Oops! I'm the Paparazzi

by De-Ann Black

  I closed the laptop when Vaughn brought tea, coffee and cake through. We relaxed by the fire and I felt myself unwinding.

  Then Vaughn came over and sat beside me. ‘You were impressive today at the meeting. Later, I’d like to read your scripts, your original work. But first, I was wondering if I could take you up on that promise of yours?’

  I leaned close. ‘What promise would that be?’

  His reply was to kiss me.

  Vaughn’s kisses were warm and sensual. I could’ve kissed him for hours, and probably would have, but as I snuggled beside him on the big, comfy sofa watching the fire flicker, he fell asleep. I fell asleep too, and we both woke up early the next morning. We hadn’t gotten up to anything except kissing, but I felt more relaxed than I had in a long time.

  Vaughn had a busy day of meetings with clients ahead of him. He jumped in the shower, ate a hasty breakfast, and apologised that he couldn’t view the house with me until the afternoon. I told him this was fine.

  After he left, I phoned the contact for the house leasing. They turned up within the hour. The house was as perfect as I’d hoped, and I told them I’d take it there and then. They sent round hospitality packs and other stuff. Two huge hampers of food, new bed linen, and other things that sorted out the basics. By lunchtime I’d moved in.

  By three in the afternoon, I’d packed my belongings from my old apartment, said goodbye to it, and drove to my new house. I didn’t own a lot, in fact, everything I had in the world fitted easily into my car with room to spare.

  I was dancing in the lounge, trying out the long wooden floor, when Bradley arrived. I heard him tip– tapping on the window. He waved at me, and I ran excitedly to let him in.

  He’d brought cake, and champagne and glasses.

  I had a glass of champagne to celebrate.

  ‘If there’s anything you need to help you get settled in, let me know,’ he said.

  I gave him a huge hug.

  And then he joined me on the dance floor, swirling me round and round.

  We were still laughing when Vaughn arrived. He loved that I’d moved into the house and that I seemed happy. But then he frowned.

  ‘I have to catch a flight out to Hollywood tonight,’ Vaughn said to me. ‘I’ll be gone two or three days at the most.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. After all, he was a Hollywood agent, who split his time between New York and Los Angeles.

  ‘Call me if you need me. I don’t want you to think you’re left alone to get on with things.’ He sounded concerned, and cursed the bad timing of having to make the trip to Los Angeles.

  ‘I’ll make sure she misbehaves while you’re away,’ said Bradley.

  Vaughn smiled. ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  We said goodbye at the front door.

  ‘You know how I feel about you, Phred.’

  I did.

  ‘I don’t like leaving you here alone,’ he murmured, pulling me close to him.

  ‘There nothing wrong with being alone, Vaughn. There’s only something wrong when you can’t cope with it, but that’s never been my problem.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Besides, you’d just be a distraction, and I want to get these scripts written.’ I smiled at him.

  ‘I’ve packed your two scripts in my bag. I’ll read them when I’m in LA.’ He kissed me, and then he was gone, driving off into the night.

  Chapter Eight

  On The Wrong Side Of The Camera Again

  I was up bright and early and drove into the centre of New York. Manhattan was still iced with snow, and I’d wrapped up warm with a white hat, scarf and gloves, and a black wool jacket I’d found in my wardrobe during the move.

  I’d worked like a demon on the scripts the previous night, and was well ahead of my deadline schedules. So . . . this morning I was going shopping.

  A camera was first on my list. The treat I’d promised myself. I went to a shop near the newspaper office. It sold all sorts of cameras. I chose the same model I’d used when working as the paparazzi. I’d liked it, so I splashed out and treated myself to one of those.

  I left the shop, admiring my new purchase, when a ghost of the past walked right up to me.

  ‘Hello, Phred.’

  I looked up, and reeled back when I saw who it was. ‘Finbar.’ My stomach jolted, and I didn’t know whether to smile or run.

  ‘I heard you got the flick from the newspaper.’

  ‘Charming as ever.’

  ‘I was there this morning. I wondered why your features weren’t in the paper. I thought maybe there was something up.’

  I blinked. This information did not compute.

  ‘Not that I’ve been spying on you, but it’s hard not to be tempted to read your stuff in the press.’

  ‘You’re living in New York?’ I said, still trying to get my thoughts around the fact that he was standing there. He’d hardly changed. If anything, he looked more affluent than ever, and as a pub owner he’d done very well for himself. The black hair was sexy wild and long enough to touch the collar of his dark coat. The green eyes had lost none of their roguish twinkle, and he spoke in a rich, Dublin accent, frequently smiling and in perpetual motion, moving from one foot to the other, the boxer in him never still.

  ‘Yes, I’m opening a pub in New York with another couple of investors from Dublin. Expanding our interests across the pond. The pubs back home have done well, so I’m putting some of the profits into opening one here. I’ve got the premises. It’ll be open in a few days.’

  ‘How long have you been in city?’

  ‘A couple of months. I kept meaning to chap your door, but I’ve been busy, and I wanted to wait until the pub was ready. And surprise you by inviting you to the grand opening.’

  He stopped talking long enough to take a breath and glance up at the newspaper building.

  ‘Royce is a fucking arsehole by the way.’

  ‘You spoke to Royce?’

  ‘I’ve just been into the newspaper office asking about you. I told him I was the ex love of your life, and demanded to know what was what. He said you’d more or less told him to stuff his paparazzi work up his arse and light it. Smarmy bastard. I was tempted to punch his fuckin’ lights out.’

  He looked at the camera around my neck. ‘So are you working as the paparazzi for another paper now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what’s with the camera?’

  ‘I bought it this morning to make me feel better.’

  ‘Are you strapped for cash?’ he said, taking his wallet from his coat pocket. His wallet was thick with cash.

  ‘I’m okay for money,’ I said.

  ‘You know I’d give you my last penny. Of course, then I’d have to borrow it back to open up a pub.’

  He’d never been tight fisted with money. In fact, he was extremely generous.

  ‘Look, I made a big mistake with you in Dublin. But I’m a changed man. I’m thirty–three years old.’

  ‘Thirty–two.’

  ‘Am I? Jeezo, you’re right. Well, anyway. I’d like to find myself a wife and get married.’

  I laughed. ‘I can’t see you ever settling down.’

  ‘I want to get married but I don’t want to settle down. When two people who love each other get married, there should be double the fun. If you and I got married, we’d be out enjoying ourselves, driving across America, flying back and forth to Dublin, swimming in the sea in the rain, and dancing through the night.’

  ‘Well, with a wallet full of money like that, I’m sure you’ll find yourself a wife in New York.’

  ‘I don’t want someone who is just after my money. Or a walking wardrobe that looks great but has nothing to say for herself.’

  ‘I really have to go,’ I said, making a move to walk away.

  ‘Give me your phone number so we can keep in touch.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘I won’t pester you. I’ve been in New York for two months and I h
aven’t caused you any trouble now have I?’

  I shrugged. This was true.

  ‘Give me your number. I’ll find you anyway. You know I will.’

  Finbar had a knack for finding anyone anywhere. ‘You should’ve opened a detective agency rather than a pub.’ I gave him my number and he gave me his.

  ‘You’re looking gorgeous by the way. I like your hat. You used to have some lovely hats.’ He smiled so bright and without any hint of guile. ‘It’s great to see you again. It really is.’

  My mouth wouldn’t form the words to return the compliment.

  He moved closer, smiling as if the sun was shining.

  ‘Give me a kiss.’

  ‘Get away.’

  ‘Come on, you know I’m the best kisser you ever had.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Oh. Who is the lucky man that’s stolen my thunder?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Ah, you’re fibbing. There’s no one,’ he said. ‘If I know you Phred, you’ll have been working your arse off and nothing else. I can see I’m right.’

  I still didn’t answer.

  ‘Come on, give me a kiss. I’ll make you forget all the bad.’

  ‘No, and I mean no.’

  He grabbed me and forced a kiss on my lips.

  I pushed him back. He was laughing and moving in to kiss me again. So I gave him a back hand strike across his face. Instead of the usual slap to the face with the palm, I used the back of my hand — like a back hander only with technique. I hit him clean, the sound of the strike like a crack in the cold air. It didn’t do any real damage, nor was it intended to. But the side of his face began to swell like a balloon, his eye started to close, though I could still see the steely glint in it.

  The only way to deal with this was to apply a cold compress, or ice, or . . .

  So there was Finbar lying with his face in the snow drift.

  ‘You always were a fucking challenge, Phred.’

  ‘Good luck opening your new bar.’

  ‘I know you still like me.’

  ‘You know nothing.’

  I got in my car and drove off.

  Determined not to let Finbar’s return spoil things, I continued my shopping spree. Spree is perhaps too grand a word, conjuring up images of being laden down with a dozen bags filled with clothes, shoes and other frippery. Spree in my sense was a couple of hats and new fleecy socks for dancing in my lounge.

  A favourite little vintage shop of mine, tucked into a niche in the city, was next on my list. They had hats, and I tried on numerous styles, colours and fabrics. I bought two woolly hats including a lovely cream one, and a colourful one with pom poms. And some fleecy socks. I also had a look through the racks of vintage evening and cocktail dresses, wondering if I should buy one. Bradley was sure to have another party, and I didn’t want to be the one frock wonder. I chose a sparkly cocktail dress that had a drop waist, giving it a flapper style vibe. Very reasonably priced. I tried it on and realised I’d have to alter it slightly to fit, but that was something else on my list — a sewing kit. I bought a sewing kit in a fabric shop, along with a few metres of material (including white jersey silk, deep blue chiffon and bronze velvet), and a basic sewing machine. So I guess that would qualify as a spree after all.

  I put everything in the boot of my car, had tea and toffee cake in a cafe, and then went ice skating in the park. Having shopped, skated and slapped Finbar in the face, I drove home to work on the scripts.

  I worked for six hours solid on the scripts and finished them. I planned to work on my own screenplays next. The two scripts Vaughn had taken with him to Hollywood were screenplays I’d written previously, and I wanted to write new scripts. I had a few ideas, and typed rough notes into my laptop while dinner was cooking.

  I ate dinner in the kitchen and thought about Vaughn. He’d be in Hollywood by now. I wondered if I should tell him that Finbar had kissed me. He’d only been gone a day and already my ex had tried to snog me in the middle of Manhattan.

  I pulled the laptop nearer and searched the web for information about Finbar. And sure enough, he had a website advertising his Dublin pubs, and news of his new pub in New York. So he had been telling the truth.

  I was building a snowman in the front garden that night when a car pulled up outside my house. The headlights flicked off, and I saw that it was Royce. I scooped a large handful of snow and armed myself with a snowball.

  He got out of the car and walked over to me. His coat was buttoned up and he wore a warm scarf. I’d never seen him wear a scarf before. Perhaps my woolly hat was breeding overnight in his desk drawer and producing knitwear.

  ‘You’re building a snowman,’ he said, as if by saying it he’d comprehend that it was true.

  I cupped the snowball, rolling it from one hand to the other, pressing it into a hard ball of solid snow.

  ‘Your crazy ex–boyfriend was in the office today. One of the subs was going to throw him out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that. Finbar is a former boxer. He was tempted to punch your lights out.’

  Royce nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘You drove all the way here to tell me about Finbar?’ I said. ‘You could’ve phoned or e–mailed.’

  ‘I brought you something.’ He pulled my woolly hat, the one he’d confiscated, from his coat pocket and handed it to me.

  He glanced at the new colourful woolly hat I’d bought earlier. I’d worn it to keep warm while building the snowman. He made no comment, but I could see him looking at my pom poms.

  ‘One of the guys, a reporter, wrote the motoring feature. He took the car for a test drive, thrashed the life out of it, and the car company aren’t happy with the feature he wrote. And they say he’s ruined the car’s suspension. So basically the feature was shit. I’m not offering you your old job back, but I wondered if you’d still like to do the car features. The motoring supplement for the paper is due in December. I’d like you to write it.’

  ‘No, that’s not for me.’

  He nodded again.

  ‘Have dinner with me sometime when you don’t hate me so bad,’ he said.

  ‘That could take a while.’

  ‘I can wait. Though remember I retire in twenty years time.’ He breathed in the cold night air. ‘I have to get back to the office. I wanted to give you your hat, tell you about your crazy ex boyfriend, and . . .’

  He walked away to his car, and then said over his shoulder, ‘Have you read the paper today?’

  I had bought a copy, but it lay in the kitchen unread. I was in the habit of reading it in the morning in the office during our ‘oh shit’ meetings. When the paper came out and it was too late to change anything, the subs, reporters, and Royce would open the newspaper on their desks and scan it for any errors or gaffs. Cries of, ‘Oh shit,’ would be heard, as they read their mistakes, missing pieces or wrong captions and headlines. Certainly, there were numerous times when the paper came out perfect. But the ‘Oh shit’ meetings were legendary.

  ‘No, I haven’t read today’s paper,’ I said.

  Royce got into his car and said through the open window. ‘You should — you’re in it.’ He drove off before I could ask him what I’d done.

  I hurried into the house and flicked through the paper. One of the headlines said, ‘Paparazzo punches Irish tourist.’ The editorial, which was slight, accompanied a photograph of Finbar smiling at the camera, his face half swollen. There was also a blurry pic of me shoving his face in the snow. I was being helpful. I was. Luckily I wasn’t named in the paper.

  I thought it was ridiculous. Finbar could take a real crack on the jaw and not flinch. Someone had slanted the whole incident. They must have seen us from the windows of the paper or been lurking nearby. Maybe it was someone from the paparazzi?

  I sighed wearily.

  I was on the wrong side of the camera again.

  Chapter Nine

  I’d Marry You Tomorrow

  ‘I told the press nothing,
’ Finbar said, when I phoned and accused him of being a manipulative, publicity hungry weasel.

  ‘You told them about your new pub opening.’

  ‘They asked me what I was doing in Manhattan.’

  ‘And you posed for the photograph, showing off your swollen face and smiling for them.’

  ‘I did not. When you flounced off to your car, I lay there in the snow, and the paparazzi came at me and flashed their cameras. I couldn’t stop them.’

  ‘Why were you smiling?’

  ‘I wasn’t smiling. They accidentally kicked me in the balls. I was grimacing.’

  I studied the photograph. Hmm, it could’ve been a grimace.

  ‘I’d never risk a publicity stunt just when you and me are about to get back together.’

  ‘Hold on there. We’re not getting back together.’

  ‘I can hear you’re distraught, so we’ll talk later.’

  ‘No, I’m not interested in getting back together with you.’

  ‘Okay. But come down to the bar tonight. I’ll give you the grand tour.’

  I hesitated.

  ‘I could do with your help with the cocktail menu. Remember the last one you made? I still use that in the bars in Dublin.’

  ‘I made some of them up.’

  ‘That’s why there’s nothing like them anywhere else.’

  I was still reluctant to drive down to his bar.

  ‘At least have a look over the press release. It could make or break the launch. You always wrote brilliant press releases.’

  ‘Why should I help you, Finbar?’

  ‘Because you’re a better person than I am. Please, Phred, give me a hand with the press release.’

  ‘Tell me the address,’ I said.

  ‘How did you end up as a paparazzo?’ Finbar said as we sat together at the bar. The premises seemed almost ready for customers. The bar was well stocked and lit with spotlights.

  ‘Royce needed me to cover Bradley Goldsilver’s movie premier. I got inveigled. And all of a sudden — oops! I’m the paparazzi.’