Shooting Stars (25 page)

The next Saturday, still queasy over the Bitchworth incident, I am back at Heigl's. Her publicist hasn't called about Cabo, which makes me feel foolish more than anything. (As much as Aaron has warned me against it, I'll admit I was starting to feel like one of them.)

To add insult to injury, when I rock up this morning to Heigl's, there are ten other paps. Last weekend, I was alone. I guess everyone had the same idea when they saw my mani-pedi set, and StarNP got pictures of her sister's wedding, which apparently happened later that same day.

“You got scooped,” Bartlet barks when he phones for his morning check-in. “You should have stayed on.”

“She gave me enough at the salon,” I respond defensively. “Besides, I wouldn't have crashed her sister's wedding.”

“Well, you lost money because of it. StarNP's pictures went all over. And now Heigl's gangbang material, so deal with it.” Bartlet goes on to say that he read Katherine prefers to stay in on the weekends and “make love” (he doesn't use this term) with her fiancé, so she's probably not coming out.

Ulysses Bartlet is an interesting guy. Over the phone, he's a commander. His directives are precise and stalwart, and he's usually right. He could lead an army or a ship with his voice or, like Charlie, a kick-ass trio of girl detectives. His deep, punctuated British accent never wavers or bends, and though he's thirty-three and technically younger than me, he sounds like a middle-aged man. Bartlet doesn't have misconceptions about the business being slimy or feel the need to stroke his “journalistic integrity”
like other agency owners do. He cares only that the money is good. His expectations are high, and though he suffers from a severe case of Tall Poppy Syndrome, he's empowering as long as he has the upper hand. For these reasons I like him, as does most of the staff. Which is why we all deal with his crass remarks.

Bartlet was wrong. Heigl comes out around one. Her gangbang is ready. Ten cars fall into line behind the red Range. I am first. Normally, on a gangbang follow, female paps almost always get pushed to the back; however, the paparazzi are moving into my territory cautiously. They know Katherine is
mine
.

The reason men don't like women in the lead is because they think we aren't gonna keep up. Aggressive protocol goes along with multi-car follows such as this one, and it's important that the cars at the lead are staying close to the celebrity's car by popping all possible lights and blocking out “foreign” cars, i.e. cars not related to the follow. Otherwise, the cars at the back of the follow will never keep up.

As the first car behind Heigl, I need to get my camera ready. Today's lens choice is unclear. It's Katie, whom we “respect,” so we want to “go long”—she will give everyone time to shoot—but with so many paps, can we stay out of each other's frames?

Katherine stops at the Rite Aid in Los Feliz. She has a baseball cap pulled low on her head, which I've never seen her do, and she pauses before entering the store to tell us she's sick. We all have on long lenses and shoot her entering and exiting, but the shots are mostly worthless—you can't see her eyes.

Back to our cars, we follow her to a magazine stand on Vermont and Melbourne. Heigl takes her time browsing and soon lifts her head and smiles. She must be thinking about the prospect of so many of us leaving with nothing. She'd feel guilty if she wasted our day.

There are ten of us crowded on the small sidewalk. It's an obvious short-and-flash photo-op, but everyone has long-lensed it so they are getting extreme close-ups, less than desirable as they tell less of a story. I've “shorted it” but without a flash to make it “look long.” (It's the “flash” of
the short-and-flash that is considered rude. By putting the short lens on my camera, I can get wide-angle frames showing Katie is magazine shopping but still give her “respect.”) While we huddle around the newsstand, I call out instructions—“Give her space,” “Watch out, guys,” “Back up—she's sick.” I hate it when paps do this—act like they own the celebrity—but I can't help myself. Amazingly, they listen to me. Everyone is on their best behavior.

Nearer to her than the others since I'm on a short, I whisper, “If you ever want to avoid us, exit right, the long way out your subdivision. No one will see you.”

She doesn't respond or seem to process my comment in the moment. And, I would miss her too if she did that, but the tables are turning and it's time Katie learned the game.

My frames outsell the competition's. I'm learning the game too.

* * *

Aaron and I have been distant for a month now, and it's been good. We talk only when work necessitates. We have barely seen each other, and my self-esteem has risen.

Word on the street is that he and Claudia despise each other. I don't want to know the details, so I don't ask.

Today, Aaron calls to see if I want to get a couple's massage, his treat.

I am obviously not going to pass up a free massage. And since for the coming weekend I've already purchased two tickets to Josh Kelley's concert, I invite Aaron to go along. I don't know many of the songs sung by Heigl's fiancé, but since she does so much for me, the least I can do is be a Josh Kelley fan.

Date night arrives, and we meet at Aaron's apartment. The moment I lay eyes on him, I realize I've missed him. I can tell he feels the same.

We start with a Thai massage on Abbot Kinney, the fashionable street in Venice Beach; then stroll to a perfectly lit restaurant where we have dinner. “This feels like a date,” I say.

He responds by wrapping his fingers around mine.

When we get to the Troubadour, a historic concert venue in West Hollywood, Aaron holds me from behind as we listen to Josh and sway to the music. It's so natural, so comfortable being in his arms. When the show is over, we make a point to find Katherine. We didn't bring our cameras inside and need her to see that. Aaron says it's important in celeb/pap relationships to
not
photograph them sometimes. He says it gives them some power back and humanizes us.

Katie greets me with a giant bear hug and thanks me for coming. I gush over Josh, who
was
truly fantastic, and her neighbor Martin says hello to me, reminding me that we met once outside Katie's house. The girlfriend who was with her on the mani-pedi day smiles at me too. Seems I know all of Katie's friends who are here.

This is the first time I've been in a level social setting with a celebrity and her entourage. Honestly, it feels no different than if I were talking to any other interesting new acquaintances.

Drink in hand, Heigl is in a fabulous mood and doesn't seem to care whether I've brought in my camera or not. The others are a bit more perplexed at how this paparazzi thing works and appear to be peering into my purse expecting me to bring out the guns. I hang with Katie's crowd for about five minutes until I feel like one of the gang. Sensing that, Aaron gently escorts me back to the car where he reminds me, “You're not one of them. She's not your friend.” (He makes me repeat it back. I am begrudgingly thankful for the reminder.)

The night ends as picture-perfectly as it began. We snuggle on the sofa. Aaron caresses my face with his hands, then moves down my body.

“Let's not rush things,” he says. “We'll have plenty of time.”

Jennifer, I say silently to myself, Aaron will never love you. Remember what it is you really want in this world.

I repeat it.

And again.

* * *

I don't sleep with Aaron that night, nor do I sleep over. I know those are unwise choices for “attachment” reasons. A few days later, my prudence pays off.

The incident occurs at a kids' swing set store in Calabasas and doesn't seem like that big of a deal at the time. It is a Britney gangbang, but with only a dozen of us, very manageable.

There is plenty of parking in the dirt lot across from the store, and along with a few others I walk across the lot toward Britney's slow-circling vehicle when I happen in front of John, a British guy from West Coast Wing who is visibly upset that he is last in line on the follow and is not yet out of his car.

“Get out of the road, bitch,” he yells, leaning his skinny frame out his giant SUV. John has a soft, young face so he has to bark extra loud to be taken seriously.

Obviously, I should ignore him, but “Fuck you!” spews from my mouth, and for extra spite, I slap his window as I pass his car.

John's passenger, Adnan (the pap who would soon have his first date with Britney), reciprocates with a “Fuck you!” back at me.

Now, normally, I'd ignore this exchange—worse happens—but Adnan and I have become friendly acquaintances, and although John never talks to me, he is friends with my CXN coworkers. During a lull a few minutes later as we were waiting on Britney, I ask non-confrontationally, “What was going on there, guys?”

“Go fuck yourself, bitch” is their general response, and suddenly sensing that Tall Poppy Syndrome has them in its grip, I don't say anything further.

We shoot Britney, then follow her back home.

Two hours later, she comes out again. This time she has a larger entourage in tow, but she never gets out of the car—she just goes for a drive down Robertson to pick up more paps, around Beverly Hills three times, and back home. Now parked beside thirty cars on the shoulder of Mulholland, I am in my car when the phone rings.

J.R. is speaking as fast as I've ever heard him speak: “I've fielded several phone calls about you today, and I'm tired of it.”

“What are you talking about?”

He goes on to say that if I don't leave Britney's right then, the threat on the street is that any and every CXN shooter will be blocked when working on her in the future.

“I can't have you fucking it up for my staff,” he slurs.

Many of his words are unintelligible, but what I am able to piece together is that John and Adnan have corralled their friends into calling CXN and “telling on me.” I don't know what they said—truth or lies—and I realize this sounds like grammar school, but tears well up anyway. I am really upset that they would stoop to such low tactics for such little payoff. But more importantly, I am stung deeply by J.R.'s reaction. What boss doesn't stick up for his worker to some snitch paps with little to go on, especially a worker who gets to the job on time, who's responsible and responsive, and who frankly nails it more often than most of the salaried staff?

When we hang up, Bartlet calls a minute later. In a tough-love attempt at sympathy, he tells me to ignore J.R., quit crying, and “more than anything…don't let
them
see you cry.”

Which, I realize, is just what they need to see. I hang up, and with a red, tear-stained face, walk over to a large unkindness of ravens. John and Adnan aren't there, but enough witnesses from the swing set store are. They fall silent, immediately giving me full attention.

“I need a break.” No one moves when the tears reemerge and I am unable to speak for ten seconds. I continue. “I shoot well. I drive well. I know what I'm doing. You don't have to like me, but you all need to lighten up.”

Heads stay low and voices quiet as I walk back to my car. The group quickly disperses, and a couple of guys murmur “sorry” under their breath as they pass my car window. One even leans in to pat my shoulder. I know this group, made up of mostly Rodeo2 Brazilians, are not the culprits, but I know word will make it back to those who are.

Nextels spread gossip as fast as chirps through a cicada field, and my phone starts ringing. I ignore most calls but answer Aaron's.

“Are you OK, babe? What happened?”

I start to cry again.

“No tears. I'll be right up to sort it out.”

It takes him fifteen minutes to get to Brit's estate on the edge of the Valley, and he greets me with his usual I'll-take-care-of-everything hug (and even a little kiss). He listens patiently as I tell him exactly what happened.

“I'll go talk to them,” he says like a man.

He will punch them, I think. At the very least, berate them in my defense.

From the car, I watch as he walks up to John and Adnan, gives them high-fives, and offers them a handful of sunflower seeds. Ten minutes later, he returns with a big grin and word from the enemy, “So, here's the deal: John just doesn't like you. You're gonna have to live with it.”

My heart stiffens. Ice shoots through my veins. I am furious and it shows.

“What! And that's an acceptable reason for you?”

Aaron's brush-off response is, “What do you want me to do about it? It's not my fault. Stop having a go at me.”

What did I really expect from him? Beginning to cry again, I ask him to leave. And he does.

On my way home, I Nextel Simon and tell him the story. “What've I told you, Jen?
No one
is your friend in this business.”

“But
you're
my friend. You would have stuck up for me, wouldn't you have?”

Simon stews on that for a while. Then he comes out with, “I do like ya luv, but really, I barely know ya. It's been less than a year.”

And that's when I truly realize how alone I am in this business—and how this business probably isn't all that different from any other industry. Few people in our world today stick their necks out to right a wrong, regardless of whether it's for a friend or a stranger. The paparazzi are no exception.