Page 12 of Paparazzi

She likes the new songs! Read theRocking in New Yorkblog review!

Not even a minute goes by before the phone rings and Evan’s face appears on the screen. The euphoria I felt reading the post and sharing it is replaced by a cold shower.

“Can you tell me why the hell you tweeted that link?” His tone is unbelievably angry. I can almost see his red face and neck veins about to explode.

“Because it’s a good review?” I wish I was more sure of myself, but my voice comes out trembling.

Our manager expects such impulsive gestures from Michael or Damian, not from me, and I realize that I didn’t think for one second about whether what I was doing was right. I took it for granted that this article was excellent, and didn’t consider that it might not be approved by our press office.

“First, explain to me how the hell that blogger got to hear the singles. Second, explain to me how the hell you found that post. Third, explain to me why the hell you shared it without first consulting the press office!” He’s so angry his shouting sounds like he’s on speakerphone. It scares me.

Our public life is controlled by legions of press offices and marketers who scrutinize everything we post. Such an impulsive gesture will have triggered at least twenty alarms on the cell phones of those who take care of our image. It’s an excellent review, enthusiastic, precise, professional...but it was not authorized. Only now do I realize my mistake.

“What the hell did you think? What if that blogger puts the songs online?” he continues scolding me.

“It’s not possible. She only listened to them once from my phone.”

The silence that follows almost makes my blood freeze.

“You’re screwing this journalist and letting her write what she wants? Are you crazy? Thomas, what the hell are you up to? I expect to be called out of business hours for Michael’s bullshit, not yours.” The last few words come out so shrill that I’m afraid he’s ripped out his vocal cords.

“I’m not screwing her! And she’s not a journalist... It’s just, she has an excellent blog, and she’s a fan of ours.” I try to justify myself.

“Thomas, shut up. You’re digging your own grave,” he hisses.

I follow his advice and curl up in the couch cushions hoping this outburst will end soon.

“For Christ’s sake, now that Damian settled down, are you the one starting to screw up? Give me a break, guys, or I won’t live to see my forties. Is it at least a good review?” The tone of voice is calmer, but I know he is still angry.

Evan is the one who’s been watching our backs since the beginning, and when we mess up, he makes us pay for it. He’s not one to let things slip past him, especially when it comes to us. We were his first band, we grew up together, and he took charge of our past as if it were his. He’d do anything to protect us.

“It’s great.”

Yet another interminable silence.

“Evan?”

“Don’t post anything else about her. Don’t follow her on social media. Don’t do anything. And, Thomas, be careful. She’s still a journalist.”

His last words settle in my chest like a boulder. I know what he’s afraid of: it’s become increasingly difficult to keep our secrete from the world—that we’ve been in prison. Exposing ourselves to those who make a living doing research is not a good idea. When curiosity takes over, lies become unmanageable. But Iris is not a journalist, she is a blogger, or at least this is the lie I tell myself to indulge my obsession with her.

“Don’t worry, she’s not a journalist. She has this blog for passion. If you look at it, she doesn’t have ads on the site because she doesn’t care about the money. It just has reviews, no gossip. There’s only one post about Damian and Lilly when the tour scandal broke. She demanded her readers to leave them alone because she doesn’t want gossip about their private lives on her blog.”

“You’ve scrutinized her site well.” Evan’s observation is cautious, as if he wants to test what my connection is to Iris.

“I wanted to be sure she was a good person before I let her hear the songs,” I lie to my friend, something I never do.

Evan seems to think about it for a long time, then inhales thoroughly. “Okay, but be careful,” he tells me before hanging up.

The adrenaline I felt reading the article is a distant memory, and now I find myself back on the sofa scrolling through Iris’s Instagram photos. She’s very active in the music scene, and I’m surprised I’ve never noticed her before. At the end of the day, we frequent the same places, and suddenly I realize how different our worlds are. Although we both deal in music, we’re on different sides of the barricade. I move in the world of celebrities, the famous and glossy ones. She moves on the sidelines but perhaps it’s a more authentic world—one of genuine feelings and opinions, not filtered by the unwritten laws of this business.

I find myself scrolling through every single photo, and when I’m done, I put my finger on the screen and start Instagram stories. Her writing an article, the subway doors opening onto the Broadway-Lafayette station, her entering “The Bitter End” in Greenwich Village to listen to a band, her ordering a beer at the bar counter. The pictures keep flowing and, as if in a delirium, I grab my jacket and the black cap I wear to keep from being recognized, and slip into the private elevator before I can think twice about the bullshit I’m about to get into.

*

I look out the taxi window when we arrive in front of the club and realize that I look like a perfect idiot. The guy at the entrance is letting in the last people who stayed in line, and I’m pondering whether or not to get out.

“Have you decided what to do?” the taxi driver asks me in a slightly irritated tone, turning to me and staring, bored, from behind the plastic divider.

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