by De-Ann Black
‘I’d like a photograph of you with some of them,’ I said.
Bradley gathered a group of his friends, all of them well known stars. ‘How do you want us to pose?’ he said, as they laughed and joined in the fun.
‘Jump up in the air. Do something wild,’ I said.
Without hesitation, they all jumped up, making poses and laughing heartily. I clicked a snap of them in perfect timing. I showed Bradley the preview. ‘Brilliant. It’s one for the archives,’ he said, taking the camera back off me to save me from carrying it.
Then he led me on to the crowded dance floor. ‘You said you could dance.’ Bradley was a great dancer, even with the camera round his neck. It was the strangest night I’d had in a long time. But I enjoyed myself. I hadn’t danced like this since I’d left Dublin. In New York my whole world had become working long hours at the newspaper.
The music changed, became even more upbeat, and we danced our socks off — Bradley the movie star and the wild Irish paparazzo.
Bradley finally phoned for the limo to be brought to the front door of the nightclub.
I wrapped my arms around myself to keep warm in the freezing night air outside the club. The street was busy with cars and paparazzi and lots of people coming and going, so we walked towards the limousine that was parked further along the street behind my car.
‘What brought you to New York? Did something happen in Dublin?’ he said.
‘I got dumped by Finbar, my ex boyfriend, last November. I used that month’s wages, which was everything I had, and headed to New York in December. Royce took me on to cover for his editorial staff who wanted time off at Christmas and New Year. After the holidays, Royce kept me on and I’ve worked there ever since.’
‘What about your ex–boyfriend? Was he a journalist?’
‘No, he owned a couple of bars in Dublin.’
‘Do you miss him?’
‘No, but I miss the thought of him.’
We reached the limo.
‘I have to ask,’ I said, ‘but why is someone like you partying with a woman like me?’
He looked over at several female celebrities who were leaving the nightclub surrounded by their respective entourages. None of them were smiling or seemed to be having fun. It was all posturing, posing and barking orders at the men who were with them. Some of them could barely walk in the heels they were wearing and had to be helped into their cars. Bradley’s expression said it all.
‘You’re great to talk to, Phred. I enjoyed myself tonight.’
‘Me too.’
He gave me back the camera. ‘Get some sleep. And remember the party at my house.’
Then we went our separate ways.
I put my jumper and jacket on, turned up the heater in my car, and drove home with a camera full of gold dust.
‘These are gold dust. How did you persuade them to pose like that?’ Royce said next day when I showed him the celebrity photographs from the nightclub.
‘Bradley photographed them.’
A moment’s stunned silence, and in Royce’s world it took a lot to flummox someone like him.
I gave him the short course of what had happened.
‘You were dancing with Bradley Goldsilver?’ I hadn’t heard his voice so high since the helium balloon incident in the office last month during his birthday. I should never have dared him to hang upside down from the lintel of the door.
‘Don’t worry I won’t be hitting the headlines this time. The paparazzi didn’t get any pictures of us. At least I don’t think so.’
‘No offence, Phred, but what is he doing hanging out with you? You almost fried his butt with that picture of him and Velvette.’
‘He says I’m great to talk to. He seems to enjoy doing things that could get him into mischief.’
‘Being friends with a journalist like you would guarantee that. You’re a magnet for trouble.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You know what I mean, Phred.’
I did. I really did.
Chapter Four
Skating On Thin Ice
‘Bradley has invited me to a party he’s having at his house tonight,’ I said to Royce, letting the cat out of the bag.
‘Are you going?’
‘Let me see…sit at home alone watching a film on television or dress up and party with the rich and glamorous.’
‘Take the camera with you.’
I went to protest, to tell him that this was play not work, but he insisted.
‘Trust me on this, Phred. Take the camera.’
I sighed. ‘Anything else I should do?’
‘Yes. Don’t let Bradley steal you,’ Royce said.
‘Steal me? That’s ridiculous.’
‘He’s lining you up, kiddo. Trust me on that one too.’
The rest of the day was a blur of working on my usual general news and features for the paper — everything from the social scene and fashion features to being the motoring correspondent where I got to test drive cars. The next issue of the paper was heavy on the celebrity nightclub photographs, and there was a buzz in the office in anticipation that sales of the paper would skyrocket. This basically took the pressure off of everyone. Even though the dyed–in–the–wool reporters didn’t rate the celebrity exclusives and would’ve preferred hard journalism to be increasing sales, what mattered was the bottom line. Our paper would shoot through the roof.
‘Write a couple of pieces to go with these pics,’ Royce said, putting several of the nightclub photographs down on my desk. ‘You were there, describe the atmosphere. We’ll run it over a few days, so give it legs. And add some captions. Coordinate those with the subs. They’ll keep you right.’
I nodded.
‘Oh and I know it was Bradley who took the pictures, but I’m crediting you on the byline and as the photographer. I’ve got to credit someone for the pics and it sure as hell isn’t going to be him.’
‘He knows we’re going to run with these and he’s okay with it. And there is one picture that’s mine.’ I pointed to the one of Bradley and the celebrities jumping up in the nightclub.
‘My favourite,’ Royce said, and then leaned down and spoke quietly. He was so close I could see the flecks of green in his blue eyes. ‘Are you still going to his party tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hear there’s going to be plenty of A–listers as well as top producers and directors. A lot of networking will be going on. Keep your ears open. And don’t be suckered into anything.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Sure you will.’ He handed me a piece of paper. ‘Here’s Bradley’s address. Take a cab. Don’t be driving up in that shit heap of yours.’
‘Don’t diss the car. It’s more reliable than yours or a few others in this office, even in icy conditions.’
‘That’s because you tinker with it.’
I laughed. ‘At least I know how to change the spark plugs. You wouldn’t know your crankshaft from your dipstick.’
‘I know a dipstick when I see one, so watch your tail tonight with Bradley. ’On that cheering thought, he left me to get on with my work.
But then there was a change of plan.
‘I need to borrow Phred,’ one of the advertising managers said to Royce. ‘It’s a rush job for a motoring ad–feat.’
Royce checked the time on his watch. ‘As long as she’s back by five. I’ll need her then.’
‘Sure thing,’ he said.
‘I don’t have any photographers spare to go with you,’ Royce said to me, ‘so take a tripod.’
I grabbed my jacket, laptop, camera and a tripod that was in a corner of the office, and followed the ad manager who hurried outside to a brand new car parked in the street.
‘With all this snow and lots more forecast, the car company want a big splash feature in the paper,’ he explained at speed. ‘I told them, if it’s got wheels, Phred can drive it. They’re emphasising the all–weather capabilities, heated seats, quick defrost, so test and h
ighlight those sorts of things.’ He handed me the keys and a brochure containing details of the specifications. ‘Take it for a test drive.’ He looked up at the sky. Snow was falling fast. ‘And see if you can work the snow into the background when you’re taking the pics, Phred.’
The car started first time from cold, and handled well in the snow through the city traffic. The heated seat kept my bum nice and toasty and it was the cosiest I’d felt in days. I liked the car. A lot. My editorial would confirm this.
For the photographs, I pulled up near Central Park and set up the camera on the tripod. The auto function clicked off five shots of the car with me sitting inside, looking out of the driver’s side window. Usually a press photographer would take these, but the pictures turned out great against the city’s wintry background.
The test drive and photographs went without a hitch, and as I drove back to the newspaper, I saw people skating on one of the outdoor rinks in the city centre. I was well ahead of schedule, and it looked so tempting. I’d always wanted to do this, but last December I was up to my eyeballs in work and the whole winter scene passed me by. I’d been determined that this winter I would enjoy New York, though so far all I’d done was work.
Somehow I talked myself into having a go. This would be the equivalent of my afternoon tea break. A sign advertised that skate hire and ten minutes on the rink was only a few dollars. Perfect.
I locked the car safely and went over to collect the skates. I ended up with a junior pair because my feet are quite small. This meant that the skate hire was half price or I could have twice the time on the rink. I opted to skate longer.
I tottered on to the rink, getting a feel for the ice. I hadn’t skated in years, not since I was in my teens, but the technique soon came back to me. I’d never skated outdoors before and it was wonderful gliding over the ice with the cold, fresh air on my face and the snow falling gently all around. I’d worn my famous woolly pom pom hat to keep my ears warm. It was the only one I had with me, stuffed in the pocket of my jacket. I doubted anyone would recognise me. You didn’t really get the paparazzi doing wobbly spins on the ice.
But there’s always someone who sees you.
Before I knew it, a couple of guys were taking photographs of me. I didn’t think they were paparazzi, more like photo–journalists. ‘It’s her. It’s that paparazzi girl.’
Shit! I made a mad dash to the side of the rink where I deposited the skates with the hire guy.
‘You’ve still got ten minutes skate time left,’ he called to me as I hurried back to the car.
‘Come on, start first time,’ I urged the car. It did, and I drove off into the snow scene of traffic.
But I knew they’d got a couple of snaps of me. I glared at the hat in the mirror. It was time for some different hats.
I parked the car outside the newspaper building, and handed the keys back to the advertising manager who was delighted that the test drive was a success. I told him I’d write a motoring editorial and have the photographs with him before five.
I sent the finished feature to him by four–fifteen, and was working on other editorials at my desk when the figure of Royce loomed behind me. ‘Is there no end to your talents?’ he said sarcastically. He held up his phone which had a picture of me skating on thin ice.
Uh–oh, here we go, I thought, my heart sinking.
I traipsed after him into his office. It turned out that the two guys were indeed photo–journalists. They knew Royce. They recognised me and sent the pictures to him.
I sighed to myself. Ratted out again.
‘I’m confiscating the hat,’ Royce said.
I went through to get it, brought it back and put it on his desk in front of him. He opened a drawer, threw the hat inside, and shut the drawer again.
‘Remember,’ I said, ‘these hats breed overnight.’
‘The only thing breeding overnight is the trouble you’re causing.’
I left him to it and got on with writing the captions for the celebrity features.
Before I knew it, the work was finished, and it was time to head home and get ready for the party.
There really was nothing wrong with my car. The paintwork had seen better days, but it could pass okay, and the engine had a very reassuring growl. It was a decent secondhand car that was just fine. If it had been embarrassingly awful I would’ve taken a cab. But it wasn’t. So I didn’t.
I had the heater turned up full. The oyster satin evening dress I’d chosen to wear provided very little warmth. I wore a fluffy white bolero to keep my shoulders cosy, and sparkly high heeled shoes. The dress was the only full length one I had. I’d picked it up at a bargain vintage shop months ago and never worn it. I liked it because it was a simple figure skimming sheath dress with shoe string straps. The oyster satin suited my pale skin, green eyes, and blonde colouring, and reminded me of dresses from the classic 1930s era. I’d kept my hair down, sleek and smooth, and make up to a minimum — gold eye make up, mascara, and rose coloured lip gloss. No jewellery, no fuss, and a little sequin clutch bag.
Bradley’s house, a white stone mansion in an upmarket area of Manhattan, was all lit up and alive with cars arriving. The driveway was cleared of snow, as was the parking area. It was snowing as I arrived which added to the magical feel of the evening. I might never be at a party like this again, and I was committing everything to memory. I parked my car beside the other limousines and expensive saloons. No one gave it a second glance. They were too busy heading into the party, and because it was snowing, all the cars were sprinkled white and blended into the scenery.
I’d taken Royce’s advice and had the camera in the boot of the car. I left it there, and my laptop, and walked towards the house, wondering what sort of night was in store. A glamorous one that’s for sure, judging by some of the outlandish outfits the guests were wearing. Then it dawned on me — most of them were wearing fancy dress. Bradley never mentioned anything about wearing a costume. Was this part of the set up that Royce had warned me of? Was Bradley trying to make me stand out from the crowd for not wearing an outfit? Surely not. I was already the outsider.
I paused, thinking what to do. Giving up and going back home defeated wasn’t my style. And I had been looking forward to the party.
The large front door was open, the expanse of windows all aglow, and inside I could see a whole world of excitement, dancing and glamour. There it was — the other life that I’d seen in films and magazines, and that I’d written about in the press. Tonight I had a chance to be part of it.
Chapter Five
Cake In November
Guests were vetted as they arrived to ensure there were no party crashers. I was approached by one of the beautiful, statuesque hostesses at the door. She looked down her nose at me, and I could sense that the welcome mat was about to be ripped out from under me.
‘This is a fancy dress party. Where’s your costume?’ she said. ‘Who invited you anyway?’
‘Bradley.’
She sneered at me in disbelief. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘No costume, no party,’ she took great pleasure in telling me.
I turned to leave.
‘Wait, Phred. I forgot to mention about the fancy dress but it doesn’t matter.’ Bradley hurried to welcome me in. He was dressed as a 1920s gangster.
The hostess glared at me with undiluted vitriol.
I smiled at Bradley. ‘No, I have my outfit in the car. I’ll go get it.’
I went back out into the cold, fetched my camera from the car, and hung it around my neck.
‘What are you supposed to be?’ the woman said, wrinkling her nose in disdain when I came back.
I smiled and clicked a snap of her.
‘I’m the paparazzi.’
Bradley laughed. ‘Come on, have a drink,’ he said, sweeping me away to the heart of the party. En route he had a word in the ear of one of the security staff to tell the snippy hostess to go home because her services were
no longer required.
I opted for a soft drink.
‘Oh come on, have some champagne,’ said Bradley.
‘I’m driving,’ I said, which was true, but it was also an excuse to keep a clear head. Royce’s warnings were replaying in my thoughts. I’d already been thankful that I’d taken his advice and brought the camera with me.
Bradley held a glass of champagne and said a little too loud, ‘You don’t have to drive home. You can sleep here tonight.’
Amid the noise of the party his words caused a lull as everyone around us stared to see who Bradley was propositioning.
He laughed again and pulled me away from them.
‘You’re completely wicked,’ I said.
‘Wicked? I’ve never been called that before. But I quite like the sound of it. I was of course meaning you could sleepover in one of the numerous spare bedrooms.’ He was smiling, I could feel the stress lift from my shoulders and I actually began to laugh along with him.
‘Let’s both be wicked,’ he said. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet. He completely disapproves of me being friends with you. He thinks you’ll be nothing but trouble.’
‘Why?’ I said, remembering Royce had told me I’d be a magnet for trouble.
‘Because you’re the paparazzi. He doesn’t trust them. He thinks you’ll have hidden cameras on you, perhaps in a brooch or a button, and then the photographs will be splashed across the newspapers as headline gossip. I told him that you’re a reluctant paparazzi but he’s still suspicious.’
‘He sounds like a bundle of laughs,’ I said.
‘I have my moments,’ a man’s voice said behind us.
‘Ah, there you are, Vaughn,’ said Bradley. ‘I’d like you to meet Phred.’
He shook hands with me. ‘Miss O’Leary.’
I wasn’t sure what to say because I was thinking how handsome he was. In contrast to Bradley’s blonde hair, he had rich, dark hair and pale grey eyes. Similar in height, age and build to Bradley, and just as immaculate in a black dinner suit, I assumed he was a movie star.