Paparazzi by Erika Vanzin
The cottage in Connecticut, where we returned, right after meeting with the record label, is a hidden treasure within a vast park surrounded by trees. It is warm and welcoming, an ideal place to raise a family. Ironically, as much as it would be a perfect place for me, I have no one to share it with.
I look out my bedroom window. It’s Christmas morning. We should all be gathered around the fireplace at Damian and Lilly’s house. Instead, the world seems suspended in a limbo between reality and hell, where there’s no celebrating. I admire the manicured garden and the trees at the far end of the yard, past the pool, and a bitter smile forms on my lips. Every time I thought about having more than a one-night stand with someone, a future, maybe a couple of brats, I’d regret it, feeling stupid for hoping I could have more than a life of solitude. Not that I thought of having children when I was thirteen, but I distinctly remember feeling that with Rita, it would never end. At the time, it was mostly irrational certainty: Rita would never leave me because I would never let her go. I didn’t accept the end of our story, even as I shared the room with three other guys who beat me almost to the point of death at least twice a week. I kept hoping she’d be waiting for me when I got out, with a suitcase full of clothes and a place to stay, since I no longer had a family. It was the prison psychologist—the one who helped the four of us get into the recovery program—who made me realize that I was just one of the many victims of the only woman I’ve ever loved...at least until Iris.
Because ultimately, whether I want to believe it or not, I wanted more than just sex with Iris. Why do I trust these women who end up betraying me? It’s clear as day that I don’t have a clue about their intentions. I can handle an entire room of malicious journalists. I can face a battalion of music industry people who just want to squeeze as much money as possible out of me. But I can’t discern sincerity in a woman’s eyes.
Emily’s words in the lobby of the record company office ring in my head. She told me it wasn’t her, and part of me wants to believe it. It doesn’t make sense—Iris, who always turned down my money, sold that information? Am I so repulsive that she’d rather sell me out than be with me? Was it all just a charade to make me fall in love with her? To earn my trust? I’ve been thinking about it for hours, and I still can’t figure it out.
An insistent knock on my bedroom door startles me. Someone tries to open it, but I had the foresight to lock it. I don’t want to see anyone. Our career is in jeopardy because of me. The record company has been clear: if this story negatively affects the sales of the next album, we’re out. No matter how many millions we’ve brought in over the years, they’re not willing to risk losing sales of the other artists on their label. That’s why I don’t dare look my friends in the face. Not so much because we could end up living on the streets, but because music is what pulled us out of the shit we were in. It literally saved our lives, gave us a new chance, and thinking that we can no longer do it is a possibility I can’t even consider.
“Open this fucking door, Thomas. We need to show you something.” Damian’s voice thunders on the other side of the dark wood, and, with a huge sigh, I go and open it. Something in the tone of his voice tells me it’s best to do as he says before he takes down the door.
“I don’t want to argue again, okay?” I say when I see them all enter the room.
Damian, Lilly, Simon, Michael, and Evan enter quickly into the space that has become a bit tight. My best friend’s girlfriend rests her laptop on the dark mahogany desk and opens an internet page.
“You have to see this,” she says as she loads a page.
“That’s Iris’s blog. I don’t want to see anything on there.”
“Trust me, you want to see this.” Michael puts a hand on my shoulder, makes me sit on the bed, and hands me the laptop.
I start the video, and immediately I see Iris, sitting calmly on her bed, her eyes red from crying, her posture rigid, her expression tight and tired. I feel bad seeing her like this. She clears her throat and I hold my breath until she starts talking.
“Hi, everyone. This is probably going to be the last post on this blog, but I need to tell you something I did, and I realized it was the worst decision of my life.”
Last post? What the hell is she talking about? She lives for that blog. My hands start shaking, and my stomach tightens in a vice I’ve never felt before.
“I made up the whole story about Thomas Simons of the Jailbirds. I sold the information to Ron, the newspaper editor that first published the story, but none of what I sold him is true. I used Photoshop to create the documents, and I edited the story to make it sound real. As you can see, I downloaded a sample legal document from a law school website, and then I changed some things and added a signature at the bottom. The names are deleted not because Thomas was a minor, which the story claims, but because there was no name written on it. I needed credible evidence, and I went so far as to make him look like the worst of criminals.”
I feel like I’m dying. She’s digging the pit herself. No one in this room is talking. They’re not even moving. I don’t think they’re even breathing, and neither am I. Iris’s voice is the only sound we hear.
“I did it because I needed money. Ron paid me well for this information. I went to him because I knew he wouldn’t check my sources. He never does. He just needed a scandal, so he could sell the ad space on his site at a higher price. I don’t really know Thomas. I only had the opportunity to meet him once. He was nice and very kind. I thought he might be up for sex, but when I propositioned him, he kindly declined my invitation. I felt rejected, so when I needed money, I thought this was the best way to make him pay. I made a mistake, I know. That’s why I made this video, to clarify the situation and to apologize to him. I’m really sorry I created all this mess. I’m sorry I used the fame of the Jailbirds to get money. I know I can never be forgiven for something like this, but I’m asking all of you not to go after them. They’re innocent parties in this whole thing.”
When the screen turns black at the end of the video, tears flow down my cheeks, and I can’t even think. What she did is absurd. She committed professional suicide to silence the rumors.
It’s Evan who speaks first: “I got to the bottom of this, and she didn’t sell that story,” he explains. “The guy she inadvertently gave the information to did it himself. I went with the lawyers to talk to him. He explained how he got her drunk to hound her with questions...she was not lucid that evening. Iris doesn’t even remember that night. He also said he tried to sift through her computer files, hoping to find something juicier, but he didn’t find anything about you or the Jailbirds. He used some contacts in the justice and police departments to fill in the blanks of what he managed to snatch from Iris that night. For God’s sake, he made his living verifying sources for journalists. His job was digging up information... He’s already been fired, and he’s probably never going to find work as a journalist. He’s lost his career, but she hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“She confided to others what I told her. None of this would have happened if she hadn’t done that.” Words come out of my mouth before I can think. I’ve wondered if she tried to find out more about my past, and I never got an explanation. And the reason is that she didn’t. She even told me, but I didn’t believe her.
“Are you serious? She was drunk!” Michael points out. “Just a few days ago you told me what happened to your parents—after more than ten years of knowing each other. You’re not exactly someone who trusts others. You never talk about yourself. Never. You never told her anything about your real past. You never let her know it was important for her to keep quiet. If you had told her everything, she would never have blurted it out, even under the influence of alcohol.” He’s telling the truth. I haven’t always been like that. Life has made me closed off and wary of people. It’s not a justification, but it’s still difficult to change.
“Why the hell would she make that video? It’s professional suicide,” I ask my friends.
“Are you serious?” Lilly’s voice is incredulous. “She’s in love with you, you idiot. Do you want me to spell it out for you? And besides, it’s not just professional suicide. It’s also personal. The comments below the post are slaughtering her. Literally, some fan of yours has threatened her with death several times. I’ve never seen such hatred against a person.”
I look down at my screen and start scrolling through the comments. They’re chilling, to say the least. Someone calling her a whore is the kindest. Others say her mother should have aborted that abomination. The anger bubbling in my veins feels like corrosive acid.
“We have to have this video taken off the site before it goes viral. It will ruin her life,” I say as soon as I realize it, but the expression on the others’ faces stops my breath. They look like they’re going to a funeral, Iris’s, to be exact.
“The record company pushed it out and made it go viral. There’s no way to stop the spread at this point,” Evan says, and from the disgust on the faces of others, I know they’re on my side, too.
“What the hell are we going to do?” I whisper, defeated.
“I think I have a solution, but I don’t know if you’re going to like it,” Simon proposes with his hands tucked into his pockets and a sheepish look on his face.
Simon does not speak much, tends to stand aside, and keep to himself. He gardens to relax, and he certainly doesn’t look like the bassist of the most famous band in the world. When he has something to say, it’s usually profoundly life-changing. From the expression on his face right now, I’m imagining it will pull the earth out from under us. Considering my world is already completely turned upside down, I’d say I’m ready to hear what he has to tell us. Almost.
“Do we need alcohol for what you’re about to say?” I ask with a sigh as I put the laptop on the bed.
“Yes, I think a whisky, maybe a double, is in order,” he admits, glancing furtively at Evan.
“I’ll need an antacid if I don’t want to be hospitalized with an ulcer,” our manager whispers as he exits the room.
I admire Evan and his ability to handle the thorniest situations with an enviable calm. We leave my room and I notice Lilly clasp Damian’s hand, and he reciprocates by gently massaging the back of it with his thumb. My mind goes to Iris. I wonder how she’s coping with the disaster that has come with her video, and I wish I could hold her hand to give her the strength she needs in this moment. Since meeting her for the first time, I finally understand why she never accepted my help. She never wanted me to solve her problems because she knows how to solve them very well on her own. She doesn’t need anyone. She has the strength to navigate her own life. Her shoulders are strong enough to sustain the weight of the consequences.
I wish I was there with her—to tell her she’ll get through this, too, that we’re going to get out of this. I wish I was there to hold her hand and telling her everything’s going to be okay, to reassure her that she’s not alone in this battle like she’s been her whole life. I wish I could make the journalists who stormed her building disappear, along with the fans stationed under her windows like vultures ready to pick on her carcass. Because when she exposed herself publicly for me, she opened herself up to the morbid hatred and curiosity of everyone. All of a sudden, the miles that separate us weigh like a boulder. I have to go to her, but I don’t know how to do it without being assaulted by the press.