Page 60 of Paparazzi

It’s her way of asking me if we’re a couple and, to be honest, I have no idea. I don’t know where we are, and I certainly won’t ask him. I’ve never been good at these things and, with someone as famous as Thomas, I’m afraid of seeming like a desperate fan looking for a chance to frame him.

I can’t answer her because we’re interrupted suddenly by Ron, who sits in front of us on the couch. We both turn to him, surprised. In my case, with my heart beating in my throat: how much did he hear of our conversation, exactly?

“What the hell are you doing here?” I hiss, annoyed by his invasion of my favorite place.

“A source told me that someone who looks a lot like the Jailbirds’ drummer came out of your house this morning. I knew you had opened your legs for him and, apparently, you’re still doing it. What can you tell me? Any juicy news about it? You must have had a conversation, I assume. With what I paid you for those photos, you owe me at least that,” he says with his usual lousy fake smile.

“How the hell did you get here so fast? Did you send someone, or did you spy on me in person?” I ask, and I realize that the latter assumption is the correct one. Otherwise, how did he get here exactly five minutes after me? Even if he had someone stationed down here, he could never have arrived so fast. The realization floors me—if he went to the trouble of hiding in my garage, then he knows much more than he’s letting on, and I may end up in that damn magazine of his soon.

“Don’t be difficult. I know you’re opening your legs for money. Do think I’m stupid? At least use that little body of yours to get me more details. Where does he come from? What did he do before he became famous? You’ve never wondered why there’s no information about those guys? There’s not a single piece of news about their past. It’s like they materialized here ten years ago and became rock stars instantly. You’ve never been curious to know who you’re really sleeping with?”

His sneer is so smug that I’m rendered speechless by his insinuations. Emily’s the one who rescues me. “Look, piece of shit, get out of my cafè or I’m going to call the police. In fact, I’m going to do more. I’m going to start making a scene right here, complete with tears and accusations. You won’t be able to show your face around Manhattan anymore.”

“Do you really think you’re scaring me? Everyone sues me. But don’t worry, if you two don’t collaborate, surely your friend will know how to help me.”

Emily and I look perplexed, and the sneer it brings to Ron’s face almost makes me shudder. He’s got something up his sleeve that I’m missing and it worries me. I get the feeling he’s not one but ten steps ahead of me, and all my happiness from a few minutes ago vanishes.

“Think about it, honey. Do you really think this fairy tale will last? He’s going to get tired of you and dump you like every girl he’s had. I, on the other hand, am always here, ready to shower you with money. Decide who you want to make an effort for.”

He turns around and leaves the cafè, followed by numerous intrigued and annoyed glances. His act of humiliating me did not go unnoticed.

“You okay?” Emily whispers.

“Yes...I was just thinking. What the hell did Ron mean ‘my friend’? Who the hell could he ask for help? Besides you and Albert, no one knows about us…” The uncertainty in my voice reflects the fear creeping into my stomach right now.

“In the last few days, Albert’s been asking questions about Thomas: if I know anything about him, if you’re together or something,” Emily says, frowning. “I thought he was just jealous because he’s had a crush on you for years, but after what Ron said... Didn’t he seem sure he knows something we don’t? Or is it just me?”

“Way too confident. What did you say to Albert? What was he asking for in particular?”

Emily shrugs and thinks about it for a few seconds. “If you’re sure what you’re doing. If you know anything about Thomas. The same things he asked on pizza night at your house. He was hoping to get some more information, I think, but I couldn’t give him much. First, because it’s none of his business, and secondly, because I don’t know much more about Thomas. Do you think I messed up?”

“Albert hasn’t been around since the day after our pizza night, and now I’m wondering if there’s something I missed about that night.”

“I remember you wanted to know if he had asked questions. Do you think we forgot about something we talked about because we were too drunk?”

“I don’t know. I have vague memories of that evening, but I distinctly remember he did not touch the tequila. Before we got drunk, you passed him the bottle. He sniffed it but made a face without touching it. I remember thinking: What a loser, he can’t even hold his liquor.”

“Do you think he got us drunk on purpose to make you talk about Thomas? It’s Albert. That seems to be a pretty elaborate plan even for him,” she asks me doubtfully, and it nags at me.

“Maybe he didn’t come over for that purpose, but he took advantage of the situation. I mean, he certainly put his nose in my laptop, but why clear the history and then leave the outgoing e-mails, with the tickets he forwarded to his personal e-mail? Why hide his research but not the fact that he was stealing my tickets?” I can’t put the puzzle together, and it irritates me almost physically.

“Do you think he’s hiding something from you?” Emily’s face gets serious and worried. “Or trying to protect you? Maybe he’s worried because you’re seeing someone you don’t know anything about because, to be honest, you don’t know much about Thomas and, from what you say, he seems too good to be true.”

Emily’s words awaken a thought that I’ve tried to silence several times: I always found it strange that no one knew anything about the band even before I knew him. We live in the age of the Internet, where if you’re famous, you can’t even go to the bathroom without half the world knowing. There’s something strange about not finding any information about their past.

“I don’t know, I don’t have a logical explanation for that evening, and it bothers me... Maybe it’s just me being paranoid because Ron’s staking out my house. When that slimeball’s around, I can’t even think clearly.”

“Do you think Ron found out that the photos you gave him were fake? Maybe he wants to make you pay.”

I raise my healthy shoulder and breathe deeply. “I don’t know. The Jailbirds’ manager issued a press release denying the breakup and as far as I know, the matter ended there.”

“Maybe he just wanted to scare you.” She tries to encourage me, but her voice doesn’t sound convinced.

Yes, maybe he just wanted me to capitulate, but it’s never that simple with Ron, and the doubt he insinuated starts digging into my brain and heart, making me worry. I grab the phone and try to call Albert, but he’s not answering. I have to deal with him and get some answers.

*

Not even an hour after seeing Ron, I’m back home with a notebook and a list of things about Thomas that I know from our conversations but never gave much thought to. I stare at a Google search page with a growing sense of guilt, even though I haven’t started digging for news about him yet. It annoys me to death because I want our relationship to be normal—to the extent that we have a relationship—but I need to know what information Ron can get even without my help. Thinking back to that night we got drunk, I could kick myself for telling Albert what I knew about Thomas just to get him to stop talking.

---