Page 43 of Paparazzi

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Be kind and Rock’n’Roll,

Iris

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I’m an idiot. Here he came back, despite my lies, and I managed to make him angry again with my refusal to accept help. I peek into the bag again. The camera is top of the line. I could never afford it, even if I saved for the next hundred years.

I walk to the door and thrust it open, ready to chase Thomas down the street, but I’m surprised to find him in front of me. “Sorry...I shouldn’t have treated you like that.” My voice sounds uncertain.

“And I shouldn’t have left like a little kid. Let’s start this conversation again and pretend I never brought you that camera?”

I invite him to come in, and he doesn’t think twice. He grabs Dexter, who seems invigorated by his presence, and takes him to his chest, cuddling him. He sits at the table, and I sit in front of him.

“I owe you an explanation.” I start.

“Yes, you owe me a lot of them.” His voice is not angry, it’s more like an observation.

“Do you want to ask me questions? I don’t know what you know about me.”

“Why are you doing this job?”

“Because I need money. More than just what it costs to live in Manhattan.”

“Do you have a drug problem or something?”

I burst out laughing, the pain in my ribs flaring up, but I hide the groan that closes my throat. “No, nothing illegal. Believe me.”

“Did you call the ambulance when you found Michael?”

I didn’t expect that question. I didn’t think anyone knew I did it. “Yes, when I realized the situation was serious, I left the garage and called the ambulance. I waited outside until they arrived and guided them to the floor where Michael was. When I saw the foam coming out of the girl’s mouth, I realized they didn’t just fall asleep in the car. She overdosed.”

“Why didn’t you take pictures of her in those conditions?”

“I took a lot of pictures, believe me, but I didn’t sell them. I was desperate, but I have a limit, too. I thought about what a mother would feel to see her daughter overdosed on the front pages of all the newspapers.”

“You had to be close to see those details.”

I see him tightening his jaw. He’s testing me, he wants to know the truth, and I owe him the truth this time. “I was next to their car door, but I decided to sell only those from afar with some reflections of the glass... I didn’t want the world to see that scene up close. Michael would never have survived the scandal after those photos.”

“Can you show them to me?”

I hesitate for a moment. I would never want to see pictures like that of someone I love.

“I’m sure,” he insists, noticing my hesitancy.

I get my laptop, access folders protected by two different passwords, and look for pictures of Michael. Thomas brings his hand to his mouth as he scrolls through dozens of photos I took but never sold. They’re raw, desperate, of two people who look like they’re dead. I see his eyes watering, and I can hear him clearing his throat before closing my laptop.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

I don’t know if he’s thanking me for showing him the pictures or not selling them. He is particularly shaken, and I prefer not to probe any further.

“Why don’t you move somewhere less expensive to live?”

“Because famous people live here, and I need this job.”

“Can’t you move to a city where the cost of living is lower? Where you can do a normal job and get a decent apartment without having to climb over drunk people to get to the front door?” The irritation in his voice is almost palpable.

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