Camera Shy Read Free

floor and closed the door with her foot, leaning on it and exhaling slowly.
    One week. No one to bother her, talk to her, keep her company. One last chance to get her head straight.
    She surveyed her new surroundings. The cabin was rustic and spacious, with a wood stove, and cozy, perfectly matched furnishings. The liquor cabinet in the corner was, as Anne-Marie promised, empty.
    Not to worry. In spite of her promise to her agent-friend-surrogate mom, Simone had stopped along the way and bought a few things.
    Guilt gnawed at her. Less than two hours in Tofino and already she had given in to the temptation to drink herself stupid and wallow in self pity. Better a night with a bottle than with a man . She cursed under her breath. How long had it been? Weeks? Months? She couldn't even remember. Entirely too long , said her body. Probably not long enough , said her rational side that was about to take a swim in some Smirnoff. The bottle would have to do, because she wasn't going to find a man here in Tofino, and at least the bottle wouldn't talk to the tabloids. She sat on the sofa and reached into the paper bag beside her. A bottle of Smirnoff. A jug of orange juice. And from her duffel bag, the stack of tabloids she probably should have left in her trailer in L.A.
    "Just tonight," she promised herself, unscrewing the first bottle cap. "Just one night, then I'll get it together."

    After she poured the juice and the vodka, she picked up one of the gossip rags. She was on the cover, on a beach somewhere, barely dressed and in the arms of—who was that? She couldn't even remember his name. Whoever he was, his arms were one place she definitely shouldn't have been, and with all the liquor that was flowing that weekend, she only vaguely remembered being there at all. Her boyfriend would never have known, but thanks to the blurry but damning photos, the entire world soon found out. She laughed bitterly, wondering how drunk she must have been that weekend if she thought she could do anything in secret.
    " Continues on Page Two !" The headline promised. Taking a long swallow, she turned the page to relive how badly the reporters crucified her. It took three drinks to get through the first magazine. Two more to get through the second. By the time she picked up the fourth magazine, she couldn't see straight enough through the alcohol and tears to read the headlines, let alone the articles. The pictures were blurring so much they made her sick to her stomach. She stopped reading and kept right on drinking.
    At some point, she stopped pouring the orange juice and drank the vodka straight. When her hand shook too much to pour it into the glass, she drank it right from the bottle. She forgot about the magazines, but the pictures were burned into her mind as she swam between drunk and unconscious. She thought she heard glass break, but didn't care.
    A blurry eternity passed and Simone opened her eyes. Daylight slammed into her eyes, threatening to cleave her head in two. She moaned and covered her face with her hands.
    The nausea followed, and she lurched to her feet—how had she ended up on the floor?—and ran for the bathroom. Panic seized her chest as she realized she didn't even know where the bathroom was, but she found it just in time. Just barely in time. When nothing more came up, she stumbled back to the living room and sank onto the couch, cradling her head in her hands. She dug in her purse and pulled a pair of sunglasses free. They did little to take the edge off. Her skull throbbed mercilessly.

    "Day one," she muttered. "Not going so well." She looked at the pile of wrinkled tabloids, and memories of the night before came trickling back. She had never before read all of them at once, had never bombarded herself with all of her sins—or at least, all the ones caught by the cameras. Seeing it all at once overwhelmed her. The vodka—most of the bottle, she saw now—
    had done little to numb the onslaught of shame and