Shooting Stars

by Jennifer Buhl

  I notice a security camera outside Kate’s gate and assume I’m being watched. I take out a tabloid. Soon enough, James walks up the driveway and strolls by my car. I stare at the underwear model. He looks so young and unintimidating. His features are classically handsome, but his unblemished skin is too feminine for my taste.

  “Hi,” he says and keeps walking. He’s on his headset with Kate instructing his moves, I presume.

  I smile, nod, and continue reading.

  A couple minutes later, he wanders back and engages me. I listen half-arsed to his theoretical discussion on the evils of the paparazzi business. I’m not rude but don’t make much effort to converse.

  “You do it for the money,” James accuses in a pretty Prince William accent.

  “What money? You see my truck?” I respond pertly. The red pickup’s probably worth about $1,500.

  “Why don’t you use your photography for creative purposes?” he says.

  “Why don’t we get some shots of you guys together? Could be good for your career.”

  His face turns scarlet.

  Soon James runs out of things to say, shuffles his feet, and leaves, no doubt frustrated about not having converted me.

  “Not happenin’ today,” I beep Simon, then head for home.

  Bartlet calls. “Why do you two waste time on Bitchworth? [That’s what Simon and Bartlet call her.] She’s not worth that much anyway.”

  “She’s a challenge. We’ll get her tomorrow,” I reply.

  Then, he makes some off-color comment about her uptightness, says, “I’ll put you down for Kate. Gotta go,” and hangs up.

  It’s his “thing.” Bartlet always has to be the first person to sign off. I care little for this kind of power so let him have it.

  * * *

  When I get in my car at around 9 a.m. the next morning, I beep Simon. We know Kate’s a late riser so don’t bother to get there early.

  He doesn’t answer. A few minutes later, he texts:

  Getting me arms waxed—please hold.

  I roll my eyes.

  He beeps a few minutes after that: “Ya know, Jen, if they had a pill that would get rid of all me hair, I’d take it.” I roll my eyes again.

  We come up with a plan over the Nextel. Both of us will post up on the Runyon Canyon trail. That’s half because we don’t want our cars to be seen and half because it’s more fun to hang out together even if it cuts the follow dangerously close. Based on yesterday, we think we’ll have about sixty seconds from the time we see her exit the front door to when she pulls out of her drive. If we run, we can make it back to our cars in that time, and if she goes down the hill, although we’ll be two minutes behind, we can catch up before she hits Franklin Avenue and Hollywood, a mass of traffic. If we catch her too early, she’ll bust us anyway. We don’t think that’s gonna happen, though. Simon is sure Kate will assume we are on her again today, so she’ll take a convoluted route to wherever she’s going. He thinks that even if she goes to Hollywood, she’ll go left out of her drive, up to Mulholland, then back down to Hollywood on another canyon. Going that way, she’ll have to pass by the joggers’ parking lot where we park for Runyon, so we’ll pick her up there. Kate doesn’t know Simon’s car, and for this tough job, I’ve cunningly resurrected the stealth blue station wagon, which I’ve yet to get rid of.

  We get to the trail at the same time, hike in, and plop down on some rocks. It’s a gorgeous Los Angeles morning and a haze-free view from the hills. We can see the entire city and all the way to the sailboat-dotted ocean. I love these views. Simon grabs his powerful binoculars, which he spent $500 on.

  “I don’t think these have ever helped me get a shot, but they sure are entertaining. You know, the other day, I saw through Eva Longoria’s white shirt with these lookers. That right there was my money’s worth.” Once more, I roll my eyes. But Simon makes me laugh, and I’m happy he’s my new partner.

  Our Peeping-Tom binocs scope out Kate’s house, check the cars in the drive, and look for movement through the windows and on the back deck. We relish knowing how infuriated Kate would be, if she only knew.

  “She’d have the cops all over us,” Simon says.

  He’s worked Kate enough times to “know” her, and he can’t stand her. He spends a lot of time dissecting her motives. “Her life’s purpose is to be Audrey Hepburn,” he notes. “That’s gotta be a lot of pressure.” He also thinks she wears her hair pulled back from her face so that it’s fully visible to all, at all times. “I hate having to look at that whole face every time I shoot her,” he says with disgust.

  Kate’s not Simon’s type. Simon likes double-D fake boobs and bleached-blond Playboy bunnies.

  In my opinion, Simon’s taste is off. Truly, Kate is exquisite. Her skin was churned for eons until God poured her, and He no doubt had a goddess in mind when He sculpted her perfectly symmetrical features. Kate’s body is waif-like but still sexy with long, feminine limbs. The only physical flaw I can find is her unfortunately thin hair. (“Which is why,” I tell Simon, “she wears her hair pulled back.”)

  But there are lots of ethereal stars in Hollywood. Why Kate? Why does she sell? What makes her so interesting?

  Though she’d like it to be, her acting is not why we photograph her. Kate’s breakout role in the surfer movie Blue Crush established her in Hollywood, but since then she’s never commanded leading-lady roles. And it’s not her beauty alone; we know that’s nothing special in Hollywood. Her boyfriend was once Orlando Bloom, but that’s not it either. Kate sells for something else, something quite specific, and something that she is fully in control of: clothes. That’s right, Kate’s a fashion diva, a first-row guest at every “Fashion Week” around the world. And the mags pay to see what she’s wearing. The way they hang on her petite body and frame her baby-doll face is just what the designers intended. If Kate didn’t dress so well, we wouldn’t be nearly as interested. In fact, we might not be interested at all.

  “Smug Bitchworth,” Simon continues. “All she’d have to do to put James on the map is be photographed with him a few times. But nooooo.”

  “Just wait till she dumps him.”

  “He’s gonna be bangin’ his head.”

  At about 10:30 the back door opens, and James comes out for a fag and tea. “Good British boy,” says Simon. I smile.

  James is in his boxers, a great confirmation they’ve just arisen and are still at home.

  “They’ve had their lie-in and shag. Probably head out in about an hour.” Simon, like Bartlet, always presumes morning sex is the norm with women who sleep in.

  Throughout the morning, we watch the FedEx man deliver a package, the flower man deliver a several-hundred-dollar bouquet, and Kate’s one friend stop by. Simon says she’s too paranoid to have more friends. (She should be more paranoid about her best friend. That’s where the leak is.)

  By noon, the sun is scorching and we send me on a Gatorade/food run. It will take at least thirty minutes, leaving Simon alone for the two-man job.

  Right when I get to the bottom of the hill, he beeps. “She’s on the move.”

  His Nextel goes blank, and I know he’s running for his car. I can’t do anything to help, so I post up on Franklin at the bottom of Nicholas Canyon Road to see if her car comes down, and wait for Simon’s call.

  He beeps about five minutes later. “Go to Laurel.”

  “Copy.”

  Laurel is the street one over from Nicholas.

  “She’s in her black Ford Escape. She’s alone,” Simon says.

  “Copy.”

  “We’re halfway down Laurel. I’m two cars behind.”

  “Copy.”

  My adrenaline rushes my senses. I’m on.

  Turns out, as expected, Kate tried to avoid us. She took a left out of her drive, up the winding road leading to nowhere. Simon lost her almost immediately—she took an even more circuitous path than he anticipated—but his pap instincts told him that she’d cross over to Laurel Canyon and head
back down to Hollywood that way. Simon navigates L.A. streets as well as he does porn sites, and he cut her off midway down the canyon. The constant flood of cars on Laurel kept him obscure; meanwhile, I was shrouded in the crowd of cars in Hollywood so could take over the follow when they got to the bottom. Well played, Simon.

  I spot them easily and roll in a few cars behind. It will be a tough follow—lots of cars to hide behind but lots of lights to get stuck at. We are discreet and stealth for a few blocks; then suddenly Kate pulls a slick right-hand turn from the left-hand lane, forcing Simon to blow his cover. He has no choice and screeches across three lanes of traffic.

  “Oh, that little bitch!” he says over the Nextel. “Did you see that move?”

  “Did. I’m three cars behind. Drop back.”

  “Look at her now,” he snarls. “Panicking. Weaving all in and out. Checking in her mirrors. Poor little girl probably peed her pants.”

  Kate speeds up erratically. Simon drops back like he’s lost it, and I move in to pick up the follow. She’s got no idea about the station wagon and doesn’t realize I’m on her as she pulls into the Chevron at the corner of La Cienega and Holloway. She stays in her car, so I post up where I can see her but far enough away she won’t notice me. I wait for her next move.

  A motorcycle cop drives up to her window. I beep Simon. “She’s called the cops. Lay low.”

  From a crack in the top of my window, I take shots of Kate talking to the cop. After a few minutes, we leave the gas station. It’s Kate, me, and our police escort, and thanks to the latter, we have no problem hopping through traffic. They have no idea I’m attached to the train.

  Kate waves as the cop drops her at Planet Nails. I salute too: Thank you, LAPD. Then, chuh-chuh-chuh, chuh-chuh-chuh, several lovely shots of Kate feeding the meter and sauntering up the sidewalk in a picture-perfect green and blue horizontal-striped dress. She never knows to look for me.

  “Done. Nailed,” I beep Simon.

  “Excellent, luv. Nice work.”

  Our adrenaline’s our crack. We’ve beaten Bosworth and made a thousand each, we reckon. Simon picks up the food that I never did and meets me at the manicurist.

  If Kate sees us when she exits, it’s not a big deal since it’s already nailed. But, for story purposes (e.g., Kate’s “Just like Us”—she gets her nails done by the Vietnamese), we want the salon in the background. Simon posts up out of the car where he knows she’ll bust him but hopes to get off one shot first.

  After an hour, Kate exits. One frame, head down. Already in my car, I pick up the follow. She smokes me out with a few darts in and out of side streets, but I stay on her snug. We’ve got plenty of salable frames; we’re just making a point now.

  Simon chimes in on the Nextel. “You know why we are still following you, little one,” he says in a laughable stalker voice. “You know you need to give it up. Your head down, that was no good, luv.”

  Eventually, Kate pulls into a tight alley in Beverly Hills and parks. I stay in my car and lean out my driver’s side window with my long lens. She makes a fifty-foot runway walk toward my car, not smiling but not looking belligerent either. Her head’s held up the whole time. When she gets to my car, she leans down and with unconcealed disdain says, “Will you leave me alone now?”

  Simon said it: Kate’s smart. She knows what we need.

  “Of course,” I say. “Thank you very much. Oh, and hasta la vista. Have fun in Mexico.”

  Kidding, I don’t really say the last bit. We know from the tipster that she and James are going to Mexico tomorrow. Kate would surely change her plans if I had said that. We wouldn’t want her to have to do that; we’re not mean, after all. (We’re just really f—king annoying.) And she did give it up in the end and didn’t have to. She could have played it like Demi Moore and never, ever give it up.

  Chapter 12

  At this point, I publish a lot. Each week, I have at least one and often three or four pictures in People, Us Weekly, or other U.S. mags. In addition, many more print online on sites like PerezHilton, E! Online, and the Daily Mail (in Britain). I’ve stopped saving hard copies unless I’m particularly fond of the photo, or it’s a cover, but I still crack a smile when I’m queued up (another British term I’ve adopted) in the checkout at Safeway or Rite Aid and see my name, and handiwork, staring back at me.

  As long as the paychecks keep coming, I personally don’t care if the average Joe knows what I’ve shot; however “getting known” is a critical part of earning respect from my fellow paps. CXN—and not all agencies do this—credits the photographer as well as the agent when a photo is published. On blog sites, you find the credit directly under the image. It might say Jennifer Buhl/Celebrity X News, or if I shot it with Simon for instance, it will say Buhl/Landingham/Celebrity X News. Most rags credit at the bottom or side of the page in itsy-bitsy font you’d never notice if you weren’t looking. Because of these credits (and the fact that a female name stands out), other paps are constantly reminded that I am getting published. My online credits are especially important since blogs are the paparazzi’s main source of daily information. Paps are now seeing Jennifer Buhl at least twice a week. They figure if I am getting pictures then I probably know what I am doing, and they respect that. Since the Jennifer Aniston shot, no pap has trash-talked me, and I’ve even started to notice that some guys look to see what I’m doing—where I’m standing, what lens I have on. It seems, now that everyone realizes I’m not going away, we’re finding a way to live together.

  * * *

  The first thing most people want to know when they find out that I am a paparazzi is how I get paid, and how much. I’ve already told you “how much”—I never gross less than ten thousand a month, and sometimes I make closer to fifteen. Based on what I know about other CXN salaries, and what Bartlet tells me, that’s in the top 10 to 20 percent of pap paychecks. In terms of “how” I get paid: generally a freelancer makes 60 percent of his or her photo sales and a staffer makes roughly 20. (Staffers also get paid a base salary and have their equipment and vehicle provided.) If you shoot with a partner, your percentage is cut in half. The agents—who do the obvious, selling—get the rest. For that giant percentage, which has made many of them very, very rich, they also line-itemize each photographer’s paycheck by sale: picture, price, media outlet, and country. Sales outside the United States, United Kingdom, and Australia are often outsourced to international agents so a pap is getting a percentage of a percentage, but those little bits add up. I probably make half my money in U.S. sales, the other half internationally; and although the pictures somewhat sell themselves, relationships are important, especially with exclusives, which Bartlet individually negotiates with each publication. Non-exclusives are usually priced using standard page, half-page, and quarter-page rates, which change all the time but at the time of this writing are around $500 per quarter page but can go up if the non-exclusive is the shot—a truly exceptional one, for example, Paris’s Holy Bible shot.

  Making a larger percentage as well as having the final say in my daily destiny keeps me freelance. But there is another huge advantage: residuals. As a freelancer, I own all my photos, which means that I get residuals forever. Today, “forever” is really only important for a year; regardless, when a staffer leaves his or her agency, he or she is lucky to get paid out for three months. To a person like me—who has historically taken long sabbaticals to pursue her “dreams”—residuals are a big perk. As well, owning my own photos means that I can use them wherever and whenever I want without giving my agency a cut and, more importantly, without getting its permission.

  Because I am prolific and one of a half dozen girl shooters, I know if I desire, I could work with anyone in town. Female shooters are always needed as we blend in better on “CIA-type” stories, for example if we must follow a celebrity into an interior location, or if “a couple” looks more natural doing a job and checking into a hotel in Maui. (Sometimes female tabloid reporters will be used for these kinds of sto
ries.) And sometimes it’s tempting to jump ship. I do get bored of the office staff’s Tall Poppy issues, and whenever Bartlet calls, he always manages to insert the P-word (the same one Dylan used in reference to Britney’s) in the conversation. I don’t remember Charlie ever talking to his Angels like that. But it’s the snappers who keep me from leaving. One thing I love about our staff (and our staff-like freelancers, like me) is around three or four in the afternoon, when all the paps are “scouring the tank for final bits and bobs,” as Simon says, we’ll meet up for coffee and cupcakes. And, as it happens when you’re doing life in Beverly Hills, you might just roll across a late-day jackpot sippin’ his or her joe alongside you.

  I know Simon says I have no friends in this business, but I think he might be wrong. I’m starting to really care about these guys.

  * * *

  Subconsciously I’ve been nurturing my crushes. When boys occupy my mind, it takes the focus off the black hole in my gut: the dark, empty space that only a baby can fill. I just can’t imagine ever being happy without one.

  Claudia is CXN’s new female pap. She came over from the United Kingdom for a “trial run” last year before I started working, then moved here with a proper work visa last month. She told me, “Jen, everything in my nature goes against this job.” Claudia wears dresses to work. If someone takes her spot, she finds another. When a celeb asks her to leave, she does. Claudia is a lady. Bartlet says she makes half the money I do. But then, the boys like her. Particularly, Aaron seems to. I think that’s why she took the job.

  Claudia knows I have a crush on Adrian. I think she wonders about Aaron too. Thankfully, she doesn’t ask. Honestly, I’m finding it impossible not to like her. Claudia’s a gentle, empathetic person, and how can I blame her for being ladylike at work, or if Aaron fancies her? She must long for the same things I do.

  “Why don’t you just work on him?” she suggests (about Adrian, not Aaron, of course).