After about five minutes, I turn to go, this time concertedly protecting my belly with the scarf. After my initial wavering, my resolve has returned. I am sad, but less sad than when I walked in, and more sure than ever that this is the right choice. No, Bo isn’t the man to father my child. And no, at least for the moment, he doesn’t need to know. For now, until next time, au revoir my baby’s daddy.
* * *
No one can say that Frank’s not cunningly smart. Or patient. He went to the hospital; he accumulated witnesses; he visited the police. He made an effort to build the strongest case he could. I can’t speak to his motive, but if he wanted to bury me, he may have gotten his wish.
Then I get the call: “Hi, Jennifer. It’s Frank. I believe congratulations are in order. I’ve just heard.”
“Thanks,” I mumble bitterly.
He continues. “Children strike a soft spot in my heart.”
Does he have one? I can’t say anything nice so stay silent.
“I’m sure you know why I’m calling,” he says.
“Not really.” I figure it has something to do with his case against me, but my hands are tethered to his whims, so I have no other response.
“Well, I know you understand that I have a rock-solid case against you…”
I want to hear him out, so I keep my mouth shut. Red flames would shoot out if it opened.
He goes on to tell me that because I’m pregnant and he’s a “nice guy,” he’s willing to settle. Frank says that if I pay his several-hundred-dollar-medical bill—outrageous, in my opinion, for a simple tetanus shot, but no surprise from the elite Cedar-Sinai hospital he went to that night—he will stop legal action against me and tell the courts that we came to a settlement. Several hundred, several thousand, or more, it didn’t matter. I would never have enough money to fight a battle with such hate. A settlement would save me thousands, and more importantly, my sanity.
Georgia finds a friend who draws up a settlement agreement for me in an hour. For free.
A few days later, I meet Frank in the parking lot of Bristol Farms grocery. He signs, I give him a check, and it’s over. That darkness that has oft resided in my heart this year is one shade lighter this afternoon. Maybe it is in Frank’s too.
Chapter 24
Georgia nudges me: “Jen, look. It’s your ‘friend.’”
It’s nine-thirty at night, and Georgia, Alexandra, and I have met up for an after-dinner coffee and dessert at Fig. Katherine Heigl is now standing behind me trying to get a table.
I lumber up slowly—with six weeks to go, I’m big now—and say hello. Katie wraps me in a bear hug and lets her congratulations flow. “Josh said that you were pregnant!” (I happened to be pumping gas beside Heigl’s husband at the Chevron last week.)
Katie and I chat about babies and life, like old friends, until she’s seated. I return to my table.
As always, when celebrities are present, I find it difficult to concentrate. Should I be calling someone giving out a tip? Should I take the picture myself? Should I stay cool and not do anything, since at the moment, we’re all on level social ground?
To add to my angst, Katherine is with both Josh and Justin Chambers, her co-star on Grey’s, who surprisingly sells quite well. Any shot I take now would be posed and not hugely valuable, but regardless, it would still be one worth taking.
I’m in this business to make money, I remind myself, not for my pride. I know Katherine won’t mind if I ask them for a shot, and I know she’ll say yes.
Georgia can tell what I’m thinking. With regard to my profession, she has always been my Most Supportive Friend. She’s practical about the business as a lawyer would be, and she doesn’t think that anyone is better than anyone else, including celebrities. So when we pay our bill, Georgia walks toward their table so I can’t chicken out. She’s already given me the words to say: “Ask them something like, ‘Would you like to contribute one last picture to the baby fund?’ That’ll make ’em laugh.”
I swallow my hubris and pop the question. The trio responds with a resounding “Of course!” so excitedly that I wonder which number Fig is on their bar-hop.
At least I don’t have to pull out the giant SLR. With the small point-and-shoot I keep in my purse, I point and say, “One, two, three.”
The group must pose without moving for a second because of the delay in the consumer camera. Then Josh insists that I get in the picture too. He grabs my camera and takes one of Katie holding my baby bump.
After we’re done with pictures, I make introductions. “This is Katie, Josh, and Justin,” I say to Georgia and Alex, like what’s going on is normal, the way it always is.
Katie, bubbly with a drink in her hand, keeps up a lively conversation with me, while Georgia and Alex stand awkwardly to the side until about ten minutes later when I notice they’re seated and in animated banter with Justin. Apparently they accepted his third invitation to join the table.
I might as well sit too.
“Please,” Justin says as he pulls out a chair for me. He buys a round for everyone—sparkling water for me—while we visit for more than an hour. We talk about the business, the neighborhood, Grey’s plots, everyday industry stuff really. We’re all good conversationalists.
I tell Justin that my favorite set ever is one I took of him and his family. He knows right away which I’m talking about, and grins. “With the kids. On Sunset. I love those pictures.”
I explain that it’s rare to get a picture where five kids and celebrity are all in one tight frame, so the residuals do fantastic. “I think I’ve made more money on that shot than any other,” I tell him. Then I specify, “Six or seven thousand,” to put it in perspective. He raises his eyebrows as if impressed. I want to laugh. He probably makes double that every day.
I tell him about one of the shots in the set that never printed. “You have a guitar swung over your shoulder. Your wife, kids, and new dog are behind you, and you’re walking up the steep hill from Sunset Junction. I love that shot. It reminds me of the Sound of Music.”
“I’d love to see it.”
“I can print it for you.”
Then Justin asks if I would ever consider coming to his home to do family portraits. Now, let’s be clear, I would LOVE to be The Family Photographer to the Stars, but this is a very unorthodox idea. And I’m pretty skeptical about it, especially because Justin doesn’t know me at all. Realistically, no celebrity is gonna invite a paparazzi into their home unless they are really sure of that person (like Adrian did, for example). I wouldn’t even do that.
This evening, though, it sounds like a great idea. “That’d be fun,” I say and give him my card.
I stopped working on Katie when she became an everyday gangbang target, maybe a year ago. But that day in the nail salon long ago, I had mentioned to her that I was writing a book, and I’d been hoping for another opportunity to remind her about it. Katie’s the kind of celebrity “friend” who would pose for a pap shot with my book in her hand, or maybe even write a blurb for the back.
When I bring it up, she immediately seems to recall my project. “I love the idea!” she exclaims, and with a mischievous rise of the brows says, “Hmmm…You. Now that’s a role I’d like to play.”
“You’d be perfect,” I tell her. And she would. “But you’ll probably need to play yourself.”
Josh likes the idea too. He implies some embellishing would naturally occur in the book.
“Actually,” I respond with a laugh, “no need. Real life’s got it all.”
Josh and I fall into conversation about our home state of Georgia. He’s the son of a doctor and grew up in Augusta.
Katie leans in when she hears our discussion. “I’m filming a movie in Atlanta in May. Why don’t you come and shoot it?”
Great idea, Katie! But Katherine Heigl is no Lindsay Lohan, and I just don’t see her texting me each morning with the location whereabouts. (Same way I don’t see Justin calling me for the Chambers’ family photos.)
“It’s with Ashton Koocher,” she informs me.
“Koocher? As in koochy?” Josh says. He and I both laugh.
“Kutcher, honey. Ashton Kutcher.” Josh lovingly corrects his wife who can’t quite pronounce the name of her super famous co-star.
Our table wraps up at about eleven-thirty. Katie asks for my card, saying she’d like to get me “a little something for the baby” and invite me to “game nights” at their house. Her intentions are genuine, but somehow, like the Atlanta idea—and the invite to her honeymoon—I question the follow-through.
Don’t get me wrong; she isn’t being disingenuous or flaky. It’s just that I imagine she has encounters like these all the time, and it’s impossible to remember or follow through on every single one. Regardless, I’ve always believed that paps can tell a lot about these people we follow around day after day. Having worked Katie, Josh, and Justin a number of times during my pap tenure, I can honestly say that each of them tonight was as lovely as I would have expected.
And, for a brief starry night, I felt like a star myself.
* * *
Spring is just around the corner, and I haven’t seen Adrian for several months—not since the swimming pool day when I was only a few days pregnant and he suggested we “date.” He’s been out of town, which I’ve noticed since his car has been parked in the same spot all winter.
At about 4 p.m. this lucky Friday the thirteenth, hearing that Adrian has recently returned to L.A., I swing by his house.
He’s pulling out of his drive, and he sees me before I see him.
“Hey. What’s up?” he calls over.
“Hey. Long time no see,” I say, stopping my car.
“How are you?”
We’re side by side in our matching silver Priuses.
“Well…I’ll show you.”
I pull to the curb and get out. I’m wearing a tight baby blue tank top that shows off my bump and my boobs.
“Wow,” he says, raising his furry eyebrows. “You’re pregnant.”
“I am.”
“I didn’t know you had a…were seeing anyone?” Adrian remembers my relationship status. And that’s his first thought.
“I’m…not. Not anymore.”
“Oh really? What happened?”
“Well, I guess it’d…I’d…it’d…been so long since I’d had sex that I didn’t really realize how easy it was to get pregnant.”
“Really? How long?”
I love that he ignores the fact that it was easy for me to get pregnant and focuses, instead, on the sex part.
“I’m not saying,” I reply, getting red. I wouldn’t mind Adrian thinking I’m a good girl, but I don’t want him to think I’m completely chaste.
“No, really. How long?”
He’s flirting now. I can tell it in his voice and by his cheeky look. I love that his head’s in the gutter, and he wants to know.
“A long, long time,” I respond.
“How long?” he persists.
“Let’s just say years.”
He smirks. “Well, if I’d known that, I coulda helped you out.”
Sigh. And as much as I wish I could say that Adrian was staring longingly into my eyes as he said these words, his beautiful eyes were instead turned to his phone. Constant texting: what an awful communication crutch we have in this century.
“All right, so it’s been a couple of years since you had sex…” he continues, still looking at his phone.
“Yeah.” I don’t add anything. Adrian still makes me nervous; it’s best I say as little as possible.
“And, so you got pregnant. And not keeping it wasn’t your thing.”
“Right.” I laugh at the sheer ludicrous nature of this conversation.
Adrian seems undeterred. “Boy? Girl?”
“Boy.”
“Adrian’s a good name,” he suggests.
I laugh again. Adrian’s not arrogant—or alone—in recommending his own name. No joke, I can think of only one guy, Dule, who didn’t suggest his moniker for my little one when he heard it was going to be a boy sans dad. And that’s only because Dule hates his name since no one can pronounce it. I guess, guys need to have a male heir. I mean, if I were having a girl, no woman would ever think to suggest her name.
“So, how did it happen exactly?”
Just like a typical dude, Adrian gets back to the sex of it all.
“The timing was…improbable,” I stammer out, still nervous, “based on the day of the month and other things. I actually was much more worried about STDs since just after sex, the guy told me he was looking for a bisexual girl in an open relationship. I wasn’t really thinking about getting pregnant.”
“And I assume you’re all-OK there?” Adrian, again, seems unfazed by his words.
“Yes, no diseases. Just pregnant.” Does he really need to know?
He grills me for a while about the identity of the dad, but I stay strong—plenty of times I’ve seen Adrian at the Starbucks on Western Ave., Bo’s employer.
I’m still standing outside his car, the sun is setting, and it’s getting cooler. My getting-ready-to-nurse nipples are poking through my shirt and I feel self-conscious. My roommate jokingly calls them “Bo Derek nipples” and says I should be proud. Simon calls them “bear’s noses” when they suddenly appear under my shirt, and I don’t think that’s a compliment.
“I’m freezing,” I say. “Can you back up into the sun?”
“Get in,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere. Just pulled out for my mom.”
Sure enough, his mom backs out just at that moment. She has an older man in the passenger seat.
“Bye, Mom,” Adrian calls out. “See you guys. I love you.”
The man hollers “I love you” back.
We continue to chat in his car. Adrian continues to text. I pull down the visor mirror to get something out of my eye.
“I look awful,” I say. And I do. After last night with my other celebrity neighbors, the tap dancers in my head wouldn’t let me rest.
“I think you look really good,” he says.
“Ugh,” I groan. “I have no makeup on, and I barely slept.” I’m not fishing for a compliment either. I just want him to know I generally look better.
“Maybe that’s why I think you look so good,” he replies.
Now, I’m totally flustered, regardless of his texting. Adrian just said I looked good, and he was serious.
I stare at his mouth, longingly. He has a little chip in his tooth, the left front one, which I’ve never noticed before. Has it always been chipped?
There are a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, but nice-uncomfortable. I don’t know if he notices since he’s still texting.
“You know, you’re interesting,” he comments.
I wait for him to continue.
“I mean, not having sex for…but then…” he trails off. I know he’s struggling with the juxtaposition of my life—how can I be a good, moral girl who doesn’t have sex for years, yet one who is also an in-your-face paparazza? I know he’s not thinking about having sex with me, but he is thinking about sex and me.
“Just like L.A.,” I offer with a smile. “In so many ways good. In so many ways not.”
We talk for about ten more minutes. Then I hop out of his car to get a magazine clipping from my trunk. It’s one of “our” pictures, which printed from the day at the pool. (As promised, I never sold the backyard shots to the magazines.) This is one of him leaning on his Prius with his guitar. I have two copies, which I’ve carried around for months: one for him to sign for me, and one for me to sign for him.
He signs first. Good luck being a single mom. Adrian.
“What kind of note is that?” I question as my heart sinks. He knows what I’m thinking too: my boy needs a dad.
He shrugs.
Adrian’s documentary, Shot in the Dark, tells of his upbringing and being raised by a single mom. Adrian never knew his dad growing up.
He’
s getting kind of aloof now and has pulled back into his drive and put his cell phone away. It signifies our time is coming to an end.
Thanks for the shot. (Heart) Jennifer. I sign his more personal.
“Well, good luck,” Adrian says, then just stares at me.
“Thanks,” I say, turning toward my car, always wanting to be the first to go. “See ya around.”
* * *
Later that evening, my roommate and I watch a rerun of House. Like many people, I watch TV to forget about life for a while. But like many paps, I struggle to find things to watch. The Grey’s Anatomy folks appear in my days way too often to want to spend my evenings with them; the same for the Desperate Housewives. Ugly Betty is out because America Ferrara’s “a bitch.” And Entourage—no way—I definitely can’t watch that.
Mostly I watch House. In its plethora of reruns—currently three shows in a row, four nights a week on the USA Network—it’s a great combo: fantastic writing and mindless entertainment. All the episodes end in the same feel-good way; it’s a respite for the senses. The main reason I watch House, though, is because of “House,” a sexy doctor I’ve never worked, who still makes me dream and forget about life.
“Too bad our lives don’t tie up in a bow each night with music and cozy resolutions,” Amy notes.
I ponder lives. They don’t really come to happy or sad endings. In fact, they don’t come to endings at all. Even when you die, your life is not fully resolved. Or if it is, you’ve probably lived a lonely last few years.
I’ve often wondered how my story would end. And I’ve come to realize that while life doesn’t end, it is a chain of seasons. And seasons do end. This season of my life is ending. A baby is coming, and for me that means no more papping and no more celebrities. My friends and activities will also change as my life refocuses. As well—and this is big—I’m finally ready to be called “a woman.” That’s right. At thirty-seven-and-one-half, I’m not a girl anymore. My ambitions and prayers have even changed. I pray for peace instead of adventure, for wisdom instead of winning, and for happiness instead of exhilaration. I continue to beg God for love.
Shooting Stars Page 30