’t. We worked hard, sweat blood, but we’re still here. Fuck, we even managed to get over my cocaine bullshit. Are you telling me you won’t be able to keep a relationship together with a good woman?”
“What if I fuck it up?”
“You will work on it until it’s fixed. You’ve already done the worst shit in your life and you’ve paid for it, you’re not going to repeat the same mistake.”
“What if she doesn’t want to be with someone who ended up in prison?”
“More likely, she won’t want to be with someone who lies to her to the altar. My advice is to tell her.”
I know the longer I wait, the harder it will be, but is there ever an easy time to drop a bomb like that? Maybe waiting for her to fall in love with me, the actual me, who I am now, without being influenced by my past, will help her accept what I’ve done.
“Since when did you become so wise?” I grin, looking him in the eye.
“I’ve always been, it’s just easier to be the clown than to be the confidant of desperate lovers like you.”
“I’m not desperate!”
“But you are in love.”
“Yes.”
Michael pats me on the shoulder, clutching it slightly before getting up again. For him, that’s as much as a hug, and I’m comforted by this rare show of affection as I watch him go back to hitting golf balls.