Accidental It Girl

I move the camera from my face and try to look at something, anything else. Anything but Ethan Wyatt's face—a tender face now warped and twisted with a look of repugnance…and disgust. Directed squarely at
me
.

I feel slightly ashamed to be holding this camera, and hyper-aware of the weight of it dangling from my neck.

Gazing down at my feet, I inhale deeply and try to steady my nerves….

As I turn back toward Ethan Wyatt, I see nothing but a dying wisp of smoke rising from the ashtray.

The automatic doors slide open and he stomps back into the airport. I force my feet to follow him, but when I get within range, my knees go a little funny. They're jittery, weak…. I should sprint out in front of him and get a shot of his face. I should. But, I can't. He would look at me again, and for some reason that terrifies me.

One thousand thank-yous go to our brilliant agent, Wendy Sherman, who somehow manages to keep us calm and encouraged—while being the most quietly glamorous woman in Manhattan. Many thanks also to Michelle Brower, who does so much for us behind the scenes, not the least of which is sending us checks. We cherish your correspondence. Our most heartfelt gratitude to Amy Pierpont and Megan McKeever for reams of good advice and very generous selective amnesia. (Yes, the first draft was
that
bad.) And to Shari Smiley and Jenny Meyer for all their lobbying and negotiating. Last, but certainly not least, on the business front, we thank Anne Dowling—publicist extraordinaire—for all her hard work, for accepting our many “inspired” ideas cheerfully, and for always going above and beyond the call of duty.

Giuseppe, there are no words to describe how grateful we are for all you do. You are an amazing husband, friend, and designer. Thank you for letting us look over your shoulder and monopolize your time and talents. Sarah would like to thank Giuseppe for being an absolute gentleman in the face of her craziness. His unwavering love and encouragement is overwhelming. Emily would like to thank Tony for having a very sturdy shoulder to lean on, and for putting up with her many book-related mood swings. All the contributions you make to my happiness, sanity, and well-being do not go unnoticed—I promise. Jen Bittle, your wildly enthusiastic and optimistic view of our work and dreams is a constant source of encouragement. We love you dearly.

Julie Tripi, thank you for your friendship, support, and phenomenal party planning. Someday we hope to be able to pay you with, you know, actual money. Many thanks also to Lauren Flower for helping us get libbystreet.com off the ground. Also, Susie Foster, Nate Trier, Jimmy Hoover, Lisa Moore, Jay and Laura Cooper, and Jay Bittle, for their love and support.

Finally we would like to thank our families, Brian and Rocky Bushweller, Randy and Shawn Morris, Kate, Mary, Sam, Steph, Josh, Jer, and their families, for their unflinching, irrepressible belief in us and the many wonderful ways they show it.

—Sarah Bushweller and Emily Morris,
(“Libby Street”)

P
eople hate me.

Some of them openly
despise
me.

I'd bet a couple dozen would cheer if I were maimed.

People. Hate. Me.

For some reason when I meet someone for the first time, I feel compelled to tell them this. “Hi, my name is Sadie Price. Yeah, great to meet you, too! People hate me.” I've gotten pretty good at suppressing the urge to say it out loud, but it's still there swirling around in my mind. I'll shake a person's hand, exchange the usual pleasantries, and look from the outside to be a completely sane person—while a part of me silently repeats the words, “People hate me. People. Hate. Me. Peoplehateme.”

I think the reason this particular little neurosis developed is that it's not some imaginary thing. The idea that people hate me is not the invention of an irreparably wounded self-esteem or chemical imbalance. I am not some terminal wallflower who feels unworthy of kindness. I'm no paranoid agoraphobe with an irrational fear that people are judging her. I am a twenty-eight-year-old woman whose longest and most satisfying relationships are with a four-thousand-dollar camera, a fully restored 1979 Camaro (a gift from my father), and a lovely man called Antoni who works in the shoe section of Bergdorf's. I pay my taxes—approximately on time. I've spent Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve for the last five years at a homeless shelter on the Lower East Side. I'm blonde and blue eyed (like your local TV weather girl, not Marilyn Monroe). I'm a college graduate with a BA in fine arts. I'm somebody's best friend. And, I am a paparazzi.

People do, in fact, hate me.

When I first started out in this business the people-hating-me thing really rubbed me the wrong way. The same kind of rub as, say, a dislodged underwire gouging into your skin. While you're forced to do jumping jacks. On a trampoline. In those days, when I met someone I would make excuses, “Yes, but I'm not
that
kind of paparazzi.” I'd give them a well-rehearsed briefing on my degree in fine arts. I'd tell them that I was really known for my stripped-down black-and-white portraits, and that these portraits were praised by my subjects for their beauty, and by professors for their technique and artistry. At my lowest point, I even went so far as to recount—word for word—an article in the alumni mailer about how my fellow classmates had voted me Graduate with the Most Potential.

My best friend, Brooke, was the first person I met who greeted the news of my occupation with anything but suspicion and ire. Her first words were, “How completely fascinating! A paparazzi, huh? Give me all the dish.” It was then that I realized practically everyone in the industrialized world has an opinion about the paparazzi, and in the eyes of most people
every
paparazzi is
that
kind of paparazzi. These opinions are so well established that they will prevail no matter how I might try to explain myself. This realization, despite the fact that it was an embarrassingly long time coming, was a pivotal moment in my life…and my popularity at cocktail parties.

I now understand that
all
the people in the world don't actually hate me
personally
. The more rational part of me gets that only
some
people hate the
idea
of me—they hate the job, the institution. Yet, even in the face of these strides in amateur self-psychology, the
peoplehateme
repeating part of my brain absolutely refuses to make this distinction. So, hi. My name is Sadie Price. People hate me.

D
o you think I have too much facial hair?” asks Luke as we stroll our way up Broadway toward midtown Manhattan.

“It looks like you just shaved,” I reply.

Unable to resist the impulse, I stop, close my eyes, and arch my neck up to soak in the warm golden sunlight filtering between the skyscrapers.

This spring was frigid, with bone-chilling rains and blasts of icy air streaking between the high-rises. The few warm days in April felt like fall, not spring. But, not a moment too soon, the cold has broken. Today, the sun is spreading its warmth unimpeded in a cloudless sky. You can practically hear the city sigh with relief. At long last, it is molting season in Manhattan.

Businesses and restaurants emerge from hibernation, their wares creeping out onto the sidewalks. The people of New York peel off their protective layers, shedding sweaters and jackets as the day progresses. Even the most jaded New Yorkers look skyward, not at the buildings, but to confirm, “Yep, look at that—the sun.” In a couple of months the streets will reek of urine again, and the oppressive heat and humidity will force us all to cram into any air-conditioned nook we can find. But, right now, this city is extraordinary.

Luke tries again: “In
general
, do I have too much facial hair?”

Squeezing my eyes closed even tighter, I enjoy the sun-induced tingle on my cheeks and draw in a gulp of the fresh, increasingly humid air.

“Sadie,” he prods.

“Hold on,” I reply. “I'm having a moment.”

Luke huffs before going silent—except for the impatient tapping of his foot.

I take one more deep breath, then open my eyes. “Okay, you're asking if—in
general
—you have too much facial hair?” I ask sardonically.

Though I'm a rather Amazonian five-foot-ten, I have to get on my tiptoes to properly inspect his face. Luke is built like a tree—strong, sturdy, and undeniably vertically oriented. His sinewy six-foot-six frame always manages to dwarf everything around him. Luckily, that includes me. Next to him even the tallest, most gawky girl can feel delicate.

“Again, I say…you just shaved,” I quip, resuming our stroll. “Did some mean girl tell you that you were too hairy?”

“No. It's just that, like, Conan O'Brien…he's all pale and Irish like me. But he always looks so
smooth
.”

Pale
is a bit of an understatement. Occasionally Luke's pasty Irish pallor gives him the eerie look of semitransparency. Fortunately for him, his blazing red hair and deep green eyes round out sweet, unassuming good looks. He also has the kind of smile that sears itself into your memory, so that whenever you think of him, you only remember him smiling.

“What about, um…” I try to think of ruddy, hairy Irishmen to compare him to. Not having much luck. “What about Albert Finney?”

“You think I look like Albert Finney?” he asks.

“I don't know,” I reply thoughtfully. “Yell ‘Punjab, bring me the autocopter.' ”

“I'm serious, Sadie,” he retorts.

“So am I.”

“Is that from
Annie
?” Luke asks.

“Yes. Say it,” I reply.

“No,” he snaps back.

I shrug my shoulders at him. “Okay…”

“Fine.” Luke rolls his eyes. “Punjab, bring me the autocopter.”

“Huh,” I huff.

“So?” Luke asks.

“No, you don't look anything like Albert Finney. But I just made you say ‘Punjab, bring me the autocopter.' ”

“Nice. Very nice,” he says, trying not to smile.

“Thank you.”

We turn the corner at Forty-fourth Street, nearing our destination—one of New York's finest hotels.

Luke and I met through work. He is one of the many autograph hounds who wait patiently outside restaurants and hotels for the celebrities I photograph. I would call his autograph-seeking a hobby, except that he makes almost as much money hawking signatures on the Internet as he does from his day job waiting tables. You see, Luke is not just your average, run-of-the-mill, psycho superfan. He takes his collection very seriously and is extremely well connected. With a minimum of effort, he can tell you where to find anyone in Manhattan—provided they are, or have been, famous. He also helps me sometimes by acting as a decoy, keeping an eye on the competition.

“Check it out,” I say, discreetly pointing ahead as Luke and I near the hotel.

A very large, very militant-looking individual waddles into view—the evil Phil Grambs. I cautiously peek over Luke's shoulder and see Phil adjust his camera and dig into the fanny pack that is part of his uniform. The fanny pack sort of emerges from his back like a tumor, as the straps are wedged somewhere between his belly and his pants. I think this particular vast, fur-enshrouded enclave could also be the final resting place of Jimmy Hoffa—and possibly Atlantis.

“Yeah, you're going to need backups,” Luke grumbles.

Phil spins toward us with his ears pricked up like a dog.

My heart rate doubles in an instant. I grab Luke by the arm and yank him behind a newsstand before Phil can spot us.

“All right,” I say, getting into commando mode, “you position yourself with Phil, act like you're just waiting for an autograph and talking on the phone to someone. Just do what you do best—”

“Loiter.”

“
Exactly,
” I reply with a wink. “I think the target will be coming out the side door and through the alley; I'll wait there. But if he comes out the front door you can tell me. Oh, and keep an eye on Phil—tell me if he does anything strange.”

“Okay—”

“No, on second thought, just tell me if he tries to go anywhere.” Pretty much everything about Phil could be perceived as strange.

“Aye-aye, Cap'n,” Luke says, mocking me.

We plug in our cell phone earpieces, and I quickly dial Luke's number.

“Got me?” I ask into the little mic dangling around my chin.

Luke replies with a nod.

“Okay, you first,” I say.

Luke skulks out from behind the newsstand. I peek around and watch him walk casually over near Phil.

I wait a few seconds before sneaking onto the sidewalk and darting quickly around the corner. I slip into a back alley that dumps out a block or so from the hotel's main entrance.

 

For the record, when people say they hate the paparazzi, they're talking about Phil Grambs. He's practically a legend in this business. A legend like Godzilla, or Dracula…or that guy with the hook who terrifies the teenagers at Makeout Point. He is loud, vulgar, and cruel to those he photographs. He's also a scheming, conniving weirdo. I would say he was born without a heart, but I know for a fact that he's had quadruple bypass surgery—he showed me pictures. Call me judgmental, but I can't stand the guy. He's one of those people who deludes himself into believing that he's a real part of the film industry, that somehow his physical proximity to the stars makes him famous, or at the very least,
worthy
of fame.

Phil is also one of a rare breed—he actually
intended
to be a paparazzi. Generally speaking, this is not the kind of career you spend your life dreaming about and preparing for. It's the kind of thing you bump into by accident. You're not watching where you're going and, boom—you smack face-first into it. Sometimes you get lucky and it just breaks your nose. Other times, it flattens you, but good. You come to and find yourself five years older, eating greasy nachos on the bumper of a Con Ed truck while your best friend gives a detailed description of his extensive Wonder Woman action figure collection—directly into your brain. These things just happen.

“…the thing about the so-called realistic invisible plane replica is the thing's supposed to be
invisible,
so can any physical representation of it really be considered realistic?”

I can't say that I've spent much time grappling with this particular philosophical issue, but if I don't say something Luke will surely segue into his treatise on the “so-called realistic” Wonder Woman wristbands. I say, “Well, since you put me on the spot…if the replica isn't actually invisible, the claim of realistic does seem—”

“Hey, Sadie?” Luke interrupts. “I think I've got a visual. Keep your eyes open, but I think he'll be coming to my position—”

“No he won't,” I reply. “He's coming to me.”

“You don't know that,” comes Luke's response.

I have a feeling.

He continues, “Oh, and Sadie…Phil's getting antsy.”

I adjust the earpiece and bark back, “Got it,” and train my eyes on a rusty steel door twenty feet away.

“You're supposed to say ‘Roger,' ” comes the voice in my head.

“I'm not saying ‘Roger.' ”

A shrill, exasperated whine crackles through the connection. “Why do you always have to be such a buzzkill?”

Oh, boy. Fine. “Roger,” I say dryly.

“No, now you should be saying ‘Over and out.' ” Luke is one of those guys whose dream of becoming 007 was hampered by the fact that part of him stopped maturing at 005.

“As much as I'd love to play your Ursula Andress, Mr. Bond, I'm grossly underqualified.” The brutal truth is that, even at the age of seventy, I'm pretty sure Ursula has less cellulite and a higher cool factor than I do.

“Say it,” prods Luke.

“No,” I laugh.

“Saaay iiiit, Sadie. You know you want to,” he goads.

“Luke—” I cut myself off as the steel door begins to rattle. I drop my nachos and shuffle backward, pinning myself in a little nook created by the convergence of a brick-lined building facade and the back bumper of the Con Ed truck.

I peer through the truck's grimy windows and spot the thing I've been waiting the last two hours for—a shock of caramel blond hair and the chiseled, classically British features of a very handsome man.

“Got him,” I whisper to Luke.

“Damn, you're good.”

Thank you, thank you very much.

Luke continues, “Get him, Killer. Over and out.”

I wish to God people would stop calling me that.

I raise my camera to eye level and wait.

A bead of sweat forms on my forehead and threatens to dribble down into my eyes. Though the temperature is pushing 80 degrees, I'm positive it's not the heat that's making me sweat. It's only when I'm forcing myself to be perfectly still and quiet that the nerves get me. It's anticipation, fear of the unknown, my body steeling itself for the coming rush of adrenaline. I prepare to be shouted at, insulted, shoved, ignored.

I wait—wait for
Jude Law
to pass a Con Ed truck in the dank alley behind a posh Manhattan hotel.

As my tension peaks, and that little bead of sweat trickles along the top of my eyebrow and down my cheek, Jude Law enters my frame. I've got a bona fide movie star in perfect profile. I depress the shutter button, and the rapid-fire
click-click-click
of the camera's motor whirs to a crescendo. Jude's head turns and his famously blue eyes lock onto my lens. He is shocked, surprised. His eyes widen, cheeks flush. Then, with the flicker of an eyelash and a reflexive sigh, his expression suddenly shifts to exasperation—and maybe just a touch of real anger.

I scramble out from behind the Con Ed truck and ahead of Jude, walking backward to get a better angle of him striding, at an increasingly rapid pace, toward the sidewalks of Manhattan. I widen the focus of my lens and, to my surprise, catch a glimpse of ruffled golden blond hair at the bottom of my viewfinder.

He has the kids with him. My face goes tingly and undoubtedly as red as Jude's T-shirt.

“You've got him, don't you? Does he have the kids with him?” The voice on the line is not Luke's. It's a deep husky growl, the auditory equivalent of salivation. “Saaadiiie…” The voice is getting raspier and out of breath—and infinitely more creepy.

“What the hell was that?” Definitely Luke talking now.

“Luke? Where's Phil?”

“Oh, shit…he took off.”

The next thing I hear is panting, and the
pitter-patter
of feet on pavement. The mysterious voice, which has to be Phil, says triumphantly between wheezes, “I knew he'd have the kids!”

How is he doing that?

I continue to take shots of Jude—and not the kids.

I move the camera away for a second and make eye contact with Jude Law. “You'd better get a move on. Phil Grambs is headed this way,” I say loud enough for the mic to pick it up.

Jude Law gives me a brief furtive grin. It's a lovely smile with all the flash and charisma worthy of a man who once played a robot-o-love for Steven Spielberg. With one simple click, that peculiar, ephemeral, almost illusory flicker—that indefinable
thing
that makes some men irresistible to women—has been captured forever. By me.