Page 69 of Paparazzi

“It makes all the difference in the world. As wrong as you were, you didn’t intentionally hurt him. He may not want to talk to you anymore, but he needs to know you didn’t throw him under the bus on purpose. You owe it to him, and you owe it to yourself. Do you think he’s ever going to trust a woman again, after you pull something like that? He’ll never get close to anyone in his life again, and no one deserves to spend their whole life alone. If you want to do something for him, that’s the one thing you can do.”

Her reasoning opens a glimmer of hope in this situation that I hadn’t considered. I’ve thought several times about insisting on explaining to him how things went, but I’ve only thought about how it would make me feel. Now that Emily points out how he must have felt, I feel guilty for being so utterly selfish.

“Will you come with me?” I beg her. I don’t know if I can even stand in front of him.

*

The record company building is under siege by paparazzi. I recognize the faces of half the people who are crammed behind the barricade, hoping to get some pictures of the Jailbirds. I know they’ll be here for a meeting today. Everyone in the industry knows this. I’ve received at least five texts from different people asking me if I’ll be here today. Last night, the Jailbirds disappeared. None of them stayed in their own homes and were not seen anywhere in Manhattan. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were put on a private jet and flown to the other side of the world.

“We’ll never get in,” I tell Emily, who seems as puzzled as I am.

She seems to think about it, then takes me by the hand and drags me to one of the security guards at the entrance, a guy with a shaved head who’s so big he could hide another person under his jacket. His earpiece makes him look like an automaton, a robot that could destroy anyone trying to get past him with his bare hands.

“You can’t go in. Move behind the barriers like everyone else.”

Theman motions us to go back while spreading his arms in a protective stance toward those inside. I admire his determination. I’m sure that if this whole horde of paparazzi and journalists decides to break in, he’ll singlehandedly be able to stop them.

“She’s the one who sold the information that created this mess.”

I feel Emily’s words, strong and direct, like a punch to my stomach knocking out all the air in my lungs. What the hell is she thinking? Throwing me under the bus is not the best way to tell Thomas I didn’t sell that information. I look up at the man, who seems to study me resentfully, and I immediately understand where his loyalty lies.

He beckons his colleague to approach, says something to his ear, and receives a nod of consent. If I hadn’t been focused on their faces, I wouldn’t even have noticed his head move. He rests a hand on our shoulders, opens the door, and with his head beckons us to enter and follows us. He passes us and approaches the blonde receptionist who is probably a few years younger than me. I see her look up at us, then grab the phone and start talking fast to someone on the other end. Less than two minutes later, the elevator doors across the white, ultra-modern entrance open, letting out a middle-aged, grizzled, tall man in a dark blue suit that makes him look menacing. His square jaw clenches, his gray eyes slice through me like blades. He knows exactly who I am, and it makes my legs tremble.

“You can’t stay here.” His voice is calm and authoritarian at the same time. I wouldn’t be surprised if he opened his jacket and showed us a weapon under his fancy suit.

My voice, by comparison, comes out as uncertain as a little girl who knows she screwed up.“I just want to talk to Thomas, help him fix this mess. I can deny it, say I made it all up. Tell him that I’m sorry and that if I could go back, I wouldn’t fall like a fool into Albert’s trap.”

The man studies me for a few seconds, almost seems to weigh an answer, then opens his mouth, dropping the bomb on me calmly and impassively. “Mr. Simons’ lawyers will contact you, and you’ll have the opportunity to explain everything to them. Now you have to leave,” he says, nodding to the closest guard to approach.

His words penetrate my skin and freeze my blood. Until now, I hadn’t thought about the legal aspect of this, only the emotional. I’m numbed by the realization. The blood pulses in my ears, my mouth dries up, and I’m not sure I’m breathing regularly. My eyes are fixed on the white carpet under my feet; I haven’t blinked in I don’t know how long.

Emily’s voice brings me back to reality. “He’s literally in front of us. She only needs less than a minute.”

She’s begging the man. When I look up, in front of me I see the Jailbirds walking quickly to the elevator. It’s been two days since all hell broke loose, and Thomas seems unrecognizable. All of their faces are gloomy, but Thomas’s almost makes my legs give out. His eyes are reddened as if he’s cried or drunk to the point of exhaustion, and the dark circles around them show he hasn’t slept at all. His gray and sunken face behind the curls has never looked worse.

They ignore me, all of them. I’m sure they saw me because we’re the only people in the middle of the all-white entrance, but they’re walking fast to the elevator as the photographers behind us go wild. I can see flashes penetrating through the windows.

“It wasn’t me.” It comes out as a whisper that barely reaches my ears. I’m so paralyzed, I can’t even scream. But Emily’s doing it for me.

“Thomas, it wasn’t Iris who sold the information!” she shouts as the doors are closing, and I see him lowering his head with his eyes fixed on the floor.

The guard grabs us both by the elbow with a light but decisive gesture and escorts us out the door, where another rapid sequence of flashes hits us, and people start asking us questions about why we were in there. We don’t answer, walking quickly to the building corner and slipping into a side street.

“Are you okay?” Emily asks me worriedly.

I don’t know if I could faint or throw up right now. “I have to find myself a lawyer,” I whisper, looking at my hands visibly shaking.

“Yes, I think so. I can ask around if there’s anyone who can help you.”

I nod without really thinking about her words, though I do notice my friend seems to have lost her characteristic enthusiasm and positivity.

*

I enter the editorial room of Ron’s magazine, invigorated by anger. Emily is behind me, just as angry as I am. By their looks, I’m sure people are thinking I’m crazy as I walk like a bulldozer among the desks, glaring at anything and anyone in my path. I see Ron’s office behind the glass across the room and, when I furiously open the door, he gives me a look that’s at first surprised, then amused.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he teases me.

I grab the papers lying on his desk and throw them across the room, but he barely registers a reaction.

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