PAPARAZZI - h.s.

3

[naomi’s pov]

 

My blood was on fire, as the image painfully kept repeating before my eyes.

"I swear this time - Enfoirés! Des abrutis sans coeur! Bloody pricks!” I walked back and forth in the room, as my male manager kept trying to calm me down. The gossip magazine was already on the floor with the front page facing upwards. With that horrendous title; HOLLYWOOD’S WEEPING ANGEL - Naomi Fay and boyfriend finally broke it off? It had casually been lying on a chair - someone must have forgotten it, but it was too late by now to be undone.

 

I wanted to let my hand through my hair desperately, but remembered it had been styled to perfection and was stiff with the sticky, sparkling hairspray. The scent of it was still everywhere filling my lungs. Instead I threw my hand up into the air, while pacing back and forth over the old wooden floor, continuing to swear in French.

 

We were at a photoshoot for some stupid fashion magazine - Vogue or ELLE or god knows which one it was this time! A beautiful crystal chandelier was hanging from the ceiling in both rooms, so was giant gold framed mirrors and furniture which seemed to belong in either a castle or museum. The Plaza hotel - what a place for a shooting - though I couldn't care less at the moment. I wanted to put my hands around the neck of that pap who... My long heavy designer dress with no straps was uncomfortably tight, as I put my hands in the side and tried to control myself and my breath, so I wouldn’t end up ruining the layer of makeup. Don't you dare cry.

Though it would be tears of exhaustion and glowingly red burning anger.

 

I stopped up facing the ceiling, trying desperately to pull it all together. My life. My career. My love life. With a despairing sight I felt breathless; “And you know how I really fucking hate dresses.”

 

“I know, I know - I didn’t want to show you the magazine till after the shoot.” My manager tried talking some sense back into me. Hell that would have been nice - right now I had to try and smile before another freaking camera, when the reason for my rage was another camera - in the hands of some pap creep - and the fact that my world had come crumbling down yesterday, which the pap had gotten that perfect shoot of.

 

How dared they! How dared they stalking me - probably waiting all the freaking night in front of his place just to get some shots of me! Connards! How long had I been out there waiting in the street? 4 minutes? 5 maybe? And they had still watched me - spent all that time just to see me in 4 minutes crying my eyes out so they could photograph it for the world to see. Animales.

 

I looked up at my manager with his soft comforting green blue eyes resting on me. He was wearing his usual black blazer over a t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his wild brown hair was styled perfectly messy as usual. He had recently started to get facial hair, which made him look even more mature - even more professional, which I had to be too right now. Get yourself together.

 

“It’s my fault - I should have waited inside for you to pick me up,” I spoke defeated - it wasn’t as much the stalking part that bothered me. It was having your private life exposed on the frontside of a magazine that pissed me off. Though I was angry with myself mostly. For being so incredibly stupid. This was to be expected from the paps honestly. But he had been driving me insane! With his constant lies and apologizes. And his stupid British accent which I hated more than anything right now - I just had had to get out of that apartment yesterday morning. His constant talk about not feeling inspired to work, that he was missing something. But why would he go to another woman in a try to get that? Why did he think it justified what he had done?
Piqûre égoïste.

 

I turned to look at my manager again, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to freak out. It’s just everything with Patrick - and these days have just been so hectic you know?” I tried controlling my voice. He looked up from his phone, which he was tapping on - probably keeping track of my stuffed calendar.

 

“Firstly - it’s not your fault. Secondly - you look absolutely hot in that picture anyway to be honest. Thirdly - you definitely do not need that heartless betraying prick being Patrick in your life! Seriously Naomi you’re on top of the world right now. You know who just called me up half an hour ago? Woody Allen’s people! That’s right! He got this new movie and apparently he practically wrote the role for you to play it,” he grabbed me on both sides and looked into my eyes with a ‘you’re-a-strong-independent-woman’ kind of look.

I sighed and looked down at the beautiful bird tattoo on his right arm. For how many years had he not been my friend? For how long had he not been there to support me? I had known him long enough to follow the process of him filling up his right arm with tattoo after tattoo. They suited him. They were like children’s drawings. The skater stickman was my favorite - he had gotten that one in Camden, London. I smiled slightly at the memory, and at his caress.

Lastly he pulled me into a hug, “but yes you are right. You should have stayed indoor till we got the car ready to pick up your silly ass. You silly beautiful mess. Next time remember that okay? No matter how pissed off you are. No matter if you feel like ripping his head off. Or well - in that case you should just do it actually - the ripping I mean.” I couldn’t help chuckle at his pep talk.  

 

In the other room  the sound of photos being snapped was heard, accompanied by the sharp light of the flashes. To make sure the light was perfect and all that technology stuff I knew nothing about. There was so much in the world I had no knowlegde about - but yet here I was. At a photoshoot in the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan in a glittering designer dress worthy of the Oscar show's red carpet.

 

“I need a vacation. Soon. Isn’t there some of the Parisian instructors who got something I can participate in? Anything will do! As long as it’s a minor production. Some weeks in Paris - I’m sure that could help clearing my mind after this. Please?” I made my best puppy eyes at the tattooed wonder in front of me, even going as far as pouting. He flashed a smile at me, a giggle escaping his beautiful warm soul. This was not the first time I had begged him to find something for me in Paris. It would be a much needed vacation. Just to get away from this entire continent. With their horrible coffee and croissants. And the American paps. Urgh.

 

“Yes. Yes! Okay! I’ll see what I can work out. Then you have to make this photoshoot your best okay?” He shook his head lightly over my silliness - though we both knew I in the very last end had the final call to make. I was the one in charge of my career - he just helped me on the way. I kissed him lightly on his cheek and gave him a serious look.

 

“Okay. Let’s get this damn shoot over with. And afterwards we’re gonna get the biggest bagels we can find - and some Ben and Jerry. And a pack of Gauloises,” I stated with new strength, even managing to sent him a smile.

“That’s my girl! Now go and … and work that dress! Or whatever you female creatures call it!” And he gave me a smile, as if he understood my fight. As if he knew he was watching a girl with a broken heart putting on a brave face in her thousand dollar designer dress, with the eyes of the world resting upon her to see that very smile.

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a/n: sorry I didn't get to update yesterday :c hope this early update will make up for it :) Hugs and love to you -- I hope you liked this chapter yay ^^ [btw this story will mostly be written from Harry's pov]