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Pleasantries aside, Colin gave me the rundown of how the operation went. Slipping a short-sleeved polo with an embroidered logo over my tank, I listened attentively.
The photo ops started promptly at 9AM and went to five in the afternoon. I got an hour lunch break at 12:30 where he proceeded to fill me in on where the least crowded food vendors were located.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you where you’re set up for the weekend,” Colin said congenially.
Each curtain cubby had a director chair set up with a flash umbrella and a soft box, tripod and DSLR. My job, as each fan (or fans depending on the size of the paying group) filtered in, I would take a series of no more than five pictures.
An assistant would transfer them to the printers and the fans would pick up their 8x10’s on their way out.
It all seemed quite efficient.
Apparently, there were different photo ops available to the fans. I was photographing the VIP packages. Colin explained that instead of being ushered through like cattle with no more than twenty seconds for the perfect pic, these people paid a premium and were able to quickly discuss a specific pose with the actor and even make use of a prop if they wanted.
Soon, steady murmurings could be heard as the fans began to filter in line. I thought I recognized Bette Davis’s voice directing people, but she was quickly drowned out by raucous cheers, whistles and thunderous applause.
“No photos on this floor!” I heard, assuming that came from another staff member.
I felt like I was in a tiny shelter with an imposing mob just outside and nothing between us but a flimsy piece of fabric.
I’d heard of stories where mobs got out of hand and serious damage and even injuries resulted. There was nothing for me to worry about though.
Because they weren’t here for me.
The curtain to my left pulled back and a short woman and two body guards flanked the celebrity I was responsible for photographing: Jake Stanley.
They were here forhim.
Swallowing seemed likean Olympic sport suddenly. The minor act that was usually involuntary, caused me quite an amount of physical effort. The muscles in my throat were fatigued and laboriously overworked.
My mouth had felt like I had sucked on a block of salt and I had been deposited in the middle of Death Valley.
Suck it up, Buttercup, I told myself. There was no need to be embarrassed for accidentally flashing him last night. No need to feel awkward about staring at his handsome face for eight hours.
All in a day’s work.
I was Lucy Leighton. Professional, through and through.
Get off your ass and address him like the human that you are.
Bury last night’s incident. Act like it never happened.
Use your words, Luce.
I’d never had so many mini pep talks with myself before, especially in such rapid succinctness.
Recognition showed on Jake’s face. Like the one I had the pleasure of seeing before when we shared the elevator in San Diego, he gave me that rakish half smile. And if the circumstances were different, I’m sure it would’ve made me weak in the knees.
The tattooed body guards slinked away, their stretched black tees blending in with the curtains.
“If we’re going to keep running into each other like this, perhaps I should know your name,” Jake offered, breaking the ice.
The delivery was casual and dare I say effortlessly suave? No. It was effortlesslycharming.
And then, I could see it forming. Remember the full-fledged smile I witnessed back in San Diego, right after the drop-your-panties grin? He was wearing it now.
And also waiting for an answer, I realized.
Shaking my head, hoping it appeared more like I was trying to wake up instead of being star stuck, I told him my name.
