Chapter 12

 

 

 

In the early afternoon, Chad’s car stopped at a gorgeous house in Malibu. A huge hedge of carefully cut bushes was hiding the house from the eyes of passers-by. He looked at the sheet of paper Harry had printed for him – the address matched, as did the photo of the house. He couldn’t believe it was true – everything was so fantastical. He opened the door, touching the scanning device with his thumb and the machine read his fingerprint.

“Welcome back, sir,” the gatekeeper greeted him.

The first thing Chad noticed was the small house where the guard most probably lived. Then he turned his eyes to his villa – not very big, and yet an exceptionally impressive two-storied building in the Modernist style. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he saw paintings by his favorite artists hanging on the walls: Andy Warhol, Van Gogh, and Picasso.

“That’s impossible!” he said, touching the canvases with his hand. “Are they real?” he thought, when somebody’s voice made him turn around abruptly.

“You’re finally back.”

Chad saw a tall and attractive blonde coming closer to him with a martini in her hand. Seeing a woman in his house startled him. Had he become straight or something? That would have been ridiculous.

“Who are you?” he asked hesitantly.

“Who am I?” The blonde frowned and sat on the couch. “When are you going to stop mocking me?” He caught an angry note in her voice. “Sometimes I wonder if you despise me.”

“I don’t know why I…”

“I’m your fucking cover!” she snapped.

“My cover?” he asked cautiously. “And what about Martin? Where is he?”

“Martin?” she repeated. “I thought it was Dave; anyway, I don’t keep track of your boyfriends.” She rose and came closer to him. “Kevin called, he said you two had an agreement for a special photo shoot tomorrow. He asked if you could call him back.” She hesitated. “You look good.” She made an unsuccessful attempt to smile and went up the stairs.

Chad took a deep breath when she’d gone away. So this was what his life looked like now? Being a closet gay and having a girlfriend as a cover? And who was Kevin? Chad wondered if he knew Martin at all. There were too many questions he needed to answer. To start somewhere, he decided to read everything he could find about himself on the internet. His girlfriend was called Rebecca George and, according to official information, they’d been together since the previous winter, despite the persistent rumor that he was gay. He also read there was a world tour planned for him, but it hadn’t been confirmed yet. He couldn’t find a lot of information about his manager apart from his name – K. Baumann.

The next morning, he was woken up by the shrill ring of his cell phone. Still half-awake, he looked for it among his things. Who was calling him at this ungodly hour? He looked at his watch; it was seven. Chad never got up earlier than ten.

“Hello,” he answered angrily, but heard the fresh and cheerful tone of a man on the other side.

“Did I wake you, sleepyhead? Get out of bed. We have work to do at eight thirty on 1446 E Washington Blvd.”

“God!” Chad exclaimed. “Who is this?”

The voice on the other end laughed loudly.

“Nice try, buddy, but I want you in front of BOXeight at eight thirty. Don’t be late.” With this the call ended. Chad stared at the screen of his phone – he saw the name Kevin Baumann as well as a picture of him. He remembered that his manager had the same surname and that, according to his girlfriend, he had called the day before. He smiled at the thought of having a girlfriend. Speaking of which, where was she? He went out of the room and saw several doors along the corridor. The first led to the kitchen and the next to the bathroom. In the third room, he saw a bed and a woman sleeping in it. Chad recognized Rebecca by the color of her hair. On going out, he quietly closed the door. He had breakfast, took a shower, and was ready to go. He reached the agreed place in his Ferrari. BOXeight was an art, music, and design studio in Los Angeles. Chad immediately spotted several photographers and cameramen smoking out front. He glanced at his watch – it was eight twenty. He wondered where his manager, who had interrupted his sweet dreams, was. He was about to come closer to his fellow photographers when suddenly paparazzi and photojournalists jumped out of nowhere and surrounded him.

“Mr. Keeney, what are your plans for an international tour? When does it begin?”

“Will you confirm the rumor you’ve recorded a duet with Beyoncé?”

“Is it true your girlfriend is pregnant by another man?” an obnoxious person asked him, sneering.

Chad felt a compelling desire to punch the impudent reporter, but he managed to control himself.

“And how would you comment on the persistent rumors that you’re actually gay and your girlfriend is just a cover?” another reporter said.

“People, leave me alone! Don’t you have at least a bit of humility and mercy?” He turned his back to them, but they didn’t give up – they kept throwing questions at him and taking photos. At some point, however, the reporters drew back from him. Chad was wondering what the reason was when one of them exclaimed:

“Kevin Baumann!”

Chad turned around. He saw a stumpy, well-built man in his forties getting out of a BMW.

“Mr. Baumann, what are your plans regarding Chad Keeney’s international tour?”

“Are there any set dates yet? Where are you going to start from?” another reporter asked.

Baumann gave them a disparaging look. “No comment,” he snapped and quickly went to Chad. “What’s up, buddy? Let’s get into the studio!”

Most of the paparazzi had already gone. Just a few of them were walking a short distance from them, hoping to catch some bit of confidential information.

“I’ve arranged a video in support of UNICEF’s campaign. We need to take care of your image,” Baumann explained as they walked down the corridor.

“And how about the international tour?” Chad asked tentatively. He was terrified by the thought that the paparazzi knew more about him than he did.

“Why are you asking me again?” Baumann paused. His lips drew into a smile. “I thought we discussed it already? Or have you changed your mind?” The producer stared at him.

“No, no,” Chad laughed nervously. “It’s just, how should I say it, some moments escape me; I’ve had a hard week and…”

“Jesus, buddy, are you developing Alzheimer’s or something? Isn’t it too early for that?” Baumann patted him firmly on the shoulder, and Chad groaned slightly. Reaching the end of the corridor, Baumann opened a door and they found themselves in a spacious studio. Chad gaped with amazement – he had worked at many and various photography studios, but this one was several classes up from all of them. He was surprised, considering how run-down the building looked from outside. He took a step forward hesitantly. On one of the chairs, there was a T-shirt with UNICEF’s logo on it.

“Can we start?” the photographer asked and came closer to them.

“Yes, I can’t wait!” Chad’s eyes lit up – there was Dirk Bryant standing in front of him. He knew his work and was a fan. He couldn’t believe he was going to be photographed by Dirk Bryant himself.

“All right, take off your shirt and put on the UNICEF T-shirt,” Dirk instructed. “Tell me when you’re ready.” His hands were already adjusting the camera lens.

After a while, Chad raised a thumb in a sign of confirmation.

Meanwhile, one of the paparazzi was peeking in from behind a door that had been left ajar. He couldn’t believe his luck – he could take some exclusive photos even before the charity campaign started. He wondered how much the newspaper publishing house would pay for his photographs – 500 dollars, a thousand? Could he ask for a bigger payment?

“I’m afraid that’s all, pal.” Baumann, who had been sitting by the door, closed it right under the paparazzo’s nose. The latter cursed his luck – he had just missed a hot story.