Oops! I'm the Paparazzi Read online

  Text copyright © 2011 by De-ann Black

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written consent of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Toffee Apple Publishing 2011

  Oops! I’m The Paparazzi

  ISBN-13: 978-1-908072-73-3

  Toffee Apple Publishing

  Contents

  1 - One Snowy Night

  2 - Pom Poms and the Paparazzi

  3 - A Camera Full Of Gold Dust

  4 - Skating On Thin Ice

  5 - Cake In November

  6 - Building A Snowman

  7 - It’s A Blizzard Out There

  8 - On The Wrong Side Of The Camera Again

  9 - I’d Marry You Tomorrow

  10 - One Year Later

  Chapter One

  One Snowy Night

  ‘I’d rather run off and join the circus than take a cheap handout of money from you!’

  These were the last words I’d screamed at Finbar, the so–called love of my life, as he left me completely broke, financially and in every other way. I’d been unceremoniously dumped by my supposed one and only for his one of many.

  In hindsight, fate proved to have a sense of humour, because here I was, standing in the centre of bedlam, in the heart of a media circus, otherwise known as a New York newspaper office. One year on, I’d left Dublin city behind and was working in the Big Apple. Though for how much longer I’d actually be employed as a journalist was open to debate.

  ‘Phred! Where the hell is that editorial?’

  Ah, the call of the ringmaster. Royce was the editor who cracked the whip in this particular circus. Then there were the high–wire acts performed by the well seasoned hacks precariously clinging on to their careers by their fingernails. No safety nets in this job.

  Over near the window where some real daylight shone in mid–morning were the tenacious sub–editors whose cages you rattled at your peril.

  Royce rushed out of his office and charged at me. Although he was from New York, he’d worked for a few years for the press in London, and that’s probably where he’d left any shred of finesse. He had a penchant for wearing classic shirts and waistcoats that suited his tall, lean build, and he sometimes wore a burgundy silk backed waistcoat that added to the ringmaster persona. He was also easy on the eye and fairly young in this particular arena. I’m in my late twenties and he’s early thirties, but he’d yet to tame the wild streak in me that made me rub his feathers up the wrong way at least once a day. But he liked me. He did. I kept telling myself that.

  ‘Sending it now,’ I said and pressed the send button on my computer.

  Royce turned and charged back to his office.

  Then he popped back out and said to me, ‘Is that your hat?’

  I paused, jolted into replying, ‘Yes.’

  He glared at me and shut the door again.

  ‘What’s wrong with my woolly hat? It’s freezing outside. I paid good money for it in Dublin.’

  ‘It’s just so not Manhattan,’ someone said.

  I bit back any remarks and got on with my work. So not Manhattan. Grrr! I knew that my brightly coloured knitted hat with its pom poms and toggles wasn’t particularly fashionable, but I was the practical type. It was winter. I was in and out of the newspaper office all day (sometimes all night) chasing one deadline after another. My ears barely had time to defrost in the office before I was sent out again into the frostbitten city. In my world, a woolly hat, scarf, gloves and boots were de rigueur.

  Besides, as Finbar had been harsh enough to remind me, no amount of high fashion was going to transform an average little blonde like me into a sex siren. (Bastard). Perhaps that’s why I’d been dumped by him and replaced with a string of shiny new models — mainly lithe, long legged brunettes who probably hadn’t ever worn a woolly hat. Though I’d dare them to trudge through icy rain and sleet in pursuit of a story. Glamour just didn’t come into it.

  All was fine for the next twenty minutes — a record in this office. Then Royce emerged from his lair and made a beeline for my desk.

  ‘I need you to do a special job for me. All my paps are down with the lurgy.’ (Sickness and diarrhoea to the uninitiated). He handed me an assignment.

  I read it quickly. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I can’t do this,’ I said.

  ‘Give me three valid reasons why not.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t had my conscience removed. I’m a journalist not a photographer, and you’ve given me a complex about my hat.’

  Everyone stopped and stared at me.

  Royce thrust a camera into my reluctant grasp. ‘There’s the camera, there’s the assignment, and there’s the door.’

  It had been snowing all day. Now at almost seven in the evening the urban landscape looked like a winter wonderland. Flakes were still fluttering down from the night sky and everything was glistening in the centre of New York.

  All complexes aside, I was glad I’d worn my hat. And my woolly scarf.

  When I’d left the office they were running bets on whether I’d get the photograph I’d been sent for. Money was being bet hand over fist. It was the liveliest I’d seen them since yesterday’s deadline. And speaking of money, Royce threw a carrot of enticement into the ring to help ensure I fought like a tiger to bring back the picture they needed. He promised me a percentage of the sale when he syndicated the photograph. I’d love to lie and say I’m not a mercenary when it comes to things like that, but the rent was due on my apartment and cash was tight. Living in New York was an expensive business and most of my wages went on ticking over, making ends meet month to month. Some extra cash would be handy. This was November and winter had already started to bite. I had no one to rely on but myself, so I’d grabbed the carrot along with the camera and headed out into the wintry metropolis.

  ‘Watch your tail,’ Royce had said as he closed the door behind me on my way out.

  He really had to work on his cheerleading techniques.

  I’d been warned that the competition would not be happy if I snatched the winning picture from under their noses, though from the betting odds, I was the rank outsider — a wild card thrown in to take the big boys off guard. Frankly, that was the only hand I’d any chance of winning. Take them off guard, do something totally unexpected, though what that was eluded me as I drove to the scene of the showdown.

  My assignment was to glean a candid shot of handsome, rich, sexy, influential, Hollywood star, Bradley Goldsilver, at his latest movie premier. No mean feat. Especially as every other big burly paparazzo with their eye on the money would be vying for the same.

  I parked my car near the venue and peered out at the scene.

  Crowds were gathered to catch a glimpse of their favourite celebrities outside the premier venue. Film buffs and fans jostled for the best vantage point as near to the red carpet as possible. Awnings kept the snow from falling on the glitterati who posed for the cameras. Television news crews nudged elbows with media hounds armed with flash cameras. Somewhere in outer space the dazzle from this event was being picked up and analysed by lunar modules.

  I took a deep breath, stashed my warm jacket on the back seat of the car, along with my jumper, scarf and gloves. I was wearing skinny grey jeans, a cream thermal vest, black boots, and a determined expression.

  I stepped out into the snowy night. The air was freezing.

  Nume
rous paparazzi, many of them large guys carrying step ladders, and some of them already up the step ladders for a better viewpoint, were clicking away furiously. They didn’t even notice me. Well, not at first. I had the element of surprise in my favour.

  I tightened the loops on my woolly hat, tied them under my chin, and then did something outrageously out of character. Anyone who says a leopard never changes its spots has never worked in the media. Not only did my spots change to stripes, I swear my hat grew devilish little horns.

  That photograph was mine . . .

  Chapter Two

  Pom Poms and the Paparazzi

  ‘Although you could do with some more meat on your bones, you’ve got a nice little arse and a corking set of boobs on you.’ Finbar’s rare compliment from the past was the springboard for my plan.

  Movie star, Bradley Goldsilver, stood near the entrance to one of the marquees erected outside the main building. They were all done up with fairy lights and posters of Bradley looking mean, moody and sexy in his ripped leather gear. In the posters his blonde hair was precisely ruffled, turquoise blue eyes smouldered, and a faux scar cut across his cheekbone where he’d been injured saving the heroine from the clutches of the bad guys. In real life, Bradley Goldsilver lived up to his name and was a dazzling, 24–carat hottie wearing a white evening jacket that was a perfect match for his diamond–cut smile. A white shirt, white silk tie, and black trousers, completed the ensemble. He was immaculate. Even I swooned a little bit, and he was definitely not my type.

  Beside him was his co–star and ‘friend’ Velvette. The rumour mill hinted of an affair between them, which had been denied by both. Velvette, a sultry vixen, was already married to a Hollywood luminary and any hint of scandal was outrageous. So of course capturing Bradley’s hand on her arse was worth a goldmine in headline publicity. But there it was, behind the glitz of the cameras, apparently unseen. Mr movie star’s paw had a grip on her peachy posterior. He couldn’t resist, and judging by the smile on his sensuous lips, he liked the daring, the chance of being caught, all the while thinking his slight of hand technique was quicker than the eye. And probably it was, especially to the paparazzi guys who were snapping away, unaware of what was going on behind the scenes.

  While the paparazzi flashed for all they were worth in one direction, I took a route less obvious, around the side of the marquee, intending to come up from the rear and click the camera into action. There was only one thing standing in the way — about fifty paparazzi whose attention I needed to distract long enough to cut a gap through the middle, take the photograph and then make a run for it back to the car.

  I’d planned to take more time, but the opportunity presented itself as I’d stepped out of the car. There was no time to waste. I had to do it now.

  And so I did . . .

  Rolling up my thermal vest to expose my braless boobs to all and sundry, I ran full pelt in front of the paparazzi. I’d like to think that it was the pertness of my chesticles that made them do a double take and drop their guard long enough for me to snap Bradley and Velvette, but probably my woolly hat had a lot to answer for.

  I heard numerous male voices commenting as I ran the gauntlet.

  ‘What the fuck is that chick wearing?’

  ‘What the hell is she doing?’

  ‘Is that a camera she’s got?’

  ‘Stop her.’

  ‘Catch her.’

  ‘She’s getting away.’

  ‘That’s one crazy chick.’

  ‘Sweetest pair of tits I’ve seen.’

  ‘Did you see her hat?’

  ‘You were looking at her hat?’

  And I was gone. Hiding in the darkness of the back seat of my car, I wriggled like a contortionist to put my jumper on before scrambling into the front seat and driving back to the newspaper office.

  Royce won the bet.

  ‘I knew you’d do it,’ he said, and told me to make myself a well deserved hot cup of coffee when I got one for him.

  Balancing two coffees and the dregs of a packet of biscuits, I joined him in his office where I regaled the sequence of events, sans the boob flashing. No one needed to know that.

  Royce viewed the photographs on his computer screen while I defrosted, cupping the hot coffee. One of the pictures in particular was bang on the money.

  Royce punched the air with his fist. ‘Fucking hell, Phred. His hand’s so far up her ass he’s in danger of losing a cufflink. We’ll be printing out hotcakes tomorrow.’

  And so that’s what happened. The paper hit the streets next morning, the scandal lit the touch paper, sales of the paper soared, and Royce had another assignment for me.

  I’d just popped a large chunk of chewy treacle toffee in my mouth when he approached my desk, parking his pert bum on the corner of it.

  The first thing he noticed was my hat. I was wearing another hat. Different colours, similar toggles and pom poms.

  ‘You’ve got another one of those? Do they breed overnight in your wardrobe?’

  The homemade chewy toffee slowed down my barbed response.

  One of the subs threw a rival paper down on my desk and said to Royce, ‘Have you seen this?’

  Royce almost choked when he saw what was emblazed across the page — Woman in woolly hat causes chaos at premier. A picture of me and my pom poms topped the editorial.

  ‘In my office now!’ he roared.

  My stomach churned with sheer embarrassment and anger. I hurried after him, and got ready for the slanging match.

  He slammed the office door behind me.

  ‘Your tits are headline news! Explain.’

  I grabbed the paper and scanned it for any mention of my name. Nothing. ‘My face is hidden by the camera. No one will recognise it’s me.’

  ‘The hat gives the game away.’

  ‘I wore the hat to keep my hair out the way of the lens, and to disguise my hair.’

  ‘A large slice of the New York population is now on first name terms with your… pom poms.’

  ‘Yes, but would you have recognised them if I hadn’t worn the hat?’

  Deep down I was squirming with embarrassment, but I could never show the guys in the office how I felt. I had to brazen it out, pretend it was only a pair of titties. I could freak out later when I got home to my apartment.

  One of the reporters popped his head round the door of the office. ‘Nice pom poms, Phred, very nice.’

  ‘Out!’ Royce shouted at him.

  Royce padded up and down his small office like a caged tiger, running his hands through his silky, well cut, brown hair that on occasion I’d had the urge to run my own fingers through. I never did though.

  ‘I can’t believe you’d do a thing like that,’ he said, sounding exasperated. ‘You’re always so…so…’

  ‘What? Just say it.’

  ‘Tight ass prudish.’

  Well, the home truths were certainly coming out now. So while I was on the ropes I decided to let rip. ‘That’s rich coming from the man who forced me to cover for the paps. The man who laid bets on me coming back with the photographs, knowing fine that the odds were stacked against me. You could’ve sent out one of the guys, but oh no, you sent me.’

  ‘I knew you were better than them. You’re a better writer too, but I don’t know that you’re cut out for reporting.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He sank back into his big comfy chair and sighed. ‘Sometimes you make me so damn mad I don’t know whether to throttle you or kiss you.’

  ‘Don’t forget sending me packing back to Dublin. You’ve used that threat often enough.’

  He sighed again. ‘I’m all talk, Phred. Don’t listen to me. Not that you ever do.’

  He pulled the newspaper feature across his desk and studied it calmly. His brow furrowed. And then I thought I saw a glimmer of admiration in his blue eyes.

  ‘Go back to work, Phred. Let things blow over.’

  Two dinner invitations,
and one to skip dinner entirely and get to the fun part, were on offer when I got back to my desk. I didn’t take them up on it, especially as the stinkers had eaten every bit of my treacle toffee.

  The day wore on, and the dust seemed to be settling on my pom pom situation when a shit storm reared its ugly head.

  ‘Look who made the early evening news,’ one of the reporters said, flicking the sound up on the television in the office. Everyone stopped to watch.

  The news team at the movie premier had filmed the whole fiasco. My tits had been blurred so as not to offend teatime viewers. They’d interviewed Bradley Goldsilver.

  ‘It was of course a publicity stunt for the premier,’ he lied, smiling. ‘And it worked too. Everyone is talking about what happened. Box office sales will soar.’

  ‘What about you and Velvette?’

  ‘All part of the act. Glad you enjoyed it. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

  Off he went in a flash of light bulbs.

  I could tell from the camber of his shoulders that he was raging mad. I’ve annoyed enough men in my time to know that stance. Thankfully, our paths were never likely to cross again.

  I was eating an iced doughnut and drinking tea in my car outside the newspaper building (away from the constant ribbing in the office) when someone knocked on the window. It was one of the subs.

  ‘Bradley Goldsilver is hunting you down.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s money being offered to any of the paparazzi who know your name and address.’

  ‘None of the paparazzi know me.’

  His expression darkened. ‘Someone in the paper has ratted you out. Wasn’t me. Big bucks were paid for the information. Better it was one of us rather than someone else, huh?’

  ‘Isn’t that just heart–warming.’

  ‘Sorry, Phred.’

  I drove home. The snow was getting heavier. By the time I arrived outside my apartment, the cars in the street were covered in it. I stepped out, feeling my boots crunch into the drifts. I was so busy trying to collect my bag and laptop, I barely noticed the man standing nearby.