Page 7 of A Crazy Kind of Love
But I’d seen how the sausage was made. Some of the gossip sites posted total lies, and everyone knew it. At least Andy made us track down actual stories. He liked our newspaper to be a reliable source of trash. Granted, he considered speculative journalism to be an offshoot of the truth. “Are they dating?” is a close enough hand grenade.
As streetlights began to pool soft circles on the sidewalk, other paps appeared and set up their equipment. I stood and put away my phone, checking my camera to make sure I’d be all ready to do my job.
Before long, the first car pulled up. Immediately, two walls of cameras created a kind of arched entrance for whoever would emerge. A young girl with long sleek blond hair climbed out and blinked. A few cameras clicked, but the whispers grew like an oncoming wave. “Who is she? Does anyone know who that is?”
Still the cameras flashed—just in case. I hated night shots. It was bad enough I had to get in people’s faces in broad daylight, but at night, I had to blind them, too.
The girl swept up the steps and in through the front door. Nobody had figured out the identity of the first fish out of the sea. She was probably nobody. Most everyone would be a nobody.
With the excitement over, the camera wall broke into its individual pieces. The others uploaded photos and texted like crazy to see if anyone would recognize the girl with the long, blond hair. I did the same.
Andy texted,That’s Victoria Sedgwick. She’s a hanger-on. Don’t worry about her.Andy had worked so many events over the years, he was a font of expertise on even the lowest ranks of the wannabes.
The levels of celebrity were nothing compared to the levels of nobody-ness. Hangers-on, fans, friends, managers, reporters . . . As a gossip page photographer, I didn’t even rate as an A-list nobody. And that was fine by me. I’d much rather be on this side of the camera.
To kill time, I looked through the pictures I’d shot to make sure the lighting was good. Victoria Sedgwick flashed by like those cartoon images animated by flipping the pages of a book. She was still one moment, and then the forward button sent her into spectacular motion. It was hard not to envy the elite. Victoria had the kind of stunning beauty money could buy. Her shoes alone probably cost more than I was willing to spend on the new laptop I sorely needed. And yet she didn’t merit the storage she took up on my camera. These photos would get archived and forgotten.
After working in this field awhile, I’d become somewhat inured to how fast the interest in someone dropped off the further they got from the center of the celebrity Tootsie Pop. In most contexts, a girl like Victoria would command the room, but here, she didn’t elicit another thought—not unless she came in on the arm of someone famous. The paps around me were hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the big names. If someone like Adam Copeland or even Micah Sinclair appeared, the frenzy would begin. But someone as close as Adam’s mom could show up, and nobody would care.
Then again, Micah’s sister . . .
“Eden Sinclair!” The guy to my left practically shouted a whisper, and I looked up, thinking he’d read my mind. But in fact, Micah’s sister was walking quickly down the sidewalk, head down. And she was alone.
I aimed my camera and started bursting the shot. But as soon as the camerasclick-clicked,she put her hand up, palm out, blocking a clear view of her face. The guy to my left shouted, “Eden, where’s Adam? Is he on his way?”
Another voice raised above the din. “Is Adam already inside? Why are you alone? Is everything good with Adam?”
The questions overlapped. “Eden, have you and Adam set a date yet? When are you going to finally tie the knot? Where’s Adam? Have you set a date?Have you set a date?” It was a chaotic song with a repeating refrain.
I framed her in my shot and zoomed in on her, watching her once removed through the lens. I’d never seen her before in person. She had a song that played on the radio a little, but she was more well-known for her connection to her boyfriend. She was surprisingly small, maybe five-three if that. Her dark hair contrasted with her porcelain skin. Her clothes were also all black, and there was a tear in her jeans at the knee. She wasn’t beautiful in the same way as Victoria Sedgwick, but I’d noticed no matter how traditionally attractive people were, if they had charisma, they were always compelling. Eden was captivating.
She closed in on me and threw a glance my way. Her dark eyes flashed anger at me as though I was the one bombarding her with questions she clearly wouldn’t answer. She tossed her mess of black hair back and took the steps two at a time up to the front door, and I heaved a sigh. If looks could kill, I’d be lying in a chalk outline on a Brooklyn sidewalk.
“Boy, she’s really nothing like her brother,” I muttered.
The guy to my left laughed. “Can’t really blame her.” He pointed at my credentials. “You work for Andy Dickson, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“You’re public enemy number one around here. Persona non grata.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Preaching to the choir.”
He looked somewhat familiar to me, but I hadn’t formally met every single pap in Manhattan. “What’s your name?”
He rested his camera against his beer belly and reached in his back pocket for an overstuffed, cracked leather wallet. With one hand cradling the camera and the other manipulating the wallet, he managed to slip out a bent business card with nothing on it but his name and phone number. Why couldn’t he just say “Wally”?
I thanked him for the card and handed him my own. “I’m Jo. It’s nice to meet you. Have you been doing this long?”
Rather than answer, he hoisted his camera up. Another car slowed in front of the townhouse. This time a driver stepped out and came around to the side. Out stepped a man I didn’t recognize, but the paps closed in, questions flying, cameras clicking. I dutifully crammed in and flashed directly in his face before he ducked his head and bounded up the stairs. I uploaded the picture for Andy to decipher.
More people rolled in, either on foot or via personal motorcade. The feeding frenzy intensified as the level of fame increased. Some celebrities disappeared as quickly as possible. Others walked the runway, stopping to give the photographers ample time to capture them, only answering questions about whichever project they wanted to publicize.
By the time Micah Sinclair emerged from a black sedan, tall and confident, voices had reached fever pitch.
“Micah, over here!”
