Page 36 of Paparazzi

“As death.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he hisses between his teeth.

“Thank you.” I wink at him as I grab his card and go get food.

I load the tray with a salad with eggs and chicken, a pastrami sandwich, fruit salad, a lemon cake, a bottle of fruit juice, and a bottle of water. I have every intention of pissing him off properly.

“Hi, Iris.” The guy behind the counter greets me with a sincere smile.

“Hi, Ian. Can you tell me if there’s anything really expensive on the menu?” He looks at me, puzzled for a few seconds. “He’s paying.” I beckon my head toward Ron.

Ian smiles and nods. “I can give you the specialty of the day, the puff pastry stuffed with beef and potatoes.” He winks at me. “Do you want me to warm it up?”

“Yes, thank you, you’re very kind,” I tell him as I pay sixty-four dollars for a meal that could easily feed four people.

I go back to the table with my packed tray and give the credit card to Ron, who looks at me horrified. “How long have you been starving?” He shakes his head with a disgusted expression as I open the salad box and nibble something. My stomach’s still shaken from last night. The truth is, I don’t need a meal like this, but I wanted to spite him.

“What do you want, Ron? Why did you call me?” I get straight to the point.

“I’ve seen from your blog that you’re on very good terms with the Jailbirds, especially Thomas and the Red Velvet Curtains. I want you to sneak into their private lives and get me the scandal I’ve been waiting on for years.”

I maintain an impassive facade even though I am bubbling with rage inside. I linger to look at his eyes shining with victory, and I take all the time to come up with an answer. I don’t want to slip on anything that puts Thomas or me under the microscope of this vicious bastard.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have any particular contacts. I simply got an email from their press office to do the interview. And my work as a blogger doesn’t concern you. I bring you the photos I have, but our collaboration ends there. If you called me here to get information about that interview, you came out for nothing because you’ll read it like everyone else when it comes out on my blog. And for the record, the Red Velvet Curtains and the Jailbirds have separate press offices. They’re two different bands. You know that, don’t you?” The sarcastic tone in my voice covers the discomfort I feel right now.

Ron bursts out laughing, and a shiver, not at all pleasant, runs down my back. “First, Thomas shares your blog post on Twitter, when you wrote that preview review of their album, then you get an exclusive interview with the up-and-coming band of the moment, which, coincidentally, is linked to the most famous one in the world. Rumors tell me that a car with darkened glass often roams your neighborhood. You really want me to believe you don’t have any contact with them? They’re so heavily guarded that evenRolling Stonejournalists have to wait months before doing an interview.” He spits all this out at me angrily.

As much as the man in front of me is a real bastard, revolting and arrogant, there’s one thing I have to admit he can do well: his job. He finds malice in everything, and ninety percent of the time, he’s right. Plus, he has zero ethics, which leads him to dig into the darkest ravines in people’s closets to bring out the most hidden and dusty skeletons: even ones the owners don’t remember.

“That’s right, I don’t have any contact with them. I won the contest and heard the singles before they came out, that’s all. I was with nine other people,” I shamelessly lie, looking him in the eye and chewing my salad as if the subject doesn’t bother me.

But in reality? My panic is growing because this man has already framed the situation, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he put one of his lapdogs at my house. I’m not the only one working for him. There are dozens of desperate people like me who need money. I carefully avoid getting close to the subject of the car in my neighborhood. For the first time in my life, I regret that I don’t have Thomas’s number. I could warn him to stay away, at least for a while. I don’t know how I’d explain to him how I know paparazzi follow him, but at least I could keep the situation from getting out of hand.

“You didn’t win the contest. I checked the names when I saw your article. Do you think I’m an idiot?” He raises his voice slightly and then immediately composes himself when he realizes that the people around us have begun to stare.

“No, Ron, but I don’t really know what to tell you. I don’t know them.” I shrug and look at him with indifference.

Ron studies me for a while with his jaw rhythmically twitching. He’s furious. “Okay, look,” he says, settling in his chair and inhaling deeply, lowering his gaze before lifting it to mine. “You want to raise the price? I understand that. It’s not like I’m asking you for something small. You’re fucking a great piece of a guy. Not everyone gets this lucky. It shouldn’t be hard for a nice piece of ass like you to slip into his bed. Anyway, if you do this, I promise you’ll have enough money to pay for your mother’s clinic for at least a year...plus all the other bills and hospital bills. In other words, I don’t think your economic problem has exactly disappeared, right?”

Nausea takes over my stomach so fast I find it difficult to swallow the bite of a sandwich I took a few seconds ago. I don’t know if I’m more scared that he knows the amount of my debts—and that I don’t even have medical insurance—or that he thinks I would really prostitute myself to give him the scoop he wants.

“Let me understand. Since when have you become a pimp who places prostitutes in clients’ beds? Because I think this is what you’re proposing.”

The sneer on his face is nothing short of creepy. “Don’t act like a saint with me. I know you need money, and a fuck is no big deal.” His insult isn’t even remotely veiled.

I tilt my head to the side and smile coldly. So much so that for a moment, I surprise him and his facade falters for a second before recomposing. “Let’s get one thing clear here, Ron. I’ve already told you I don’t know them, but even if I did, they’re not for sale. My ethics aren’t for sale. My mother is not for sale. And don’t you dare use your filthy mouth to talk about her again. Have I been clear? Go crawl back into the sewer hole you came out of,” I hiss with a coldness that is the complete opposite of the hot anger I feel.

Ron looks at me for a few seconds, then leans slightly on the table and stares into my eyes. “Remember that you are no one. Even if your blog does have all those visits, it’s not because of your mediocre writing, it’s because someone famous who wants to get into your pants took the easy way to get your legs open. You’re in debt. Sooner or later, you’re going to come back to me on your knees, and then I’m going to dictate the rules and the price, and I’m not going to be as generous as I’ve been now,” he slithers in my ear as he gets up to leave the café.

The exact moment I see him turning the corner, I start breathing again. My hands begin to tremble with tension, and his words ring in my ears. I’m not mediocre. I put my body and soul into my blog, and I know I’m doing it right. I have studied, I have committed, I take care of it down to the smallest detail. I am not who Ron says I am.

I turn to Ian, motioning that I need a paper bag. He gives it to me with a smile. I put my unfinished lunch inside and head toward the subway as fast as my legs will take me.

*

Sitting on the steps leading up to my apartment is Thomas. He’s looking down, clenching his fists. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but something’s wrong, and after meeting Ron an hour ago, nausea rises in my stomach even before I know what the hell happened. His driver, leaning against the car with the darkened glass parked a few meters ahead, seems ready to take off just in case. It’s all wrong, and my heart sinks deeper and deeper into guilt and fear of losing him.

“Is it true?” he asks as soon as I reach him. His expression and posture are serious as he gets up and walks toward me, but not close enough to touch me.

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