Accidental It Girl (20 page)

Ethan just laughs. “Come on. It's a simple question. What was on the toothbrush that you were singing into before?”

Singing into? “How long were you standing down there with those binoculars, you sicko?”

“Long enough.” He pauses for effect. “The running man, I thought, was a particularly nice touch.”

I feel my cheeks go red, my heart begin to pound. “Do you have a telephoto lens for that thing?” I ask frantically.

“Unfortunately, no.” He sounds genuinely disappointed in himself. “Answer the question. Was that, or was that not, a Yoda toothbrush?”

I try to be stern and authoritarian. “Uh, yes. As a matter of fact, it was. You got a problem with that?” The only problem is, the topic at hand is a Yoda toothbrush.

“No,” he chuckles. “Not at all.”

“I happen to consider the fight against tooth decay a fundamental battle of good versus evil,” I say, planting my hands on my hips.

He looks at me with a smile. It's wide and unprejudiced. He is looking at me not with bitterness or disdain, but in a normal man/woman, boy/girl sort of way—a deeply perplexing, almost
flirtatious
way. It's almost like he's amused by me…interested.

Ethan continues to grin, thinking something to himself. The only clues to his thoughts are the subtle shifts of expression around his eyes and mouth, barely perceptible—but so powerful. It almost makes me want to grab my camera. Not because he should be plastered on the gaudy pages of a weekly glossy, but because it is an extraordinary and intangible thing he has. It should be documented, made solid—to remind me later that it was real.

I wonder if I've ever looked at anybody that way. If I have, it hasn't been for quite some time. Unless, well, I might just be doing it now. Not sure.

I shake my head and try to restore a look of blithe indifference to my face.

“Do you hate it yet?” he asks. “Tired of never knowing where I'll be next, with you on the subway…outside your apartment…on your fire escape? You haven't been working much lately—my fault?”

“I'm doing just fine, thank you,” I reply.

“Sure you are—”

“I could do this for ages. You could sleep out there for all I care.”

“Uh-huh—”

“You're failing!” I say, feeling a warm rush of adrenaline. “You think I'm miserable?” I add, gaining momentum. “Do I look miserable to you? Go ahead, take a picture now! Go on! I'm not afraid!”

Ethan lifts his camera and shoots off a half-dozen frames. He looks at me, trying not to laugh—he's not having such an easy time of it.

Against my own will, my eyes drop and I glance at myself. There's a Pop-Tart stain on my tank top, I'm wearing Strawberry Shortcake sleeper shorts—backward. My left knee is swollen and purple, and I'm pretty sure that's toothpaste on my right arm.

My hands clench and I groan with unparalleled frustration.

I stomp over to the window and slam it shut—right on Ethan's camera strap.

I yank roughly on the cord to the miniblinds and then twist them closed.

A rough clang startles me—the window being opened.

“Bye,” Ethan says quietly through a hail of laughter. “See you tomorrow.”

The window slams shut again, just before I bury my head in a pillow and scream.

T
odd,” I say, my tone inching dangerously close to begging. “Please, I may not be able to chase Owen Wilson around Manhattan, but I can do something. I'll do anything. I can't take this time off, it's driving me insane.” I haven't taken a single photograph of anyone since that thing with Ethan Wyatt and Lori Dunn—and Ethan Wyatt is getting some sort of amusement from it.

Not to mention my mother just got the brilliant idea that we should all go to lunch…and a matinee. To be followed, if possible, by shopping. She'll force me to buy a suite of perfectly boring little twin sets and age-appropriate pearls. Honestly, being eaten alive by birds sounds like a more pleasant alternative. If Todd says no, that's my next stop.

He stares at me while fiddling with a tattered issue of the
Robb Report
. “All right, nothing heavy, though. That thing with Naomi Watts cost me thousands,” Todd says before pausing—mulling it over. He continues, “How about this: the premiere for the new Ashton Kutcher flick is tonight at the Ziegfeld Theatre. You'll be in the pen, but it could be worth a little cash.”

“Fine. Great,” I say, heading for the office door.

“Hey, Sadie, I need the old you back. You got me?”

“Yeah,” I say solemnly. So do I.

 

These days, even straight, supposedly highbrow newspapers and magazines are gagging for photos of the beautiful people displaying their borrowed clothes and jewels. Publications from
Cosmo
to, completely serious here, the
Wall Street Journal
routinely feature Adler's red carpet stuff. And let me tell you, it's no picnic getting it. These parties and premieres may look glamorous on
Access Hollywood,
but they're not. They are loud, either too hot or too cold, and involve hours of standing around yelling. I suppose if you're the one walking down the red carpet it's not so bad. It is, after all, just walking. Most people do it all day long with very little trouble—I am, at least currently, one notable exception.

My leg is killing me—I think I overdid it last night with the lunges. This is what happens when I deviate from lotions and potions and attempt random acts of exercise. The throbbing pain of the original injury has subsided, but it's been replaced by a burning sensation and a strange (and rather disconcerting) clicking noise emanating from my kneecap. One good thing has come of all this, though. I have arrived at the conclusion that giant handbags, especially those filled with rocks, are a clear and present danger to the health and well-being of the public at large. I'm going to petition the mayor for a ban. I think it'll go through without a problem; that guy just loves to ban things.

I shuffle toward the photo pen, my gear and gimpy leg trailing behind in my wake. As I go, I quietly nurture the small hope that all of this has been one very elaborate
Punk'd,
and that Ashton will tell me so himself when he glides past me on the red carpet.

 

The photo pen is the small, stockadelike structure that keeps the photographers from soiling the expensive rented red carpet. Like farm animals, we are corralled behind barricades and forced to work for our supper. Within its flimsy confines we elbow, crane, muscle, and stretch to get the shots the celebrities and their “people” need to keep this whole business humming. I've always found it a bit ironic that the ones preening, clucking, and strutting around with their feathers and furs are the ones allowed
outside
the pen. Shouldn't the photographers be the ones taking a leisurely stroll while the stars are made to squawk and stumble around in a paddock?

I step onto the red carpet just as the searchlights rev up. Giant swaths of light swish back and forth across the sky. With this, the crowd of extremely chipper Ashton-loving tweens begins to pulsate with anticipation. Their chattering becomes screaming, every emotion exaggerated by the promise of celebrity sightings, autographs, and maybe—just maybe—a quick peck on the cheek from the man himself. Several of the tweens, each with a thick layer of glitter on her eyelids, carry signs that say “Marry me, Ashton!” and “I'm the one you're looking for!” One says, “Choose me! Dump Demi!” I'd say they're about thirty years premature, and woefully uninformed about Kabbalah.

A flock of flustered PR people and security personnel marches up and down the red carpet, talking into tiny microphones and listening to even tinier earpieces. One of them is a source of mine; he slips me tips from time to time. I called him, cashed in a favor, and had him reserve me a spot on the line—front and center. This means I can
sit
on my collapsible stool-slash-ladder instead of standing atop it at the back of the pack like I usually have to when I do this kind of thing.

I force my way into the gathering throng of photographers, waving to the few familiar faces already assembled, and settle in between two guys, Mark and Gary, who consider themselves legit photojournalists.

They're an interesting pair, an Ambiguously Gay Duo of sorts, both frail, spindly little things who only work with each other. I can't tell if they're a couple or what, but they seem to enjoy each other's company enormously. Unfortunately, I also can't tell them apart. Technically, they're paparazzi, too, but unlike me they only work at events like this. And because they're “friendlies” (and New York models and socialites are desperate for publicity), they get invited
into
parties. For some strange reason, this gives them a sense of superiority, false though it may be.

I nod to each of them in turn. They instantly begin snickering like schoolgirls.

Oh, great.

“So, Duncan Stoke?” poses Mark (or Gary), examining me up and down.

Gary (or Mark) chimes in, “Shouldn't you be on the other side of the ropes there?”

“You two should know better than to believe what you read in the tabloids.”

“She sure sounds like she should be on the other side of the ropes,” Mark quips to Gary (or Gary quips to Mark).

I could break them like twigs. I'd probably do it, too—if I could stand properly. “It's just some demented person's idea of a joke. Either of you recognize the work?” I ask. Pretending not to know who did it seems my best defense at this point.

“Nah, they're some pretty shitty shots,” Mark/Gary says before quickly adding, “No offense.” Yeah, right.

“None taken,” I reply, before turning to Gary/Mark with a silent query.

“No. No idea,” he answers. He adds smugly, “Not one of ours, obviously.”

“Yeah, obviously.” Photojournalists, my ass. Exactly what about standing around with a camera and waiting for people to walk by constitutes journalism? If the walkers in question weren't Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher, it'd just be loitering—with film.

The first arrivals begin, as the C-listers (the Hasselhoffs, Guttenbergs, and stars of VH1 list shows like
100 Greatest Wardrobe Malfunctions
and
I Love the 00's
) funnel out of cabs and limos onto the red carpet. Camera flashes trickle to a start, and the screaming begins.

“Steve! Steve, over here!”

“David, this way!”

“Smile for the camera, Michael Ian Black!”

“Guttenberg, where's your little lady?”

“Hey, Hasselhoff, you ever beat that DUI rap?”

That last little gem stings my right ear. Both the volume and the familiarity of the voice make me cringe—Phil.

“Ah,” Phil grumbles to me above the din of the surrounding photographers. “If it isn't Sleeps with the Enemy.”

I reply, “Oh, you've converted to Native American—fascinating. Tell me, Walks with Pitchfork, shouldn't you be digging around in De Niro's garbage right now?”

“Touchy, touchy.”

I'm just going to pretend that Phil doesn't exist, that I can't smell his slightly rancid Eternity for Men, and instead focus on the task at hand. A-list celebrities have finally begun to arrive.

A comfortable, soothing rush of excitement washes over me as I click off dozens of frames.

Jamie-Lynn Sigler is ravishing in shades of pink and lilac.

Mira Sorvino and her hot young hubby are adorable.

…P. Diddy…Christina Ricci…Julia Stiles…Donald Trump…They all saunter past the photo pen, pausing every couple of steps to pose—and I get all of them.

A lull in the arrivals is the only thing that breaks my stride—some sort of limo pileup, no doubt.

A rather fresh and happy-looking Cindy Crawford makes her way down the line of photographers. Lucky her, she's the only celebrity in sight.

I snap off a few shots of Cindy and pull the camera away from my face—to give my eye and my arm a rest.

“Hey, Sadie!” cries Phil over my shoulder.

What now? I turn. “Yeah—”

A dazzling, scorching light fills my eyes.

I'm blind.

That asshole really did it this time. I am actually blind.

Rubbing my eyes, I scream, “What the fuck, Phil? Watch where you point that thing.”

“Just in case,” he replies slowly, with a bitter cockiness in his tone.

I open my eyes. Through a haze of purple dots I see Phil smirking over the lens of his camera.

I ask, “Just in case wha—”

Before I know it, I'm staring into a half-dozen wide, black, vacant eyes—deep, hollow, and menacing.

“You guys, seriously,” I plead.

In an instant, a half-dozen flashes go off in my face. An instant later, eight more, then ten. Gary/Mark, Mark/Gary, and several other photographers in the vicinity fire away at me with impunity.

“You guys!” I beg once more.

“Sorry, but it's my job,” I hear Mark/Gary say. The familiar ring of that phrase causes a knot to form in my throat.

The maelstrom of bright light and shutter clicks sends me into a dizzy spell.

The only thing I see—the only thing I can think about—is the flashing light stinging my eyes. There's no use in turning away—nowhere to go. The flashing light spills out over everything, making the world around me seem pale and over-exposed.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the clicking sound to stop. It's the only thing I can think to do.

After several seconds of rubbing my eyes, I manage to peel an eye open and discern that the arrivals have resumed. The idiots around me have, thankfully, turned the black eyes of their cameras back to the red carpet.

A sudden deafening outcry from the fan gallery alerts us all that someone important is here.

From the far end of the photo pen comes, “Ethan! Ethan!”

Great. Perfect. And my heart rate was just returning to normal.

I put the camera back to my eye. Now how am I supposed to take pictures like this? I can't see anything. The whole world is covered in a bluish haze and little black dots are floating all over my field of view. My heart feels like it's pounding against my lungs, forcing me to take short, shallow breaths to keep the oxygen flowing.

The cries for Ethan Wyatt's attention crescendo.

Wyatt saunters coolly past the first ten feet of the photo pen, not deigning to stop and pose. He strides down the carpet, an eerie serenity playing on his face. The crowd is mesmerized by his elegant features and expertly tousled black hair. Those impossibly blue eyes. A tiny bit of skin exposed by a jacket gone askew. They're spellbound, and he knows it.

Oh, boy, that walk is something special.

As he ambles into my general vicinity, he turns, slows his pace. His eyes dart up and down the photo pen, scanning for something—someone. Even against the hail of flashes and screams, he remains unruffled.

Through the tiny rectangle of my viewfinder I see Ethan Wyatt's expression change. He takes three purposeful steps up the red carpet and then stops—in front of me.

His jaw tightens up, shoulders tip slightly farther back, pushing his well-defined pectoral muscles against the supple fabric of his shirt.

He glares directly through my lens and straight between my eyes, like he's trying to bore into my skull. Just the slightest hint of a smile slowly spreads across his outrageously handsome face. It causes my camera to slip out of my hands and slide down the strap. It comes to rest somewhere near my belly button.

That is a look of pride. Sheer, unadulterated pride.

Ethan puts his finger up. As his eyes lock onto mine, he gives me the “come here” gesture. The power of it almost knocks me off my feet.

Amid the confused glances of the other photographers, I lean slightly forward.

Ethan Wyatt angles toward me, that tiny bit of exposed flesh just above his belt presses up against the cold metal rail separating
us
from
them
. His lips move closer to my ear; his nose grazes the top of my earlobe.

He whispers, “I meant to tell you, don't forget you have your monthly haircut and…
ahem…
lip wax tomorrow. Two o'clock.”