by Erika Vanzin
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.
I’m not sure if I ended up in front of the Metropolitan Museum today or in the middle of a Christmas fairy tale. The stairway, covered by a vast white marquee that shelters the entrance, is covered with a pristine red carpet, despite people walking over it. But what makes the décor so spectacular are the giant Nutcracker characters that surround the staircase. Guards who look carved in ten-foot-tall wood stand beside Christmas balls the size of an armchair. Fake snow covers the entire area, giving the bright red and dazzling silver tones a magical, otherworldly feel.
The glitz has been meticulously displayed to make guests feel like they’ve stepped into a magical world. Tonight, high society’s most famous people on the globe, slipping into elegant, uncomfortable clothes in which they will freeze, come here to cough up considerable amounts of money. Everything will be done to make their evening beyond enjoyable—to let them know that large amounts of money have been spent on their entertainment so they’ll be more likely to open their designer wallets and sign fat checks.
But this is not a fairy tale, as the raw reality of the bitter cold air penetrates my bones. Despite being covered in countless layers of clothes, standing here waiting for the first guests to arrive has been like taking a bath in a frozen lake. Until a few days ago, I was supposed to be on the other side of the barricade, and now I’m groveling with all the nobodies, as if proving to Thomas what I really am. Just thinking about him makes my heart tighten in a grip.
Standing here for ten hours in front of the stairs to get an interview with the Red Velvet Curtains wasn’t a great idea. After Thomas’s outburst the other day, I thought the meeting would fall through. I was sure I’d get an email withdrawing the offer, and honestly, I expected it. I’m still stunned by our last meeting, unable to process the information that his ‘I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore’ entails. I was used to seeing him pop over to my home at the most random moments, and my heart still hopes a little, despite reality.
My feet hurt, I’m tired, the barricades press against my ribs under the pressure of dozens of paparazzi squeezed up against them at the top of the red carpet. I’m not an official photographer for this event, entitled to a designated position on the stairway, so I’ve had to stand here since this morning with dozens of other second-class photographers who don’t have a pass. It’s been an hour since the minor stars came through, the ones for whom few flashes are unleashed but who are usually also the funniest to watch as they try to attract attention. A wave of shoves hit my back and ribs when Alicia arrived—the first big name to show up and a bad sign for an actress struggling to re-emerge after a scandal. Next year, she risks arriving completely unnoticed during the first hour of the red carpet, between the less famous stars or those who have fallen out of favor.
After that came a couple of well-known singers, but the big crush I’m feeling now is because the Jailbirds are here. The first limousine unloaded Thomas, Simon, and Michael, who waited as the second limousine with Damian and Lilly pulled up. As soon as the photographers realize who arrives, chaos erupts and they push against me until I’m out of breath, putting their cameras on my shoulders to take as many photos as possible. Guests at the gala don’t stop in front of us, so we have to take as many photos as possible as they walk by. I notice Lilly looking at us almost shyly and, when her gaze rests on mine for a fraction of a second, a slight smile appears on her lips. It’s a fleeting gesture, it lasts a few seconds, but it’s enough for me to lower my camera and look at her dumbfounded. I move my gaze to Thomas, and my heart skips a beat. With the black tuxedo fitting him like a glove, he looks like a model on a catwalk. Tall, slender, haughty-looking with a slight smile on his lips, he is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life. The memory of what we had and what I threw away weighs like a boulder on my chest, and I find it difficult to swallow.
I’m so caught off guard seeing Lilly and Thomas, who doesn’t even look back at me, I don’t realize that paparazzi are pressing harder than usual, and the barrier on my rib is vibrating abnormally. The buzz of the cameras covers any other noise as one of the legs of the barrier gives way and takes away my only support.
It all happens in a matter of seconds which, to me, feel like hours. I’m shoved to the ground, trampled by the crowd behind me that falls with me when the front barrier collapses. With one arm stretched out, I try to stop the fall. With the other, I try to protect the camera and lens that cost me so much sweat and fatigue—my only source of livelihood. Unfortunately, I can’t hold the dozens of people rushing forward to escape the chaos behind them and I get trampled. The metal barrier presses into my side with a force that takes my breath away. The shoulder I tried to support myself with has crumpled under my weight, and the camera lens is jabbing into my side. In the confusion, I see several faces around me, including a worried Lilly trying to come to my rescue but being restrained by Damian. Then security makes its way among photographers who no longer know where to seek shelter. The last thing I see is the square face embedded on the big neck of a security guy wearing an earpiece. Then someone stumbles, kicking me in the face, between my nose and cheek, while another shoves a knee in my side, knocking what little air that was left in me out of my lungs. At this point, my body decides it’s had enough, and darkness falls over my eyes.
*
I open my eyelids and realize I’m in the emergency room. Overhead, neon lights blind and annoy me. To the side, I am greeted by a green curtain that divides the beds. I notice my clothes and camera, not in the bes
t condition, in the chair. The lens dangles from the camera’s body, where I can see a thick crack in the plastic. I don’t who’s more banged up, the camera or me.
I try to sit up but the pain in my ribs and shoulder almost makes me cry out. “Great.” An annoyed hiss escapes my lips when I realize the damage could be severe.
“Where do you think you’re going?” asks a young, cute doctor, with dark, messy hair and two hazelnut eyes so wide he looks like I’ve just threatened him with a gun.
“Home,” I announce when I finally manage to sit up and realize that this damn hospital gown they put me in is open from behind.
“I don’t think so. You have a mild concussion, two cracked ribs, and a dislocated shoulder. We’re keeping you here for the night,” he announces as he waves a chart in front of my eyes.
I know he’s just doing his job, but he’s wasting my time. “And you found out all of this how?”
He frowns and studies me, perplexed for a few seconds. “With an MRI,” he says, like it’s obvious and I’m behaving like a crazy person.
“Perfect! How much will this cost me? Let’s see…fourteen hundred just for the ambulance ride, then twenty-five hundred for the MRI, a thousand for the X-rays, and I don’t know what other tests you’ve done on me. I’m leaving here with a bill of almost five thousand dollars already and I have news for you: I don’t have medical insurance, and staying here tonight costs me more than a room at the Ritz. So, unless I’m about to die any minute, please let me sign the damn discharge papers and stop wasting my time as well as yours?” I know I’m being rude, but I want to make it clear right away that I have no intention of being hospitalized.