PAPARAZZI - h.s.

7

[harry’s pov]

“It’s something that comes with the job. You know that,” I watched as she narrowed her dead attractive eyes at me and took another sip of her glass. She was so flawless, that it tickled in my fingertips to take up my camera and get those extra up close shots. Not for any magazine; though they would probably be worth a lot, no but simply because she was one of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen. In her dark dress against that fair smooth skin, the line of her red lipstick which was impossibly perfect still. The way her green eyes were a darker shade from the disgust towards me; but there was something else still.

That intention, which had made her wave at me to come in, was there too. Some fucked up and unexplainable glint of a mix between lust and utter disgust. It fascinated her to talk with me. I could see it and God how I wanted to capture it forever in a photo. But reaching out for my camera, which was still placed on the surface of the bar desk would mean my certain death.

“Oh so then you’re just a fucking prick on a daily basis? Or is that required of the job too?” Her cheeks were beautifully flushed from the struggle of not simply slapping me really hard right now, most likely. God she was bewitching. Had a smart mouth too and not to forget how disgustingly rich she was too.

For a second I imagined a parallel universe, where I hadn’t been a pap - and she would still have waved me over. Though with a more easy and playful smile suiting her lips so stunningly.

“We all do what we have to in order to survive, I guess,” I shrugged and in the following silence the bartender came to place my drink. I gave him a polite nod, while letting a hand through my still slightly wet hair from the drizzle outside.

As she didn’t answer I looked over at her again; her eyes were still resting on me, but the loathing had taken off a little. Just as I had imagined spilling the truth would work perfectly with this one.

“I’m saving up - for my own studio. Hell, I wouldn’t fucking do this for the rest of my life, I just need the easy money to get started,” it felt … weirdly nice to get that said out loud. Even though it was ironically to the motive of most of my paying shots; Naomi.

Liam would laugh his ass off if he knew I was sitting here telling Naomi Fay about my ‘future plans’ of photographing professionally. But he wasn’t here to laugh or joke or convince me to join him for another headless and intoxicating night in the city.

“And it’s impossible for you to get any other job?” Her words were rushed. She was running out of arguments.

“Why should I? The pay is a lot higher since I have practice with photographing - and besides that I work with something I love to do. You know I don’t only take shots of celebs; I think I’ve gotten more shots from just sitting and waiting than from the moments where the shots can pay off my bills. And it’s an acknowledged... practice. It would be stupid of me to do anything else than this,” I spoke with a slow confident voice, which usually won the discussions for me. Occasionally I tried with some trying smiles to ease off the tense atmosphere between us. Meanwhile she listened closely to my every word, with her eyes settled on the glass of her drink following the sight of her fingertip tracing lazy circles on the edge of the glass.

“And whether you like it or not; paps and stars live in symbiosis; you get the free press coverage and we can pay our bills. It might be rough and brutal, but the truth can’t be ignored,” I couldn’t take my eyes off her. As the soft jazz music shifted into something more French, Naomi’s eyes flew over the room as in recognition, as a smile spread across her lips to my surprise. It was an easy going and baffled grin, which reminded me of last summer, where she was taking a walk in Central Park and I had gotten some great shots of that very same grin.