Oops! I'm the Paparazzi Read online

  ‘I’d like to talk to you, Phred,’ he called out.

  I turned around at the sound of the voice and there was Bradley Goldsilver standing in the street beneath a lamp post. Even out of situ this man still found a spotlight to shine on him, deliberate or not.

  His cashmere coat was pale cream, the collar turned up against the cold, and flakes of snow fell like icy stardust on his blonde hair.

  ‘Can we talk inside?’ he said.

  ‘Inside my apartment?’

  He nodded. ‘Or we can drive to my house,’ he said, glancing at his silver limousine that was bigger than my kitchen.

  Neither of us was fudging the issue. We both knew what I’d done. Maybe not all the details but the basics were pretty clear. I’d caught him red handed. He’d wriggled off the hook and Velvette’s honour was safe. No real harm had been done. The press and the premier had both benefited from the publicity.

  ‘I don’t usually fete the paparazzi,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not really the paparazzi.’

  ‘No? You work for the press. You’re a newspaper journalist. You go to movie premiers and take photographs with press cameras, and the pictures are published in the media. Sounds like the paparazzi to me.’

  I wasn’t going to argue, especially as I’d agreed to another two assignments for tonight from Royce.

  ‘Can we go inside before we freeze to death?’ he said.

  I fished out my door key from my bag and hoped the apartment didn’t throw further shame on my character. Thankfully it looked clean and tidy although perhaps a bit sparse of luxuries.

  Seeing Bradley step into my lounge was a strange experience. Frankly, I’ve never been one to be starstruck, but there was something about this beautiful, immaculate man that made me look in wonder at him standing there. But I think I hid my reaction. I did. I’m sure I did.

  ‘You live here?’ It wasn’t so much a question for me, rather a sounding board for himself that someone actually lived in such a small, bleak environment.

  ‘For the moment. Nothing’s permanent.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m from Dublin, and I’m trying to see how things work out for me in New York. Whether I’ll be turfed back to where I came from, or move on and better myself.’

  ‘And how would you better yourself? By becoming an editor?’

  ‘No, I’d like to be a writer.’

  ‘Not a newspaper journalist then?’

  ‘Not forever, no.’

  ‘What sort of writer? A novelist? Playwright?’

  ‘Scriptwriter.’

  He viewed me sceptically. ‘Are you any good?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He nodded.

  ‘My plan is to keep making movies,’ he said.

  ‘Like the ones you make just now?’

  ‘Yes, why? Is there something in their success that you find distasteful?’

  ‘No, I just think you’re selling yourself short. But what do I know about acting?’

  ‘You think I’m a bad actor?’

  ‘Not at all. That’s the problem. I think you’re wasted on the movies you make.’

  ‘You’d have me make other types of movies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘A romantic comedy perhaps or a classic spy thriller. Something different from your usual special effects sci–fi films.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was all he said.

  ‘You wanted to talk to me?’ I said, breaking the awkward moment.

  ‘Yes. I wanted to ask you if there are any other photographs of me that I should be wary of being published in the press?’

  ‘Not from me.’

  He nodded, seeming to take me at my word.

  He looked around. ‘It’s freezing in here.’

  ‘I only put the heating on when I’m home, and I’ve been out all day.’

  He glanced at me as if this troubled him.

  ‘I assume you have family back home in Dublin.’

  ‘No. There’s no one but me.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Anything else?’ I said.

  He eyed me up down. ‘What do you look like without that hat?’

  I pulled the hat off and my blonde hair tumbled down to my shoulders. I’d washed and dried it that morning.

  ‘Very pretty. Very sexy too.’

  There was another awkward moment, and then he said, ‘I’m having a party at my house tomorrow night. I’d like you to come along. Don’t wear the hat. Don’t tell anyone who you are. I’ll handle that.’

  ‘Why invite me?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t belong in your world and you know that.’

  ‘It’s just a party, Phred.’ He looked at me. ‘Phred, what’s that short for?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s my name.’

  He lifted my mobile where I’d put it on the table and tapped a phone number into it. ‘The party’s at eight. Call if you can’t find the address, though I’m sure the paparazzi know it better than I do.’

  He pulled the collar of his coat up against the snow as he stepped outside the front door.

  ‘See you tomorrow night.’ He smiled, and looked more handsome than I’d ever seen him, standing there in the snowy night.

  He walked away towards the limousine. A driver got out and opened the door for him, and then the car drove off.

  I breathed in the icy air before going inside. Something felt different, a change in the watermark of how things were going to be.

  I swiftly pushed these thoughts aside and got ready for the night ahead, when once again I would become part of the paparazzi.

  Chapter Three

  A Camera Full Of Gold Dust

  The cold night air had an underlying feeling of excitement, as if the city was holding its breath, anticipating the night ahead. The snow created a whiteout, and every street, building and tree was iced white against the dark blue skyline. Everything was calm, waiting to come alive.

  I’d agreed to do two assignments for the paper, but I’d explained to Royce that despite the money being very welcome, I didn’t want to do this on a permanent basis. No more paparazzi stuff after tonight. It just wasn’t for me.

  I’d parked my car across the street from a hotel where a celebrity couple were ensconced. Royce wanted a photograph of them together to accompany an editorial about their impending engagement. All I had to do was sit in my car and wait for them to appear, and then dash over and snap a few pics. This seemed a lot easier than last night’s fiasco at the premier.

  I’d dressed for the weather in black cords, jumper, jacket, boots and hat. Everything was black, including my woolly hat. No colourful pom poms tonight. I planned to fade into the background, into the shadows, rather than attract attention.

  Royce warned me that my photograph had been circulated around the paparazzi. Any anonymity I’d enjoyed was fleeting. They now knew who I was and what I looked like, though I could hardly have expected any less from the professional paps. So it was all the more necessary to keep a low profile. It was like having your face plastered on a wanted poster. I hoped none of them recognised my face tonight.

  I tucked my hair inside the hat which had flaps to keep my ears warm, and checked that the camera was ready for action. I’d been practising with the camera, learning how to use the zoom lens, though I was taking no chances tonight. Everything was set to automatic. The camera should’ve been on the paper’s payroll because it hardly needed me.

  While I watched for any sign of the celebrities emerging from the hotel, I thought back to the things my friends in Dublin had said to me when I told them I was leaving Ireland.

  ‘You must be mad! Giving up a good journalist’s career in Dublin is crazy. What are you thinking? What about your job at the newspaper here? You’ll never survive in New York. You barely survive in Dublin. Look at the mess you’ve made of things. No wonder your boyfriends leave in their droves.’

  It was at this point I interrupt
ed the sage advice being thrown down my throat, and explained that droves wasn’t anywhere near being accurate. In fact, I’d say on the drove scale I was a minus two. I’d only had two serious relationships, and I don’t mean the ones that were so fleeting or puerile they were a joke. Finbar’s betrayal had been the last straw. Was it any wonder I headed off to New York to make a fresh start.

  Before I could screw myself into a pretzel thinking about the past, the celebrities appeared at the front door, in camera range. Unfortunately, several other paparazzi were after the same thing. Their shadows emerged from behind bins, cars and a darkened alley. I reckoned it was going to be a battle of the fastest and the fiercest.

  Game on.

  I hung the camera around my neck, got out of the car and scurried across the street.

  The street was narrow, just off the main thoroughfare. The hard packed snow reflected the colourful lights of the hotel. Everything else was cast in shadow.

  Two paparazzi lurked beside a tree. They’d blended so well into the landscape that I didn’t see them until we were face to face.

  I heard one of them say to the other, ‘Look who’s here.’

  Two sets of disapproving eyes skewered me.

  ‘Go home, girlie, you’re out of your depths.’

  He was probably right, but something in his tone really riled me. I blame the Irish fire in my blood.

  So when the celebrities hurried from the hotel to their car, I put a spurt on, running like blazes to beat the other paparazzi. The snowy ground caused a few of the paps to slip and slide as they jostled with each other. My boots had ruts in the soles that gave a great grip. They were hill walking boots designed for rough terrain in all weather conditions, so I figured they’d be ideal for running with the paparazzi.

  And I was right. I pipped the other paps at the post and got first dibs at the celebrity snaps. While I was running, I pressed my finger on the button and let the camera click off around twenty times in lightning fast succession.

  Not only did I get several unobscured pictures of the couple, by some fluke, I got a close up of the woman’s engagement ring as she got into the car. She’d put her hand up to shield her eyes from the flash of the cameras and I got a great shot of the diamond ring.

  I ran back to my car, and having been well warned by Royce to get my priorities right, I downloaded the photographs on to my laptop. Four of them were winners, including the close up of the ring. If I could have danced inside my car I would have. I e–mailed them straight to Royce who was working on the paper’s deadline at the office.

  Ever on the alert, Royce confirmed within a couple of minutes that he’d got them, and asked me to write around five hundred words to go with the feature. I hadn’t expected to have to write this, but I rattled it together, describing the couple, what they were wearing, how they looked together, and details of the ring which in the close up was a brilliant cut diamond set in yellow gold. Beautiful. In less than fifteen minutes, the pics and editorial were e–mailed off to Royce. Phew!

  I drove off across the city to the next assignment. I had a busy night ahead of me, but there was the potential to earn more in one night than I had in the past month. Royce had kept his word about the money. A payment earned from the Bradley photograph had been paid into my bank account. I could breath easier about my next rent.

  It was at this point that I wondered if I was being paranoid, but car headlights had followed me all the way across Manhattan. Was it the paparazzi on my tail? I doubted it. In the grand scheme of things I was a minor thorn in their sides. They were big boys. They could handle a little competition. Couldn’t they?

  Keeping an eye on my rear view mirror, I continued to the nightclub on the other side of the city. A huge celebrity event was taking place there. They were promoting the movie of a top rated television series, and numerous stars were attending. This assignment was a tricky one, and I wasn’t sure whether or not I could pull it off.

  Royce wanted candid shots of the main stars, not press release pics that every paper had been circulating in anticipation of the launch. I needed photographs of them arriving and leaving the nightclub. Nearly every pap in the city was going to be there. They knew the ropes far better than me.

  I still didn’t know what my tactics would be for this one as I drove up to the club. I parked as near as I could, but the street was jumping with cars, celebrities, fans and sheer mayhem. I was wondering if the zoom lens on my camera would pick up enough from the cocoon of my car, when I remembered about the car who’d been tailing me. I’d lost them at the last set of traffic lights. Now here they were, pulling up right behind me.

  I kept the engine running and my wits about me.

  The main beam of the headlights obscured the car. It was only when the beams dipped that I saw the silver limousine.

  Bradley Goldsilver? What the heck was he doing following me? Not that I was complaining. Being followed by Bradley was many a woman’s dream.

  The limo door opened and out stepped Bradley, band box immaculate as usual in a stylish dark suit. He came right up to the car window and peered in at me.

  ‘Good evening, Phred.’

  I opened the window. ‘Are you following me?’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘How did you know where I was?’

  ‘I got a tip–off. And it’s a big event. I thought you’d be here. Most of the paparazzi are.’

  I took the jab silently on the chin. He was right. Tonight I was officially one of the paparazzi.

  ‘So what do you want with me?’ I said.

  He pressed those sensuous lips of his together thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, while you’re pondering this, you’ll excuse me if I run because I’m missing some of the stars arriving.’

  I opened the car door and he stepped back as I got out. Those gorgeous turquoise eyes looked at my outfit. ‘Can you dance?’

  ‘Dance? Yes, why?’

  ‘You’d get better photographs if you were inside the nightclub rather than freezing out here.’

  ‘Yes, but —’

  ‘Take your jacket off and ditch the hat,’ he said.

  By now I’d noticed a couple of the paparazzi had seen Bradley and were heading this way. He’d seen them too. His expression urged me to do as he said.

  I flung the jacket, chunky knit jumper and hat into the back seat, hung the camera round my neck, and locked the car. I was wearing a long sleeve, black thermal vest along with slim fitting black cords and the all terrain black boots.

  Bradley nodded his approval.

  I glanced at the paps. They were getting nearer. I heard them mention Bradley’s name, and one of them thought I looked familiar.

  ‘Run,’ Bradley said, and grabbed my hand.

  We ran towards the nightclub. I was smiling and panicking in the same breath. I’d never have dreamed that I’d be sprinting hand in hand with Mr mega movie star, along the snowy street, in the full glare of the paparazzi. I was on the wrong side of the cameras again.

  Bradley’s jacket flapped open as we ran, revealing his white shirt and tie. He looked great, blonde hair blowing back from his handsome face. What the hell was he doing with me?

  ‘That’s the pom pom chick,’ one of the paps shouted.

  I pulled my hand away from Bradley.

  Several paparazzi cameras clicked in our direction.

  We kept running.

  I pretended to be chasing Bradley rather than get caught up in a scandal that we were somehow romantically involved with each other.

  ‘Cute little blonde. Is he dating her?’

  ‘No, she’s press.’

  Bradley and I arrived at the nightclub. Everyone knew who he was and the crowds of security men, media types and others in the industry, parted allowing us through and into the nightclub.

  The scene was lively. Usually cameras, like the one around my neck, would not be allowed in. However, tonight was all about publicity and promotion and numerous medi
a people had cameras.

  The music was upbeat but not too loud, and the atmosphere was electric.

  ‘Thank you, Phred,’ said Bradley.

  I knew what he meant. ‘I didn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression,’ I said.

  ‘I never thought I’d be thanking the paparazzi for saving me from scandal,’ he said.

  I smiled at him. Bradley had a sexy voice. Sometimes when he spoke I could hear the British tones in his accent, no doubt from his partial education in London.

  ‘Bradley!’ a woman said. She draped herself around him.

  He peeled her off and we moved to another part of the club.

  Inside the nightclub with its atmospheric lighting, my clothes didn’t feel so out of place. My hair was tousled from wearing the woolly hat, running along the street with Bradley, and from harassment. I blended into the club scene, and it looked like I had a little bit of boho chic going on.

  We stood near an alcove opposite the dance floor which was packed with people. Bradley was lit up by the neon spotlights while I merged into the shadows.

  ‘Who are you supposed to pap tonight?’ said Bradley.

  ‘The main celebrities involved in the movie.’

  Bradley hung my camera around his neck. ‘Let’s go.’

  He led me over to a group of well known celebrities who were delighted to see him. He introduced me.

  ‘This is Phred.’

  ‘Hi. What do you do?’ one of them asked.

  ‘She’s the paparazzi,’ said Bradley.

  They laughed.

  ‘I’m learning her job.’ Bradley flicked the camera on. ‘Smile.’

  Joining in on the joke, they posed and smiled for Bradley.

  After chatting to them for a few minutes, we moved on, and he photographed other celebrities for me.

  ‘There you are,’ Bradley said to me. ‘Now you can go home and get some sleep.’

  ‘Your friends will go crazy when these come out in the press.’

  ‘Nonsense. Everyone who’s here tonight, apart from me, is here to see and be seen. They’re looking for publicity. That’s how the game works, Phred.’