Contents
1 – One Snowy Night
2 – Pom Poms and the Paparazzi
3 – A Camera Full Of Gold Dust
4 – Skating On Thin Ice
5 – Cake In November
6 – Building A Snowman
7 – It’s A Blizzard Out There
8 – On The Wrong Side Of The Camera Again
9 – I’d Marry You Tomorrow
10 – One Year Later
Chapter One
One Snowy Night
‘I’d rather run off and join the circus than take a cheap handout of money from you!’
These were the last words I’d screamed at Finbar, the so–called love of my life, as he left me completely broke, financially and in every other way. I’d been unceremoniously dumped by my supposed one and only for his one of many.
In hindsight, fate proved to have a sense of humour, because here I was, standing in the centre of bedlam, in the heart of a media circus, otherwise known as a New York newspaper office. One year on, I’d left Dublin city behind and was working in the Big Apple. Though for how much longer I’d actually be employed as a journalist was open to debate.
‘Phred! Where the hell is that editorial?’
Ah, the call of the ringmaster. Royce was the editor who cracked the whip in this particular circus. Then there were the high–wire acts performed by the well seasoned hacks precariously clinging on to their careers by their fingernails. No safety nets in this job.
Over near the window where some real daylight shone in mid–morning were the tenacious sub–editors whose cages you rattled at your peril.
Royce rushed out of his office and charged at me. Although he was from New York, he’d worked for a few years for the press in London, and that’s probably where he’d left any shred of finesse. He had a penchant for wearing classic shirts and waistcoats that suited his tall, lean build, and he sometimes wore a burgundy silk backed waistcoat that added to the ringmaster persona. He was also easy on the eye and fairly young in this particular arena. I’m in my late twenties and he’s early thirties, but he’d yet to tame the wild streak in me that made me rub his feathers up the wrong way at least once a day. But he liked me. He did. I kept telling myself that.
‘Sending it now,’ I said and pressed the send button on my computer.
Royce turned and charged back to his office.
Then he popped back out and said to me, ‘Is that your hat?’
I paused, jolted into replying, ‘Yes.’
He glared at me and shut the door again.
‘What’s wrong with my woolly hat? It’s freezing outside. I paid good money for it in Dublin.’
‘It’s just so not Manhattan,’ someone said.
I bit back any remarks and got on with my work. So not Manhattan. Grrr! I knew that my brightly coloured knitted hat with its pom poms and toggles wasn’t particularly fashionable, but I was the practical type. It was winter. I was in and out of the newspaper office all day (sometimes all night) chasing one deadline after another. My ears barely had time to defrost in the office before I was sent out again into the frostbitten city. In my world, a woolly hat, scarf, gloves and boots were de rigueur.
Besides, as Finbar had been harsh enough to remind me, no amount of high fashion was going to transform an average little blonde like me into a sex siren. (Bastard). Perhaps that’s why I’d been dumped by him and replaced with a string of shiny new models — mainly lithe, long legged brunettes who probably hadn’t ever worn a woolly hat. Though I’d dare them to trudge through icy rain and sleet in pursuit of a story. Glamour just didn’t come into it.
All was fine for the next twenty minutes — a record in this office. Then Royce emerged from his lair and made a beeline for my desk.
‘I need you to do a special job for me. All my paps are down with the lurgy.’ (Sickness and diarrhoea to the uninitiated). He handed me an assignment.
I read it quickly. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘Nope.’
‘I can’t do this,’ I said.
‘Give me three valid reasons why not.’
‘Well, I haven’t had my conscience removed. I’m a journalist not a photographer, and you’ve given me a complex about my hat.’
Everyone stopped and stared at me.
Royce thrust a camera into my reluctant grasp. ‘There’s the camera, there’s the assignment, and there’s the door.’
It had been snowing all day. Now at almost seven in the evening the urban landscape looked like a winter wonderland. Flakes were still fluttering down from the night sky and everything was glistening in the centre of New York.
All complexes aside, I was glad I’d worn my hat. And my woolly scarf.
When I’d left the office they were running bets on whether I’d get the photograph I’d been sent for. Money was being bet hand over fist. It was the liveliest I’d seen them since yesterday’s deadline. And speaking of money, Royce threw a carrot of enticement into the ring to help ensure I fought like a tiger to bring back the picture they needed. He promised me a percentage of the sale when he syndicated the photograph. I’d love to lie and say I’m not a mercenary when it comes to things like that, but the rent was due on my apartment and cash was tight. Living in New York was an expensive business and most of my wages went on ticking over, making ends meet month to month. Some extra cash would be handy. This was November and winter had already started to bite. I had no one to rely on but myself, so I’d grabbed the carrot along with the camera and headed out into the wintry metropolis.
‘Watch your tail,’ Royce had said as he closed the door behind me on my way out.
He really had to work on his cheerleading techniques.
I’d been warned that the competition would not be happy if I snatched the winning picture from under their noses, though from the betting odds, I was the rank outsider — a wild card thrown in to take the big boys off guard. Frankly, that was the only hand I’d any chance of winning. Take them off guard, do something totally unexpected, though what that was eluded me as I drove to the scene of the showdown.
My assignment was to glean a candid shot of handsome, rich, sexy, influential, Hollywood star, Bradley Goldsilver, at his latest movie premiere. No mean feat. Especially as every other big burly paparazzo with their eye on the money would be vying for the same.
I parked my car near the venue and peered out at the scene.
Crowds were gathered to catch a glimpse of their favourite celebrities outside the premiere venue. Film buffs and fans jostled for the best vantage point as near to the red carpet as possible. Awnings kept the snow from falling on the glitterati who posed for the cameras. Television news crews nudged elbows with media hounds armed with flash cameras. Somewhere in outer space the dazzle from this event was being picked up and analysed by lunar modules.
I took a deep breath, stashed my warm jacket on the back seat of the car, along with my jumper, scarf and gloves. I was wearing skinny grey jeans, a cream thermal vest, black boots, and a determined expression.
I stepped out into the snowy night. The air was freezing.
Numerous paparazzi, many of them large guys carrying step ladders, and some of them already up the step ladders for a better viewpoint, were clicking away furiously. They didn’t even notice me. Well, not at first. I had the element of surprise in my favour.
I tightened the loops on my woolly hat, tied them under my chin, and then did something outrageously out of character. Anyone who says a leopard never changes its spots has never worked in the media. Not only did my spots change to stripes, I swear my hat grew devilish little horns.
That photograph was mine . . .
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