Accidental It Girl

by Libby Street

  Brooke’s show gives way to the precommercial tease of the night’s celebrity news. What do you know, the centerpiece of their coverage tonight will be “the lowdown on steamy rumors of Ethan Wyatt’s on-set canoodling, and his harrowing paparazzi-involved car crash.”

  Yep, I can tell by the condescending way the host said “paparazzi” that they’re going to make it out to be my fault. Obviously, I’m not surprised, but for some reason seeing it on national television makes my blood absolutely boil. And I didn’t even get a shot of his face.

  I blurt, “Ethan Wyatt swerves in and out of traffic, slams on his breaks, destroys my car, and they are going to say that it’s my fault.”

  “You admit that it was partly your fault,” says Luke.

  “I didn’t get a ticket, remember?” I say, doing my best to defend myself. “He’s the one who swerved off the road and caused the whole pileup.”

  “Because you were following him.” Luke adds, “Bit of a chicken/egg thing there, isn’t it?”

  “I—”

  “Okay, enough of that,” Brooke says, cutting me off. She looks at me quizzically and adds, “I still don’t get why you couldn’t get a shot of him. They could have had your pictures to frame you with on the news.”

  “I have no idea.” And to be honest, it completely freaks me out. This job is my life. Trust me, I know it’s not supposed to be that way. We’re all supposed to “work to live,” not “live to work.” I get it. I mean, I’ve read all the same articles as everyone else, seen all the same experts on the Today show. But, as stupid, silly, and slightly pathetic as it may sound, I don’t know what I would do without it. I finally have my life in some sort of order. I finally feel relatively stable. My job makes me calm, if you can believe that. Last night was the first time I haven’t been able to summon that calm at will.

  “What if I’m losing my edge?” I ask, while petitioning Brooke with my eyes to tell me it’s not possible.

  “You?” quips Luke.

  “Luke, I couldn’t take the picture. It was like…” I take a deep breath. “It was like I was paralyzed. It felt…wrong somehow, or something.” Too personal? “When he looked at me I…” completely lost all control and turned into a stuttering, unprofessional heap of jelly. “I just couldn’t do it. What happens if I can’t do it anymore?”

  Luke shakes his head. “You think you could just—whoosh—lose the ability to take pictures?”

  “Yeah,” I reply matter-of-factly. “I read somewhere about this artist who went to bed one night halfway through a masterpiece and woke up the next morning and couldn’t paint. Couldn’t finger paint. Couldn’t—”

  “Were you reading the National Enquirer?”

  “I’m serious!” I say, suddenly desperate to get Luke off my back.

  “So am I!” he retorts.

  “I have an idea,” chirps Brooke. “Practice on me. Pretend I’m famous.”

  Brooke races across the room and back, delivering my camera. She immediately begins posing.

  “It’s not the same,” I say after taking several shots. “It was Ethan Wyatt—”

  “You want him?” Luke asks bluntly.

  “No! I am not the least bit attracted to him! Why would you assume I want the guy just because—”

  “Calm down, Killer,” coos Luke. “What I meant was, do you want to get a shot of him? Do you want to try and find him?”

  “Oh,” I say, as a sudden and rather overwhelming rush of embarrassment makes my cheeks go warm.

  Brooke flips through the channels searching for the other celebrity news outlets.

  A voice from the TV peals, “…Billy Bush with the latest from the Big Apple. He’ll give us the lowdown on Ethan Wyatt’s dangerous run-in with an overzealous paparazzi.”

  The Access Hollywood theme song rings through the apartment like a battle cry.

  I can’t let him win. I can’t let some cocky, sexy, talented, fairly amazing actor beat me. He’s supposed to be afraid of me—not the other way around.

  “Yes,” I say boldly. “I’d like him served up on a platter, if possible.”

  Luke makes a goofy face at me, then winks conspiratorially at Brooke.

  “Right on.” Luke whips out his cell phone dramatically. “Give me ten minutes.”

  In a matter of five minutes Luke has discovered Ethan Wyatt’s shoe size, his mother’s maiden name, and his exact location. Ethan Wyatt is, at this very moment, eating dinner with a “mystery woman” at a new restaurant called blé.

  Jackpot.

  Chapter 7

  Oh, I do love field trips,” purrs Brooke as we stumble out of the cab.

  “Brooke,” I say soberly, “you’re going to have to work with me here.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “No touching this time.”

  “I only grazed him, Sadie,” she says innocently.

  “Yeah, right.” I remember, quite clearly, Matt Damon being mowed down by a slim brunette lineman in four-inch stilettos. When I broke things up, she was about to begin CPR.

  “Look, I have to get this shot.” I need it. I can’t walk around for the next week with the rancid taste of defeat in my mouth. I have to prove to myself that I can take a picture of Ethan Wyatt. Simple.

  Luke and I stare across the street at the unassuming yet luxurious exterior of blé. The warm golden light from inside is diffused by Chantilly lace the color of whipped butter and splashes onto the sidewalk in creamy pools. A brick red awning proclaims the name of the restaurant in golden script so elegant that it practically screams a warning: “Not for the poor or unrefined.”

  The early summer air has gone unseasonably cold as the clock ticks down from evening to night. Luke tells me it’s got something to do with Arctic winds from Canada. Just like Canada to pawn off its bad weather on us. Isn’t it enough that we’ve taken Alan Thicke and Howie Mandel off their hands? Will the madness never end?

  “What do you think?” I ask Luke.

  “I think your best bet is the side alley. We could wait. I’ll watch the front, you cover the alley.”

  “What will I do?” asks Brooke.

  “Freak out when Ethan walks out of the restaurant,” says Luke wryly.

  “Very funny,” she quips.

  “Are you up for a little recon?” I ask them.

  “Oh, yeah,” says Brooke, as she takes off across the street—almost skipping.

  “You know how I love being a prop,” Luke says with a wink.

  I quickly shove my camera into the deep kangaroo pocket on the front of his sweatshirt. He drapes his long left arm over my shoulders, and I put my right around his waist. We stroll casually across the street.

  Passing the dimly lit alley, I notice that a small tent has been erected around the side entrance. It’s the perfect place for a quick getaway. A car could back into the alley and let the customer slide into the backseat without ever being exposed to the elements—or the cameras.

  “No-go on the alley,” I say to Luke as we slow our pace and do our best to peer through the finespun lace.

  “You’ll never get in, or get a shot through the curtains,” says Luke quietly. “We’ll have to wait.”

  “I don’t know. I want to get him with the chick, whoever she is. They’ll probably come out separately, especially if someone notices a suspicious almost-giant and known autograph hound lurking outside.”

  Just clear of blé’s picture windows, Luke stops and turns to me. His jaw tightens and he shoves his hands in his pockets.

  Brooke says, “Why don’t we just try to get in?”

  Brooke, with her lethal feminine wiles, could probably get a table. Me, probably not. Me with a camera—definitely not.

  After what seems like an hour of watching Luke tighten and loosen his jaw muscles, I blurt, “Okay, plan B. Who’s your source?”

  “Dave, a waiter I know from when I worked at Pasta Fiore.”

  “He’s working tonight?” I ask.

  As if a lightbulb just
popped on over his head, Luke’s eyes go wide. “Oh, I feel you.”

  Luke takes out his cell phone with one hand and grabs my hand with the other. In one smooth movement, he drags me past the restaurant while punching numbers into the cell.

  At the alley, he makes a sharp lateral move and sprints past the little tent, then scoots through a narrow opening in the chain-link that partitions off the back of the alley. Brooke and I follow as swiftly as we can. Somehow, I manage to curb the all-consuming desire to scream “Watch the camera!” as Luke’s kangaroo pouch, and my livelihood inside it, jostle precariously up and down.

  We stop, and I catch my breath. I inhale slowly and my whole body is seized by the mouth-watering aroma of roasted garlic, warm cheese, and chicken stock. I think back on the last thing I ate today—measly raisin toast.

  blé’s kitchen entrance is wide open. Steam rises toward the halogen bulb above the door. The clanging of pots and plates makes my stomach groan with envy.

  Luke’s eyes dart between the LCD screen on his cell and the open door.

  I sputter, “Did you—”

  He holds up a finger to shush me. “Wait for it…”

  In a matter of seconds, a paunchy Kato Kaelin look-alike emerges from the kitchen. His hair is the color of straw and cut in a long shag. Feathery wisps of hair flap ever so slightly from either side of his head. I guess, in fairness to all the decent man-shags out there, this guy’s haircut is more of a mullet—with wings. He attempts to simultaneously light a cigarette, walk down the steps, and answer his cell phone.

  “Dave!” shouts Luke.

  “Dude!” the Kato look-alike replies. He points to his cell phone. “This you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Niiiice,” he says in a raspy surfer drawl before lighting his cigarette. He reminds me of the guys I grew up with—the ones who considered Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High the founder of their lazy, pot-smoking order. Harmless, but slightly pathetic guys, blind to the absurdity of feeling nostalgic for a teen comedy that came out when they were learning their ABCs.

  “Ethan Wyatt still in there?” Luke asks.

  “Yeah, man. I’ve got him—one of the VIP rooms.”

  “Who’s the girl with him?” Luke prods.

  “Nobody,” he says. Clearly Dave, like so many people these days, lumps people in only two categories—the famous and the un famous. He adds quickly, “Hot as fuck, though.”

  “Oh yeah?” Luke asks with a twinkle in his eye.

  Dave puckers his face and makes the universal hand motion for “bodacious ta-ta’s.” That’s it. That’s the hook. A little thrill courses through my midsection—the promise of a big story. She’s not his rumored girlfriend. She’s unknown. She has bodacious ta-ta’s.

  Luke nods his understanding of Dave’s juvenile visual aide and then points to me. “Do you think you can get her in?”

  I suddenly feel like a desperate groupie pleading with a roadie to take me backstage. I dig my hand in Luke’s pocket and retrieve my camera.

  “Not with that, I can’t,” he says, pointing to my camera and exhaling a gray mist into the night air.

  Shit.

  “How about with this?” I ask, pulling out my picture-taking, call-making, overpriced bit of annoying technology.

  “Nah, they make customers check those things at the door.”

  “Could I give it to you and get in on a last-minute reservation—”

  “No way,” Dave says, his head wobbling around like that of a bobble-head doll. “The management at this place is like the fucking gestapo.”

  I decide to translate this into language he can understand. I lighten my voice by an octave. “Shit, I totally need that picture.” I bite my lip seductively. Though I feel like an ass doing it, it seems to have the desired effect. Dave looks me up and down, calculating his odds. Faking a look of all-American surfer-girl innocence—and trying to be blonder—I add, “You really can’t help me?”

  Dave takes a long drag of his cigarette and eyes me suspiciously. He exhales through his teeth and winks. “What’ll you give me for it?” His eyes dance between Brooke and me. Disgusting, but I can work with that.

  I reach into my back pocket and retrieve three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills (that Todd better reimburse me for or I’ll have him whacked).

  I hand the cash to Dave, who fingers the bills with a faraway look that tells me his dealer is going to be a happy man. Before he has a chance to mull it any further, I pass my camera to Luke and shed my zip-up hoodie, giving it to Brooke. I unbutton Dave’s uniform jacket and peel it off him, much to his delight.

  I have to look like I belong in there. Dave’s jacket will help, but my jeans won’t do at all.

  “Brooke, I need your pants.”

  “What?” she yelps. “No. Absolutely not.” She locks her eyes onto Dave, who is smiling lasciviously while ogling her legs.

  “Come on,” I say, dragging her by the hand to a tiny alcove between the chain-link fence and a massive dumpster.

  The area smells like rotting vegetables, red wine, and what can only be described as death.

  “Help me out here? Please?” I beg her.

  She sighs and folds her arms over her chest. Finally, unable to resist my very convincing pout, she rolls her eyes and unbuttons her pants. “You owe me, though. Big. Huge. It’s going to cost you a face-to-face with Duncan Stoke…with touching.”

  What am I, a celebrity pimp? But I nod vehemently. “Sure, whatever you want.”

  As a cool rush of air makes the backs of my exposed thighs tingle, something suddenly occurs to me: Has anything good ever come from an activity that begins with partial nudity by a dumpster?

  In under sixty seconds I have transformed into an androgynous waitress who appears to be suffering the effects of body dysmorphic disorder—pants too tight and short, jacket at least two sizes too big.

  I shove my cell phone into my pants and head back to Dave and Luke.

  Luke hands over my camera. I almost take it, but then think better of it. “No,” I tell Luke. “You hold on to it. I’ll use my cell.” If, by some horrible chance, I get busted in there, I would really hate to have my lovely, expensive camera smashed into oblivion.

  “Okay, let’s go,” I say to Dave while tramping up the steps to the kitchen door.

  He looks up at me nervously.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, flapping my hand at him. “I’ve done this a million times. It’ll be fine. A snap.” I try to illustrate the guaranteed success of my plan by actually snapping my fingers. They sort of slip off one another, not making a sound.

  Dave caresses the pocket where he stuffed the money, then cautiously climbs the stairs behind me looking a bit like a man headed for the gallows.

  “It’ll be fine,” I say again. But it comes out more like an incantation—a wish—than a real declaration.

  It’s not like I’ve never done this before. Okay, I’ve never done exactly this before, but I’ve done other things that were sort of like this. Just not quite this brazen. Technically speaking this could be slightly illegal. I don’t think I’d get arrested, but I may be open to some civil liability—private property, hidden cameras, stalking. But my intent isn’t malicious. Is it? No. I just need the shot that I didn’t get before. That’s all. Simple.

  I take a deep breath and let Dave take the lead. He guides me through the less inhabited parts of the kitchen, stopping every once in a while and forcing me to crouch behind stacks of pots and great mountains of dirty dishes.

  As I peek through a shelf piled high with boxes and bread baskets while a trio of cooks sprint past us, I remember something my father told me. “Sadie,” he said, “never do anything that you can’t show your face doing. The most important thing is to be proud of who you are and what you’ve done to get where you want to be.”

  I’m only setting a toe over the line. No, not even over the line—just on the line. The line I won’t cross is still there, and just like tennis, anything
on the line is fair. Right?

  Right.

  Dave pops up and ushers me around a corner and out of the kitchen. After a few steps, we’ve entered a long softly lit corridor, where the clanging of pots and shouting of orders gives way to the low hum of conversation and the gentle clicking of silver on porcelain. The walls are upholstered in a deep gold silk. To our left is a wall of velvet drapes the color of summer corn. Little beams of light glint through their folds.

  Halfway down the corridor, Dave stops me and whispers in my ear, “He’s in the third booth from the last. Get in, get what you need, and then get the fuck out of Dodge.” He points to a door back at the other end of the long hall. This, he tells me, will open out to the awning that Luke and I noticed earlier in the alley. He instructs me to leave his jacket by the door, hints with his eyes that he’d rather not see me again, and then disappears around the corner.

  Okay. I have to get a clean shot with both of them in the picture…both of their faces. I’ll probably only get one chance at it, so I have to make it a good one.

  Shit, I hope it doesn’t come out too grainy.

  And, I hope everyone is fully clothed. As long as they’ve got clothes on there shouldn’t be any lawsuits…I think.

  I walk up to the VIP booth Dave pointed out. I spot a sliver of light where the velvet curtains meet a wall panel, creating a cozy little nook. I inch up slowly and squint to see through the slender crack in the drapes.

  He’s there. He’s really in there. With a woman. A woman in a low-cut top and the promised bodacious ta-ta’s. Her dark hair, pale skin, and light eyes give the impression that she’s a very well-dressed porcelain doll.

  Right, this is it. Now or never. No going back.

  I grab the phone from my pocket. It feels absurdly heavy in my hands. Like a brick.

  I’m nervous. I’m actually nervous about taking a picture. This is ridiculous. I have to be able to do this. I have to.

  I take a deep breath and slip my hand through the break in the curtain. I repeat silently to myself, “Aim for the line, Sadie, not over it. You’re right on the line.”

  I close my eyes, cross the fingers on my free hand, and push the button on my phone.