Page 40 of Paparazzi

I burst out laughing, and then grimace in pain when my ribs remind me that certain things have not yet been able to heal. “No, I’m not in trouble. Not everyone who needs money is in trouble...sometimes, life just puts you in situations where you have no choice. Or rather, you can only choose between bad and worse. I’m not a bad person, you have to believe me, and I never hung out with Thomas for personal profit. I turned down giving him my phone number several times, for Christ’s sake, because I didn’t want to mess up our relationship. I realize I don’t have the luxury of having a normal relationship with someone like him. I know it could never work. But I took the chance to dream about it for a while and paid the consequences.”

Lilly struggles to find the words to respond to my solemn little speech and I feel embarrassed confessing all of those things to her. “But you don’t have to worry about me and my work anymore. I can’t afford to do it now, given the condition of my camera.” I try to downplay it, but I’m sure my smile comes out like a bitter grimace.

“Is it that damaged?” she probes.

“It’s literally trashed, I have to throw it away,” I tell her, saying a quick goodbye and getting up to leave before the thought of a camera I don’t have the money to replace makes me burst into tears.

The air that hits me when I’m outside cools my cheeks, leaving a wet wake where the tears are coming down. The shop window next door is illuminated with the decorative lights of a Christmas tree. A smiling reindeer attracts customers with his red nose and a festive attitude that electrifies the season. But not for me. As much as I’ve always tried to be strong in life, this time, I don’t know how I’m going to get through it. That camera was how I survived. With the hospital bills looming, the idea of prostitution doesn’t seem all that crazy to me anymore.

Michael is the only one of us who never decided to buy a house here in New York. While Simon, Damian, and I needed something of our own—a retreat where we could stay when we’re in town—Michael prefers the perks and convenience of a hotel: presidential suites, room service, and discretion. He’s lived for a while at the Four Seasons, The Mandarin Oriental, and even the Plaza, but the tourists those places attract have made him opt for the Royal Suite at the Park Hyatt during the last few months.

I tip the guy who brought me through the private elevator, and I enter his living room, hoping Michael isn’t naked with a woman somewhere. Everyone in the band, including Evan, is on the guest list with access at any time, but I’m regretting not calling him before showing up. In all honesty, since Iris’s story exploded like a bomb in our lives, I’ve avoided him. I feel guilty about seeing her because I still have vivid memories of the photos of Michael unconscious inside the car in the underground parking lot: the model collapsed next to him, the coke strips on the dashboard. I remember the rush to the hospital like it was yesterday, with the model almost dying and the subsequent months in rehab for Michael. It was the worst time not only in our career as a band, but in our lives, when we, as his friends, didn’t realize how serious his addiction was. We always believed him. We always closed our eyes at his vices, thinking it was “rock star” life, but we didn’t fully understand how deep he was in it. Guilt has devoured me for months, and it came back after Iris’s betrayal.

“Michael, are you naked? Do I have to cover my eyes?” I shout when I don’t see him in the living room.

“I’m getting dressed! Damian’s the one who has to show off his dick every time he gets the chance, not me,” he jokes from the other room.

He joins me a few minutes later, wearing sweat pants and a short sleeve t-shirt, and sits on the couch in front of me. “Do you want a beer or whisky?”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning. Better make it a soda.” I raise an eyebrow scolding him as he stands again and approaches the bar. I’ll never get used to the unbridled luxury Michael loves to surround himself with.

“So why have you been avoiding me for three days? Is it because of the paparazzo thing? Iris?” he asks, handing me a Dr. Pepper.

“Can’t say you don’t get straight to the point.”

“Cut the bullshit and tell me why you’re here with that puppy-dog face.” One thing you can say about Michael, for better or for worse: he never beats around the bush. He’s a straight shooter and demands the same from you.

“I wanted to apologize for sleeping with Iris,” I admit.

“Was the sex so bad you felt the need to apologize even to me?” he teases me with a laugh.

“Come on, man. Be serious for once. I screwed up, and I’m apologizing.”

He looks at me with a puzzled gaze, as if he’s trying but can’t discern my intentions. “Because you sleep with a paparazzo? Unless she photographed your dick and sent it to every media outlet, I don’t see what the problem is, really.”

“She’s the one who took and sold the pictures of you and Kim in the garage. She’s not just any paparazzo. She hurt you and almost ruined our career!” Incredibly, I have to clarify these things with him.

Michael bursts out laughing, and the reaction both confuses me and makes me angry. “I know who Iris is, and when I meet her, I want to thank her.”

I’m dumbfounded, waiting for him to say more. Is he crazy?

“The one who risked ruining our career was me, not her. I started doing coke, and I crossed the line with that model. If Iris hadn’t been in that garage, if she hadn’t taken the pictures and then called the ambulance, I’d have died in that car. By selling those pictures, putting them in those magazines, she opened my eyes and slammed reality in my face. I thought I had the situation under control. I thought I could stop whenever I wanted, like I did with alcohol, but that wasn’t the case. I could never have gotten myself out of that shit I was in. Iris actually saved my life, and now that I have a face to go with the person I think of as my guardian angel, I want to thank her. And I should have had the balls to apologize to you for the mess I made.”

His confession leaves me stunned. I spent years hating the faceless paparazzo who took those pictures—and the whole group of them in general—and now he tells me it was all for nothing? “Do you know what happened to my family?” I ask him.

“You never told me.”

“Three days after the sentence that sent me to jail, my father died of a heart attack. He fought so hard to get me out of trouble that, when he couldn’t, his heart literally gave out by breaking in two. My mother let herself go that day. Within a week, she had lost her son and husband, and in a couple of months, she fell ill with cancer. Maybe that would have happened anyway, but she didn’t fight it. She let herself die while I was in prison, when I couldn’t do anything. My sister stood by her when I couldn’t. She died a year later. I couldn’t even go to her funeral. When I got out of prison, I found out my sister had completely disowned me. After years and an avalanche of money in private investigators, I discovered she had moved to Australia, changing her name and setting up a family, never letting me meet any of her children. I have three nieces or nephews, and I will never see them grow. I don’t even think they know I exist.”

“Wow, you never told me all of this,” Michael whispers.

“Women have never been sincere with me. They always took something from me—never gave me anything.”

“That’s bullshit.”

I turn to my friend and glare at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know it’s not true. Rita took everything you had. She only wanted to use you. But Iris is the exact opposite: she tried to stay away from you because she didn’t want you to think she was using you. Iris gave me my life back, and she gave you back a friend you’d been losing over time. And honestly, she also gave you some happiness that you never had. Have you even paused to think about how happy you’ve been lately? Everyone can see it!”

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