Shooting Stars (12 page)

In the end, Rob calls to say, “Sorry Dean is such a dick to paparazzi. And it's BS, because he loves it.” He also tells me that he is thrilled that no one will know it was
him
who made this segment of the show a reality. That is, if he can keep his own little secret.

8
. During my years in this business, I came to learn that many celebrities, not just Britney, work extensively with the paparazzi. Celebrities call many of us, or our agents, and together we stage shoots. “Set-ups” are usually done at tabloid-interesting locations like the beach, a pumpkin patch, the grocery store, or even a tropical island getaway. These same celebrities will also call us on their way out to a restaurant or a shopping center if they want their picture taken, particularly if they're dressed up and looking good. Their shots are then sold to the tabloids and—this was the shocker to me—the celebrity often gets paid a percentage of the sales. As a freelancer, I didn't do a lot of these set-ups during my career (they were usually given to staffers), but it is a pretty widespread practice.

A month goes by of continued trial and mostly error. It's now March, and today Brian is sitting on Kate Walsh, and I am sitting on Mandy Moore. Not literally, of course. Donna is in Brian's car, as she is more and more these days, and I'm riding alone. (Their relationship has been on the fast track since CXN's Christmas party.) I miss her when she's not with me; Donna's a big piece of my energy on the job day in and day out. Her confidence in me is stronger than my own, and I don't know how I would have made it this far without her. If I get abused by a nasty pap (as we've taken to calling most non-CXN paps) for getting in his shot, being a woman, or anything else I cannot help, Donna will inevitably get in his face and tell him where to go. I love watching her do that: she's five-foot-one and in her inevitable outfit of heels and a dress, she's unstoppable.

Conveniently, both Kate and Mandy live in Los Feliz, and it's a gorgeous Friday in our neighborhood. I love that about papping in L.A.: it's pretty much always a gorgeous day here. As much as I-heart-New York, I would not heart papping in the Northeast.

Around 11 a.m., Mandy leaves in her black Prius. I radio Brian, and he immediately departs his post at Walsh's and heads my way. We'll work Mandy together.

Brian and Donna catch up just as Mandy pulls into a Hollywood studio. When a celeb goes to a studio, she might be there all day working or recording so we often
leave it
. But since we're on Mandy exclusive, and since the studio is small enough that we can keep an eye on her car, Brian figures we should give it an hour.

This is only the second time I've worked with Brian (the Gwen Stefani day being the other), so I pick his brain about camera settings. Just as he starts to explain how his camera is an extension of his arm, Tori Spelling's Rob calls with a tip: “The crew's headed to the OB-GYN… if you're interested.”

We're most definitely interested, primarily because Tori's OB-GYN is
not
in Beverly Hills. Most celebs see doctors on Beverly Boulevard in Beverly Hills, and because of this, paps sit near the doctors' offices waiting to spot celebs going into the parking decks. Tori's doctor is in Santa Monica; we're not likely to get jumped there.

Rob gives us the appointment time, and we head over. When we arrive, Brian makes the executive decision “not to hide” because “it's Tori and she'll give it up.” But I'm a bit nervous about that decision—Dean's gonna spot my truck right away.

We park outside the doctor's building, get out of our vehicles, and stand in plain view with our short-and-flashes. Soon the beaming couple, followed by their film crew, leaves the doctor. They smile and wave at us. Dean notices my truck and points to it in recognition, but like Tori, seems pleased that I'm there. Exposing ourselves was the right call.

It's noon. One set in the bag and plenty of time for another. Brian decides we'll head to town to “trawl.”

We hit Rodeo Drive first. Stores like Prada, Armani, and Cartier with front display windows worth more than most homes provide clothing, jewelry, and handbags to rich Beverly Hills's wives, wealthy tourists, and celebrities. But its worldwide fame surprises me. The shopping street runs just three city blocks, and I find it banal compared to Mulholland, the PCH, or any street in Paris.

Next, we head east on Wilshire toward West Hollywood. I'm following Brian when he radios: “Fuck me! Turn around. That was Robbie Williams!”

Brian is obviously excited. But most Americans would wonder why.
Who the heck is Robbie Williams?
Even I'd only heard of him a few months ago, and that was just because paps talked about
him. But gauging from cool-headed Brian's excitement, Robbie's worth knowing.

Robbie Williams hit fame early. At age sixteen, he joined the British boy band Take That, and now, at age thirty-three, he's the bestselling solo artist in the United Kingdom and in many parts of Latin America. In most of the rest of the world, Robbie is a superstar the likes of David Beckham and Brad Pitt. But for some reason, his music hasn't caught on in America, and he is virtually unknown in the United States, where he lives in relative anonymity in Beverly Hills. Worldwide, however, his marketability is enormous—particularly now that he's just left rehab and has yet to be photographed. So if we can catch him, the international payoff could be huge.

We watch Robbie's black Range Rover enter the parking lot of Barneys. This is excellent. The inside of the famous department store is shootable with lots of light (albeit lots of security too), and Robbie has used the valet at the front door (versus underground self-parking) so we should at least be able to get him when he exits. Still though,
things could go pear-shaped
, as Simon always points out, so we better be careful.

We park underground, and Brian directs Donna and me to go into the store, pretend to be fans, and try to get a snapshot. Neither of us knows what Robbie looks like, so Brian describes him: “Good-looking, fairly tall, lots of tats. Shit, a rock star. You can't miss him.”

Barneys has an open layout, and a marble walkway divides three departments on the bottom floor. The Handbag and Makeup sections never have more than five customers, so Donna and I search easily from afar. Robbie is not among the guests. We walk through Makeup to Shoes, the third department. We don't want a free makeover, and since they always ask, Donna and I keep our phones to our ears. Robbie is not in Shoes either.

In the center of the store is a wide stairwell like one you might find in a nineteenth-century estate house. It spirals upward, unhindered, toward a domed roof. We walk up the stairs to the second floor—the Women's section, another expansive floor plan flooded with light. We scan without exiting the stairwell. It's doubtful Robbie will be in Women's.

The top floor is the Men's section. Rarely are there shoppers in Men's. We don't walk around, just search with our eyes, then veer to the right toward the café in the corner. We again put our phones to our ears; we don't want to be seated. We survey the bar and the main dining room, an uncongested, dozen-tabled area where in the future I'll see Drew Barrymore sitting alone—facing me—smiling, eating, and leafing through a book. I'll be too chicken to shoot her point-blank, even though I'll have been doing this job for eighteen months by then, and even though I'll know that Barneys wouldn't do anything other than escort me out. (Drew might have given me a belting though. She's not shy with the paps.)

Donna waits at the bar, and I walk outside to the balcony and down its aisle, a dead end. “It's an amazing view. We should meet here for lunch,” I tell my imaginary friend on the phone. I stroll as a tourist to take in the panoramic view of the city, the Hills, and the Hollywood sign. Robbie is at the last table, and like Brian said I would, I identify him easily. He's having tea with a friend and paying his bill.

Donna and I go back to the Men's department, get off our fake phone calls, and get ready. When Robbie and his friend exit the café and enter Men's, I know not to wait 'cause I'll wimp out.

“Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. It's Robbie Williams.” I speak loudly enough to attract attention.

Donna and I haven't rehearsed, but we connect perfectly. She giggles obnoxiously and covers her mouth. Robbie and his friend turn to look at our spectacle. Thankfully, there are no shoppers.

“Oh my gosh. Are you Robbie Williams? Can we take your picture? Oh my gosh. I can't believe it's Robbie Williams.” Thick as a Fatburger-plus-egg, we lay it on.

And Robbie must like meat: he eats it up. Donna sticks her point-and-shoot in his face, and he extends a fist showing off his brand new tattoo, a letter on each finger: L – O – V – E. His wide smile and face are in the background, all perfectly in focus.

Most big celebrities will take pictures
with
fans 'cause those are rarely salable, but they often don't let fans take pictures of
just them
in case
they are being tricked. Robbie's not like most big celebs—at least not on this day. He wants more photos than we do and moves from one quirky pose to another while his friend stands by laughing. To make it look real, Donna and I both get a shot
with
him (and because, truth be told, Robbie's smokin' hot, and we're both a little starstruck). But Simon's words—
Don't get greedy
—ring in my ear.

“Thanks, Robbie. We love you!” I say for a transition out.

When he's out of earshot, Donna calls Brian and proclaims, “We nailed it!” Then Brian shoots more shots of Robbie exiting the store, posing again.

We get the pictures to CXN an hour later, and the following day, our exclusive shots hit the cover of every major tabloid magazine in the United Kingdom. Over the next nine months, we each make more than five grand from that Robbie set. Oh yes, Robbie Williams is definitely worth knowing.

* * *

Perhaps, at this point, it seems that my life as a paparazzi is full of pretty good times. And it's true, I
am
having fun. But there is a dark side, one I haven't much touched on, which shadows it all.

So what's the hardest part of the job? My answer is surprisingly similar to the celebrities' response:
The Paparazzi.

At present—four months in—the hazing I'm getting from the other snappers is out of control. It will not always be this way, but I do not know that at the moment. And right now, if it weren't for Donna, I can unquestionably say I would no longer be paparazzi.

The guys at CXN, those I've mainly written about, respect me. They can see that I'm humble and that I want to learn. Besides, if they have any inclination that I'm gonna be good, they're happy to have me on their team.

But except for CXNers (and Rodeo2's Toby), no other paparazzi will speak to me. To be clear, I mean, they will
never
speak to me. But they
have no problem abusing me in other ways. To date, I have been spit on, pushed down, run off the road, and “told on” to Simon and Aaron (for things like getting in a shot or poor driving or not adhering to “rules”—rules that I was never, in fact, informed of). But, this abuse is always done silently. I am never spoken to directly.

Let me give you an example: I was outside Neil George waiting with a gangbang of men for Lindsay Lohan to get her hair done. Wayne Watermelon, a six-foot-three Mohawked American pap who drives a red car that somebody splattered with black paint (hence the nickname), decided he wanted to stand where I was standing
and had been standing for an hour
. He came over, didn't say a word, just shoved me. Hard. I toppled, caught myself, and returned to my ground. Then he shoved me harder, and I fell. Two dozen paps witnessed it, but no one moved or said a word. That was worse than being shoved. I started to tear up, but how could I leave? The other paps didn't want to get involved; it would have made their lives difficult. I understood that. If they defended me, Watermelon would have hit them much harder than he'd hit me. Plus, they wanted me gone too. Simon tells me all the time, not unkindly: “Jennifer, you have no friends in this business. Don't forget it.”

In hindsight, I realize the problem. The problem—on their end—was that they did not know what to do with me. Their physical controls, the ones they used to keep people in line (like punching or shoving each other), were difficultly applied to me. (As rough as the paparazzi were, none of them really wanted to hit a girl.) But they knew that I wasn't the kind of girl who always stayed “in line,” and I didn't always do what I was told, like move. Hence their conundrum, and their silent but obvious opinion that things would be much better if I were just gone.

But at this time I did not understand the problem, nor how to fix it, nor whether it would ever end. And I was starting to go down. The problem on my end was that I did not understand their rules. I did not even understand that there
were
rules. You see, paparazzi govern with “street” rules, and I had no experience on “the street.” Other professions that might have similar hierarchies and rules—law-enforcement, trade
jobs, restaurant jobs, and the like—I'd either never had, or if I'd had them, I generally got fired from them. When waitressing, for instance, I tried hard to be the best employee. Which was, of course, the problem. Who likes the best employee in a restaurant besides the customers? All I got was the lovely reputation as a know-it-all.

I didn't grow up on the street. I grew up in an upper-middle-class suburb of Atlanta. I went to college. Then I went to grad school. And I always made straight A's. I grew up being taught that if I tried hard and I was good at what I did, I would succeed. But all this meant to these paps was that I wasn't one of them. I didn't belong. That doesn't work on the street.

And while now I think there's plenty of bullshit in the paps' discriminatory mind-set, as well as in the idea that if you work hard enough you can get anything you want, at this point I was still onboard with wanting to be the best paparazzi I could be, regardless of whether I “belonged” or not. So when Wayne Watermelon shoved me, I bit my lip hard and glared at him. I was going to give this my best shot, come angry celebs or worthless paps in paint-spattered junk heaps. But it was not going to be easy.