Page 24 of Paparazzi

Michael smiles and looks down, looking like he wants to say something, then thinks again. “The important thing is that you’re convinced of it. But if you ever realize you’ve lost control, know that I’m here. Damian and Lilly are in their honeymoon phase. Sometimes they’re not the most rational people to ask for advice. If you feel lost, I’m here.”

He gets off the couch and puts his hand on my shoulder before returning to the studio, leaving me with a thousand more thoughts than I had when I walked into this room.

“Dexter, I swear if you stick your paw in my eye again, I’ll use your fur to clean the windows,” I grumble angrily, realizing that the sun has yet to peep through the buildings. It’s way too early.

My cat emits an annoyed meow, standing next to the bowl. He clearly understands he gets everything he wants. “You’re the most annoying cat I’ve ever met,” I mutter, filling his bowl.

I head to the bathroom and as soon as I turn on the light and look in the mirror, a sigh escapes my lips. “Do I really have dark circles under my eyes?” I wonder aloud, seeing the two shadows that contrast with the pale skin of my face.

Considering the cat wakes me up at unacceptable hours, and Thomas kept me up all night a couple of days ago, my face looks like a battleground of sleeplessness. Memories from the other night come back to my mind, and I blush like a teenager. His lips and hands have left an indelible impression that even guilt can’t erase. The other night it was like my world flipped, and now I’m inside a snow globe where everything is magical. All the bright, sparkling feelings have yet to settle at the bottom. And sooner or later, they will. They’re going to settle at the bottom of my heart when I realize this isn’t going anywhere.

When I told Emily what happened, with my heart in my throat, she was in seventh heaven thinking this is finally my chance to be happy. But how can I be happy if the whole relationship is based on my lies? I built a house of cards, and when he finds out, everything will collapse and my heart will be buried under a pile of rubble. Sure, I could enjoy this whole great adventure without thinking about the consequences, but it’s impossible to tell my heart not to invest too much energy because it won’t last. The magic of waking up next to him, making love to him in the morning, and then seeing him feed Dexter as if he’d always done it was like opening a door to a future that’s not real. It left a bittersweet taste in my mouth that made my heart plummet a little lower. I keep telling myself we don’t have a real relationship, but is it true? He went to the corner café to get breakfast and brought it back to bed, using the keys to my apartment while I took a shower. Isn’t that a relationship? Those are the intimate actions of a couple who aren’t afraid to admit what they are, and when trust comes crumbling down because of my lies, that door on the future will close and crush my heart in the process.

When I get out of the bathroom, I make a cup of coffee as Dexter approaches and rubs himself against my ankles. “Now that you have a full belly, you’re quite the brown-noser, aren’t you?” I scold him as I pick him up. His moment of affection lasts precisely four seconds, enough time to pull out his nails and scratch them on my arm, then run over to the bed to lick his fur as if I had just soiled it with jam.

“You don’t love me. That’s the truth,” I whisper as I grab my hot cup and approach the window.

I watch people walking quickly on the sidewalk in front of me. The tall building with the black fire escape obstructs the view of the city I love so much. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to live in one of the apartments in those tall buildings made of glass and steel scattered around Manhattan. It must be like standing forever on top of the Empire State Building and dominating the city. What a powerful feeling to be able to do that, a feeling I’ll never taste since I can barely survive week to week.

I shake off my daydream and return to my apartment, furnished with pieces I found in dumpsters and restored with a lot of love. An apartment with a room and a bathroom, and I’m lucky there’s a door that divides the two. I smile at the idea and open my laptop to check my email. Since Thomas tweeted my article, new visits to my blog have exploded, as have the recurrent readers. Emails for interviews or requests for album reviews are piling up in my inbox like snow in winter. Maybe I could consider making some money from this blog, even without allowing the advertising I hate so much. I need to talk to Emily and figure out how to take advantage of this sudden rise in popularity and translate it into revenue that might make me feel a little more relaxed about money.

I start with the comments on my last interview, checking to see if there are insults—which I delete immediately—then answering questions and suggesting that those who ask for interviews contact me by email. Then I go to the old articles, and I see there is more engagement, more comments, more shares there too.

“Of course, Thomas gave this blog a pretty good boost,” I whisper to no one in particular. Not even my cat listens to what I have to say anymore.“Besides being super-sexy and a god in bed, he brought in more activity than an entire marketing department.”

It’s at least two hours before I can finish making it to the bottom of all the post comments and messages on Instagram. When I start with the hundreds of emails, I’m already into my second coffee of the day. If Dexter continues to wake me up so early, I’ll be addicted to caffeine. After deleting all the spam, I realize that another hundred and fifty emails are waiting for me. How the hell have I gone from five to a hundred and fifty? Have all these people really only discovered my existence now?

Someone even invites me to a record-launch party in Las Vegas. It doesn’t look like a scam, and I put it among those to check later and do more in-depth research on the group. When I get halfway through, my heart skips a beat. What seemed like a normal request for an interview turns out to be the email every music journalist dreams of getting: the Red Velvet Curtains ask for an exclusive in-depth interview for the launch of their new album. It’s signed by Lilly herself, and I have to reread it three times before I realize it’s not a joke.

I stand up, pour a third cup of coffee, walk around the table, sit down, get up again, look out the window, watch passers-by for a few minutes, then sit back at the computer. The email’s still where I left it. It didn’t disappear, I didn’t dream about it, the computer didn’t burst into flames. If this is the reward for sleeping with Thomas, I’ll do it again more than willingly. Just thinking about it makes me feel guilty. I’m not sure he asked them to contact me, but I have the impression that he’s behind it. Why would they have noticed my existence otherwise?

It seems, however, that the email is genuine, professional, but also very kind. And there’s no sign that Thomas put a word in it. The problem is, I don’t understand why she sent it to me. I’m not a magazine. I have no professional authority as a blogger. Despite Thomas’s trust, I am not considered an industry insider. They’re the emerging band of the year. They have the most prominent news media vying for a story from them. They’re considered the heirs of the Jailbirds, and I’m just a blogger. Thomas is the only explanation for this interview, and it annoys me a little: I don’t love favoritism and especially not unasked favors. If I need help, I ask. I don’t need Prince Charming intervening on his white horse. In fact, to be honest, I’ve always hated those fairy-tale princes. As if the princesses were all brainless and unable to figure things out on their own. My mother always laughed at my protests to change the fairy tales she read me.

I don’t know how to feel about this email: flattered because they chose me or angry because they didn’t choose me on merit. While I have the opportunity of a lifetime for a blog like mine, I wish I’d gotten this job honestly, not because I opened my legs.

Guilt strangles me and makes me choke. I need to clear my head by getting out of my apartment and going to the only other place where my problems can take on a better perspective. So, I close my laptop without replying, grab the keys to my apartment, and head out without a second thought.

*

The garden in front of the entrance, with its perfectly cut grass and pruned trees with sinuous shapes, is surrounded by high brick walls. If I hadn’t taken two subway lines that I’m sure are in New York City, it would almost seem like I ended up in another state. The white clinic and its large windows that illuminate the hallways and rooms is as bright as ever. I set foot inside and the scent of vanilla barely disguises the smell of the floor disinfectant, reminding me that this is still a clinic despite looking like a luxury hotel. Even if she is always smiling when she sees me, the nurse behind the counter is not a bearer of good news. On the contrary, those who enter are here because they have no hope of getting out.

I approach the counter, and Eleonor’s blonde bob turns to me. “Good morning, Iris! How are you today? Did you rest? You look tired.”

Her sweetness always leaves me breathless. I admire the people who work here, the way they manage to keep a smile in a place with so much suffering and despair. “I’m fine, thank you, I just worked late. How are you? How are the kids?”

At the mention of her children, the woman in her forties makes a grimace that makes me smile. “I just got back. I stayed home for two weeks because first Livy then Rita got bronchitis. I swear, I thought I was going crazy with those two rascals sick and locked in the house all day,” she whispers almost exasperatedly.

I smile as I sign the visitor log. “I guess it’s less tiring to do the double shift in here.”

“You have no idea how true that is.” She waves a hand in front of her face.

I wave as I walk away toward the hallway that takes me to the room that has brought me here for the last five years, at least four days a week. Walking in, I find Liberty preparing the brush to comb my mother’s hair.

“How is she?” I ask when she turns to me.

The nurse in her thirties smiles at me and beckons me toward the window where my mother sits in the cream-colored armchair that mirrors the entire room’s color. She’s looking out the window with the same vacuous look I’ve seen for years. At first, I was floored by what I saw. I had no words when I first came to see her; then, over time, it became routine, and I began to have long conversations with her, even though I knew it was rare for her to answer me or even recognize my presence. I gave up trying to make her remember that I am her daughter a long time ago. She often doesn’t recognize me overnight, sometimes from one hour to the next. Now, the moments when she seems to regain some clarity of mind have become really sporadic. She hasn’t uttered my name for at least three years.

“Today is a good day. She spoke a little bit when she woke up. Do you want to comb it yourself?”