Famous Read Online Free PDF Page B

WITHOUT MY CAMERA. Or even worse than naked, since these days who cares if you’re naked? The camera represents who I am. It’s my identity. With it, I’m a sixteen-year-old celebrity photographer. (And maybe something of a celebrity myself?) Without it, who am I?
    What am I?
    The answers to these questions will have to wait. Right now I just need to find my Nikon. I try to remember last night. Not that it should be difficult; it’s just that out here, day and night, and day after day, blend together into a sort of nonstop repetition of the same thing overand over again. Last night was a party. But even on nights when there’s no “official” party there’s a loose semiparty atmosphere. People come and go, appear and disappear—Willow’s friends, gofers, security guard, personal assistant, therapist, masseur, agents, magazine photographer (me!), pool guy, gardeners, cook—in an unending looping parade.
    As best as I can remember, I had my camera with me early this morning when I came upstairs to find a place to sleep. Before that I’d gone out to the guesthouse—where I’d been “assigned” when I first arrived earlier this week—but the door was locked, so I’d wandered back to the main house and found this room. Normally I would have put the camera on a night table or dresser, but since there is no furniture in the room, I left it on the floor beside the mattress, and close to the wall so I wouldn’t accidentally step on it if I got up in the middle of the night, or day, or whatever.
    So where is it? I check the bathroom. Not there either. I walk barefoot out into the hallway with the straps of the Manolos hooked through my fingers, then downstairs and out across the grassy lawn to the guesthouse (whoever locked me out last night has now left, leaving beer cans, cigarette butts, and an unmade bed) to put on a pair of sneakers. Leaving the guesthouse, I’m once again struck by the clarity of the air this morning. Perhaps I just didn’t realize before how much the famous LA smogfiltered and softened the light. But today every detail—every leaf, blade of grass, and ripple in the pool—feels extra crisp. If only I had my camera! I head toward the pool, where Zach, the house boy, and Daphne, the house techie, are straightening up from last night’s frolic.
    â€œEither of you see a camera?” I ask.
    â€œThink I saw one on the kitchen counter,” Zach says.
    The kitchen counter?
That’s weird. I don’t recall even being in the kitchen last night. I was mostly out around the pool.
    Passing through the French doors, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee is in the air, and there on the marble kitchen counter, where I swear I wouldn’t—couldn’t—have left it, is my Nikon.
    â€œBuenos dìas, Miss Jamie. You like some breakfast?” Maria, the Mexican cook, hands me the mug of coffee she knows I crave. “Fresh fruit maybe? Eggs over easy?”
    â€œFresh fruit sounds great, thanks.” I sit down at the counter and gaze out past the shimmering crystal blue pool to the unused tennis court, the perfect lawn, and the tall green hedge that hides the twelve-foot-high wall around the property.
    Maria slides a bowl of fresh strawberries, pineapple, melon, and orange slices in front of me. I thank her and wonder if today will be any different from the previous days. To an easterner, the weather out here has an uncanny consistency, which only adds to the endless sameness.
    The camera rests on the marble counter beside me while I sip my coffee. Now that it’s back in my sight, my anxiety has evaporated. I didn’t take many shots at the party last night. Willow asked me not to. Does that sound crazy? After all, I’m here on assignment, right? Document a week in Willow’s life, they said.
    But “they” are Willow’s management, and “they” have made it clear that my