Page 11 of Paparazzi

The third song is the one that surprises me the most—a slow ballad. The lyrics unfold into a story about a violent, suffocating, toxic love. The sweetness of the music clashes with Damian’s rough voice; the words envelop your heart and tighten until it stops. With the last verse, you feel your heart stop like the woman’s life between those lines.Red as the love you desired, red as blood on your grave.I have to swallow a couple of times before I can knock down the knot in my throat.

They’ve come a long way from the first album full of passion and anger. In moments that seem all too short, the three songs end and Thomas stops the music, takes back his earphones, and looks at me as if my opinion alone will decree whether this album will be a success or not. They are a world-famous band, with this album they will ascend the Olympus of music, becoming part of the history of the greats, of legends.

“So?” he asks me hopefully.

“So, you’re going to wait for my review like everyone else,” I say, unfazed, as if this were a respectable professional meeting. The reality is my heart and mind are so distressed with emotions I would not be able to formulate a coherent sentence, let alone a sensible opinion.

Thomas widens his eyes and looks at me as if horns had grown in my forehead. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I am. Do you think I pulled out this notebook to give you a ridiculous, incomplete review on the spot?”

He furrows his brows and seems almost disappointed by my answer, or perhaps even frightened.

“I knew you were serious, but I was hoping you’d give me at least a general idea... Look, it doesn’t matter, I still have to bring this coffee to those three before they think someone kidnapped me,” he says, standing up and making me feel terribly guilty.

He really expected to hear my opinion, and I didn’t dare to give it to him. The smile he gives me before standing up never reaches his eyes.

“Thomas,” I call before he leaves. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be anxious about my opinion. It’s definitely positive, I just don’t have anyone read my articles before they’re finished...you know, I’m a perfectionist too.” This time his eyes light up with his smile, and what looks like a weight rising from his chest. “You have to give me the song titles if you want the article to be complete.”

“If you give me your phone number, I can send you a text,” he smiles slyly.

I burst out laughing at his attempt, and then hand him my pen and paper. “Or you can write them here. What do you say?”

“And you’d miss the chance to hear the story of how I took the stage with my pants ripped in half?”

“Do you mean that what I heard from your own lips is not the real one?”

He pretends to think about it, scratching his chin. “I told you the one where—during a spiritual session—my pants caught fire on a candle, and I had to cut off the leg of the jeans just before I took the stage, right?”

I burst into amused laughter. “Those were not the words, but I get the feeling I’ll never have the real version of that story. Or am I wrong?”

“You can give me your number and find out,” he tries again.

“Or you can write the titles of those songs here and keep that aura of mystery a rock star needs to survive.” I push the notepad toward him again.

He says nothing, nods a couple of times as if he wants to say something, but then stops. He grabs the paper and writes down the titles. “Will you ever tell me why you don’t want to give me your number? Do I scare you or something?”

“You meet a lot of women. How do I know you don’t ask for all of their numbers? After all, you didn’t tell me why you want it.” I smile at him, but I don’t add anything else. The truth is, I’m beyond nervous about this whole situation and making excuses is the only possible solution I can see.

As before, Thomas seems to hold back a thought, picks up the now lukewarm coffees, and makes his way to the door. He throws me one last look and a smile, then waves and disappears into the streets of Manhattan carrying with him all the air I had in my lungs.

It’s been a whole day, and Iris hasn’t posted her review yet. By now, I’m sure her name is Iris because once I discovered her blog, I read every single article she’s posted in recent years, all really great pieces, all signed with her name. There is no doubt this woman is a journalist, even if she says otherwise, and one of the good ones, competent both in her subject and her style. I can’t believe she never studied journalism.

Locked up in my apartment all day, sitting on the white leather sofa next to the window overlooking Central Park, reading and rereading the same articles, was not a great idea. I was so nervous that at one point, I gave in and cooked almost two hundred cookies and started decorating about fifty of them. Even though I had promised Claire, the assistant Evan found me, that I would never cook anything again—at least until Christmas. There was a time, right after the tour, when she spent whole days contacting associations that help the homeless to donate the decorated cookies I churned out in industrial quantities. At one point, she threatened to tell Evan and my friends if I didn’t stop immediately. She’s not going to be happy about helping me pack dozens of cookies to give to some good cause. But I was too anxious waiting for the verdict—I had to release some tension this way.

It didn’t help. My nervousness is still skyrocketing. I feel like a caged, chained lion who would bite its own paw off to get out of here. But I can’t run away, not from myself, at least. The truth is I’m terrified of the review she might write. Maybe she didn’t like the songs, and that’s why she doesn’t post anything. She’s playing for time. And yet yesterday, she reassured me before I walked out of that damn café. I’m paranoid. That girl got so under my skin I can’t have one rational thought anymore. It’s ridiculous!

I get up from the sofa and head to the kitchen to turn on the coffee machine. Maybe caffeine isn’t a great idea, considering how nervous I am. I’ll risk pulling an all-nighter. On the other hand, I’ve never been famous for my brilliant choices. I pour a steaming cup and go back to the couch where I left my laptop. I reload the blog page for the millionth time, and my heart almost stops.

The new post is there, with the name of our band clearly written in the title. I put down the laptop, grab the cup and go to the window to sip my coffee, trying to calm down. I don’t dare read it. It’s what I’ve been waiting for with trepidation all day, and now I can’t bring myself to read those lines. The problem is that I care too much about her opinion, and even the possibility that she didn’t like the songs scares me. If one of the kids in the room yesterday for the listening group wrote a bad review, I’d be displeased for sure, but it would only last a short time. It won’t be so easy to forget if she blasts it. I laugh at my total inability to be rational at something that is a non-problem.

I breathe deeply and take courage. I go back to the post and start reading it. At first, I feel so eager to get to the end that my brain can’t process the lines I’m reading. Then the words ‘magical,’ ‘higher level,’ ‘incredible quality’ enter my visual field. When I reread the article for the third time, I finally realize it’s praising our music. Every word is designed to emphasize the musical quality and the improvements we’ve made with this album.

When we sat down and started writing the new songs, we set out to satisfy our fans and take the next step, take what we’ve built so far and improve it, grow our artistry and not just our fame. Apparently, according to Iris and her article, we succeeded.

I’m so caught up in the enthusiastic comments starting to appear in the post that I share the link on Twitter without thinking twice.

@Thomas_Jailbirds

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