This was a two-part shot, and it was the second one that was most valuable. The swarm of photographers waited like hyenas to pounce on the prey.
Willing prey, mind you.
Soon, she was on her way out, a massive handbag dangling on her arm, and a venti drink of some variety in her other hand. Her shades were high on her head.
“What are you drinking, Monica?” someone called out.
“Soy chai latte,” she replied when she spotted the questioner–the dude with the soul-patch. She pretended to point at something beyond him, brandishing a huge smile as if to say Hey, look at that adorable bit of absolutely nothing that I’m pretending to admire for the camera.
I snapped more pictures of her, capturing the happily staged point, then the lowering of the shades as she continued to smirk, then the first cold taste of soy chai deliciousness on her bee-stung lips.
A driver held open the car door and she slid into the backseat. The show was over as quickly as it had begun. This woman gave new meaning to the phrase wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am with the way she played every move for the gossip rags.
As soon as the car turned into noontime traffic, I dug my phone from my pocket and rang J.P. I wanted to let him know that I’d pulled off today’s shoot far better than yesterday’s.
“J.P. here,” he said gruffly as I raced into the shop.
“Hey, it’s William. I got the shot.”
“Yeah? Where is it?”
“I’m heading into Starbucks right now to get on the wifi and send to you.”
“You do that,” he said, and he sounded distracted. Or disinterested. The latter was more concerning.
“It’s a great shot,” I said, keeping up the conversation as I snagged a chair.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Just get moving and send it to me. The first to post is the first to gloat,” he said. “And yes, I do know that doesn’t rhyme but it’s close enough.”
“Indeed it is,” I said, as I grabbed my iPad and sank into a chair. “Hey, so I was just curious. How did you know Monica Tremaine was going to be here?”
I was greeted by silence. Dead silence, and my heart dropped for a second. Had I pissed off J.P.? I hoped to hell not. I needed this man on my side.
“Seriously?” he finally said, his voice doing a fantastic impression of the adjective irritated. I could practically see him rolling his eyes.
“Well, yes,” I said. “Seriously.”
“Her PR firm puts out an alert for her. She wants to be shot. That’s why the photo is only worth a few bucks. Now, send that bad boy to me, and stop asking questions that make you look like a noob.”
Noob.
As he ended the call, I fired up my photo software, downloaded the pics, and sent them off to J.P. I was tempted to add a line to the email that said, “I was just kidding. Of course I knew that.”
But then I really would look like the noob I was. And who wants to be a noob?
Besides, I had other masters to answer to, like the name blasting now on my phone. Uncle James. Grabbing my iPad, backpack and phone, I scurried out of the Starbucks and back onto the street. A woman in red high heels walking a miniature poodle with a black and white polka dot collar glared at me for nearly knocking into her.
“Sorry,” I muttered to her, as I answered the phone. “Hey James.”
“Give me the good news,” he said, not bothering with hello. The man really took crassness to a new level. “Are you getting the intel?”
“I’m working on it,” I said. “I’m getting some good shots.”
“Shots? I need more than shots. Shots aren’t good enough, kid.”
“Yes, of course. That’s all part of the plan. More than shots,” I added, bristling at the condescending name he used for me. Kid. For some reason, it bothered me more than noob.
“When will these ‘more than shots’ be coming? Because you did fine managing the records, but if you expect anything more from me, I’m going to need more from you,” he said. “That’s the way it goes here.”
James, an American, had married my mum’s sister many years ago, a pairing that sent her out of merry old England and setting up home here. He’d been running his firm for more than a decade and had built a respectable business in Southern California. But even though I’d been in the States for nearly two years and wasn’t just job-hungry–I was job-starving–he’d refused to send me work for the longest time. I didn’t want to beg him for help; I wanted to be my own man. But finally, Matthew called our mum, who called her sister, who narrowed her eyes and told James to stop being a prick and help out her nephew. After all, James was in the rare position of being in charge of hiring for an American company, so that made him a prize as far as my American job-hunting connections went. He begrudgingly hired me for a little work here and there doing computer maintenance, then handling the databases, then managing a long list of names for an upcoming project, and I’d been fortunate enough when he moved me into field work. I crossed my fingers that the field work would turn full-time, and that he’d sponsor me for a visa. But there were no promises. There never were with James. He’d always been a bit of a dick. But he was family, so he was the family dick. At least he wasn’t a Harrigan. Some small solace.
“Soon, very soon. I promise,” I said.
“I am a fan of very soon. I am not a fan of soon. That clear?”
I bit back my annoyance. “Very soon it will be,” I said.