Oops! I'm the Paparazzi

by De-Ann Black

  He gave me a wicked grin. ‘I saw your poms poms in the newspaper and on the television. I was cheering you on. Go Phred!’

  We smiled at each other.

  ‘Anyway, I only did a few paparazzi assignments, but it caused me nothing but trouble. Then Royce wanted me to do them full time and . . .’

  ‘You told him to stick them and light them.’

  ‘Sort of. But the paparazzi work is how I met Bradley,’ I said. ‘If Royce hadn’t sent me to the premier, I’d still be jumping through hoops of fire every day at the newspaper with Royce the ringmaster cracking the whip.’

  ‘So you’re friends with the film star and his Hollywood agent?’

  ‘Yes. I’m doing scriptwriting now. Doctoring up scripts they need improved and rewritten. The money is terrific, and I’ve got a lovely house rent free for a year as part of the deal.’

  ‘Which one is the great kisser?’

  ‘Vaughn, the agent.’

  His tone deepened. ‘Do you think if I gave you time, I could make things right between us again?’

  I chose my words carefully. Finbar was really trying to be sweet, and despite everything, it was so nice to see a face from home after all this time.

  ‘I’m happy with Vaughn,’ I said.

  Finbar looked disheartened, and then he forced himself to brighten up. ‘Will you run your eye over the press release?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I sat at the bar and rewrote it on my laptop while he took a phone call in his office.

  ‘Jeezo, that was fast,’ he said when he came back. ‘You need to slow down. You’ll end up meeting yourself coming out the door when you’re on your way in.’

  ‘I know.’

  He put the drinks menu notes down on the bar. ‘I’ll make us a pot of tea. If you can have the cocktail menu done by the time the kettle boils I’d appreciate it.’

  I laughed.

  ‘I’m glad we’re talking again,’ he said, and went off to make the tea.

  I started putting ideas down for the cocktails. Things like this were always fun to write.

  Finbar came back with the tea and chocolate cake, and set it down on the bar. ‘Happy birthday, Phred.’

  My snowman was glistening in the dark when I got home.

  I parked my car, went inside, picked up my camera, and went back out to photograph the snowman, and the house, which looked picturesque in the snow. I didn’t know how long all this would last, and I wanted to make sure I had photographs of it. As I photographed the house from all angles, I hadn’t realised how bright the flash was in the dark. It lit up the building, and alerted the neighbours who peered from their windows wondering what was going on.

  I flicked the camera off and hurried inside. By morning the gossip would’ve circulated that the paparazzi had moved in.

  An e–mail from Vaughn asked how I was getting on, and whether I was behaving myself. I replied, assuring him I was up to mischief.

  I think he assumed I was joking, but at least I hadn’t lied.

  He told me he missed me, and was looking forward to coming home.

  I padded through to the kitchen in my new fluffy socks and flicked the kettle on to make a tea before going to bed.

  Then I snuggled up in bed, with my laptop, and began fleshing out the script notes I’d written earlier. I wrote twenty pages of my new script before falling asleep. I had a dream about the story, and I rattled it into the laptop when I woke up before the thoughts faded. This meant I’d even managed to work in my sleep.

  By lunch time I’d written the first fifty pages of my script, basing the lead character on Bradley. I’d a clear image of Bradley in my mind, and this helped me with characterisation. I doubted this was something that would ever go into production, or star Bradley, but I felt the urge to get it down while it was fresh and exciting.

  I also had a final read over the scripts I’d rewritten for the producer, and then e–mailed them off to him. He acknowledged he’d received them, and from what he’d read they were ideal. So everything was hunky–dory with that.

  Later, Bradley called, inviting me to a party at his house at eight. I said I’d be there, and then I set about making a dress. It was almost seven–thirty. Although I had the sewing machine, there was no time to use it for dressmaking. All I needed was the white jersey silk material — and a stapler.

  I’d used this method before – twice – and it had worked just fine. The dress wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, but I was sure it would be perfect for tonight.

  I wrapped the material (which was the size of a large bath towel) around myself, tied two ends in a knot, making the start of a halter neck and low backed dress. Judging how far I wanted the cleavage to show (not much), I stapled the front of the dress together, leaving a split at the hem. Then came the finicky part, reaching round to the lower back, making tucks and stapling them so that the back started to fit the waist. Once that was done, I tied a soft, wide silver belt around the waist to hide the staples, stepped into a pair of evening shoes, pinned my hair up with a large silver clasp, applied mascara and lip gloss, picked up my clutch bag and off I went to Bradley’s party.

  ‘You look great,’ Bradley said, greeting me with a hug.

  ‘Just beware of the staples,’ I said, giving him a sneak peek under my belt.

  ‘You stapled a dress together?’ He started to laugh.

  ‘Ssh! Keep your voice down. You didn’t exactly give me much warning that you were having a party, and I didn’t have time to sew one or alter the dress I bought today.’

  ‘This is the last big promo party, so things should start to quieten down.’

  ‘Cutting back to three parties a week instead of six?’

  We were laughing when the producer (snowman) approached us. ‘I’ve finished reading the scripts you rewrote and they’re wonderful,’ he said to me. He looked around. ‘Where’s Vaughn?’

  I frowned. ‘He’s in Hollywood. I thought you knew.’

  The producer shook his head. ‘No, but never mind, I’ll talk to him when he gets back.’ And off he went.

  ‘Don’t be suspicious,’ said Bradley. ‘I’m sure Vaughn can explain.’

  I nodded. Maybe he had another reason for being in Hollywood.

  During the party, a man tried to chat me up. Bradley had a word with him.

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘I said that you are involved with Vaughn. You are together?’

  ‘I’d like to think so.’

  Bradley smiled. ‘Find another one of you for me, Phred.’

  ‘One magnet for trouble is enough, don’t you think?’ I said.

  ‘At least you’re not boring. I read about you in the paper today,’ he said. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘It’s not something I want to celebrate.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased to win.’

  ‘Win?’

  ‘Winning the paparazzi photograph of the year in your newspaper.’

  My heart jolted. ‘Do you have a copy of the paper?’

  He did. We went to his office to read it.

  I flicked through the paper, and there it was. Ten photographs were nominated. Readers of the paper had voted online yesterday for their favourite, and the winner was in today’s paper. The picture I’d taken in the nightclub, the one with Bradley and the celebrities jumping up into the air, was the winner. There was no prize, just the honour and prestige of winning.

  ‘It’s a wonderful photo,’ said Bradley.

  I nodded. Despite leaving the paper, I was still associated with the paparazzi.

  I flicked through the paper again and found the picture of Finbar. ‘This is my ex–boyfriend, Finbar, the one I told you about from Dublin.’

  ‘What happened to his face?’ Bradley said. ‘Why is he grimacing?’

  ‘I slapped his face.’

  Bradley tried not to laugh. ‘He looks like a troublemaker. I’m sure he deserved it. But what did he do?’

  ‘He kissed me.’


  ‘Does Vaughn know?’

  I shook my head, and explained everything that had happened with Finbar.

  ‘So now you’ve created his cocktail menus?’ Bradley said. ‘And you’re friends again.’

  ‘Just friends.’

  ‘When does this bar of his open in New York?’

  ‘In a couple of days. I wrote his press release, and he’s e–mailing that out to the papers. Frankly, I don’t know if they’ll give him any publicity. Another bar opening in the city isn’t that newsworthy.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘I’d be happy to go to the launch night and bring a few friends if that would help you.’

  ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘It might be fun. In the meantime, I’d like to try one of those cocktails you mentioned.’ And off we went, through to the bar.

  Bradley wouldn’t stop singing. I blame the fourth cocktail he insisted on having. He was still singing as I left the party and headed home.

  Vaughn had e–mailed. He would be home in two days. The same day as Finbar’s launch party. I wondered how he’d feel about going with me. Although I wasn’t planning to frequent the bar, I’d promised to go to the launch. But Vaughn might not want to meet my ex–boyfriend.

  I worked on my new script the next day, and by the time Vaughn was due back, I’d finished the first draft. Putting it aside, I got ready to welcome Vaughn home.

  His car pulled up in the driveway. He smiled when he saw me.

  He had a present for me, wrapped in gold paper with a gold bow.

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘It’s part of the real reason I made the trip to LA,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to tell you and get your hopes up in case the deal didn’t happen.’

  ‘What deal?’

  ‘Open it,’ he said, handing me the present.

  I peeled the paper off to find one of my scripts he’d taken with him to Hollywood. I didn’t understand.

  ‘Look inside the script,’ he said.

  I opened it, and found a contract inside. Skimming what it said, it began to dawn on me that Vaughn had sold my script to a film studio in Hollywood.

  ‘Is this what I think it is?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I’ve sold one of your scripts.’

  I jumped up and threw my arms around him.

  ‘Your spy drama is outstanding,’ he said. ‘I knew I could sell it. It’ll make a great movie.’

  We talked for an hour or so about his trip, the meetings, and people he’d spoken to. And of course about selling my script. He’d just given me a lot more financial security, and the chance to write my own scripts rather than rewrite other people’s scripts. Not that I was complaining at all about the latter.

  ‘So what have you been up to?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  By the time I got to the part about slapping Finbar, the story being in the newspaper, winning the paparazzi photograph award, creating the cocktail list, writing the press release, e–mailing the scripts to the producer, building a snowman, buying hats, and a camera, skating in the park, wearing a stapled dress to Bradley’s party, getting him drunk on cocktails, and writing a new script, it was time to get ready for Finbar’s launch party.

  ‘Do you want to come to the launch party? Bradley will be there with some of his friends.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ said Vaughn.

  Unless I was mistaken, there was a steely glint in Vaughn’s eyes. Maybe it was jet lag. Maybe it was jealousy. I had a hunch I’d find out when he met Finbar.

  The launch party was quite busy. The bar was lively with people enjoying themselves. We arrived at the same time as Bradley and several of his friends. Most of them were actors and directors. Unfortunately, the press weren’t interested in the bar launch and no journalists or photographers had turned up. I thought this was a total waste of good celebrities, so I got my camera from Vaughn’s car (I’d brought it just in case) and became the paparazzi.

  Customers were delighted to mingle with the well known actors. Bradley was particularly friendly and signed lots of autographs and chatted to fans. I snapped numerous pictures and planned to send them to the newspapers myself. I even took some exclusive pictures for Royce’s paper. I hoped this would encourage him to publish them.

  I introduced Finbar to Bradley and Vaughn.

  ‘You’re the movie star,’ Finbar said to Bradley, ‘so you must be the agent,’ he said to Vaughn.

  Then Finbar and Vaughn did one of those handshakes where they lock palms and squeeze until they almost break each others fingers.

  I don’t know how the antagonism between Vaughn and Finbar escalated so quickly, but soon they were involved in an arm wrestling match and lots of others wanted to join in.

  Back in Dublin, Finbar was always arm wrestling, fighting and fooling around. His years of boxing training had given him sinewy muscles like steel, and he’d been known to beat men who were a lot heavier. He took his jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt until the fabric was tight on his upper arms, making his biceps bulge in readiness. He shook his body, loosening up as if it was a championship fight, so this was not going to end well. Finbar rarely took anything seriously, but when he did you could stand by.

  I didn’t know what Vaughn’s prowess was, but I was surprised when he rolled up his white shirt sleeves to reveal arms that looked like contenders.

  Bradley glanced at me, and I got the impression that he was as surprised as I was at Vaughn’s eagerness to participate. I thought that this was probably not an encouraging sign. Finbar was used to rough and tumble, but Vaughn seemed to live in a world of Hollywood business. As he’d said himself, he didn’t do any fitness training to keep in shape. Though he was adept at press–ups, which he’d done in the snow the day we built the snowman in the garden. I’d had to take my jacket off and put in quite a bit of effort to beat him. Maybe that’s why his throwing arm was weakened for the snowball fight. However, Vaughn was well up for the arm wrestling, even though from the betting that had started, the sure money was on the Irish ex–boxer. But as a prime example of a wild card myself, I’d never underestimate the outsider.

  I got the camera ready.

  Bradley got roped in as the referee. Soon he got caught up in the excitement, and posed between Finbar and Vaughn so I could take a photograph before the challenge kicked off.

  Loads of people crowded round and the bar’s security guys had to move them back to give Finbar and Vaughn room to breathe. One of the bar tables and two chairs were set up, with the challengers eyeballing each other across the table. Bradley explained the rules. Basically, keep their elbows on the table, and no dirty tricks.

  Finbar and Vaughn clasped hands, straining at the starting point, knuckles tight, the veins in their forearms standing out already, elbows on the table.

  Bradley gave the signal to start, and both men applied the pressure, hoping to beat their opponent in a speedy bout. But they were evenly matched, and held each other’s efforts off.

  The shouts and cheers raged around me, becoming louder when Finbar gained the upper hand and began to push Vaughn’s hand down towards the table. I hadn’t realised I’d shouted, ‘No!’ so loud until Vaughn flicked a glance at me, and encouraged by my cry, fought back, pushing Finbar’s hand up, over and then down towards the table. I swear I saw the whites of Finbar’s eyes as he strained with all his sinew.

  The excitement was building. Bradley punched the air with tightly clenched fists, urging them on.

  I clicked the camera, taking photographs, trying to include Bradley in them — looking for the gold dust shot. And then it came . . .

  I got a picture of Vaughn almost overpowering Finbar, with Bradley’s face in the shot, acting as the referee. A movie star, a Hollywood agent, and a Dublin bar owner in New York. This was the type of picture that newspapers would love.

  Finbar fought back, refusing to be beaten, and I was beginning to think that on
e of them would break their arm rather than lose.

  Luckily, a giant plastic shamrock, part of the decor, fell down from the ceiling and hit Finbar like a bowling ball striking a skittle. Poor Finbar. He was knocked for six. But again, luckily, he’d a soft landing on the carpet, and having been knocked down before in the boxing ring, he bounced back up, loosening up, shaking off the blow and eager for a rematch.

  This is where I stepped in and declared a draw. Someone had to. Bradley agreed, and as he was the referee, his decision was final. Everyone cheered. Finbar and Vaughn had indeed been equally strong and tenacious. No shame to either of them. It would be an event that would be talked about for many a year in Finbar’s pub. A story for the archives. When the gold dust shot came out in the press, I was sure Finbar would frame the newspaper cutting and it would be hung in pride of place above the bar.

  Finbar offered his hand to Vaughn who was happy to shake on it.

  ‘So when are you marrying my girlfriend?’ Finbar said to Vaughn.

  Uh–oh. The touch paper was lit again.

  ‘I was thinking next summer. I’ll send you an invitation so you can buy a hat,’ said Vaughn.

  ‘Right,’ I said stepping in. ‘That’s enough silly talk. Play nice.’ I pulled Vaughn away.

  In a quieter corner I shook my head at Vaughn. ‘You’ll have to learn not to encourage him. Finbar has no off switch. He’ll just keep going until he wins.’

  ‘He didn’t win tonight,’ said Vaughn.

  ‘You’re all pumped up with adrenalin and talking shite,’ I told him.

  He smiled and pulled me close. ‘I love it when you’re all fiery.’

  ‘I’ll give you fiery if you pull another stunt like that. I’ve certainly seen another side to you tonight.’

  ‘Good or bad?’

  ‘I’ll have to sleep on it,’ I said.

  He gave me the sexiest of smiles. ‘That can be arranged.’

  I shook my head. ‘Two words — newspaper photographs.’

  Vaughn sighed. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’

  ‘Never have, never will.’ I said. ‘Now I have to get these photographs and story to the papers before anyone else tips them off.’