THIRTY TWO: 'KYLES' & THE ART OF LOSING MY PANTS

‘Hello!’s freelancing job turned out to be interviewing some barely dressed woman with huge, over glossed lips the Brits decided to christen as the new ‘Pop Princess’

I was prepped on Brit tabloid protocol on part of being a clueless ‘Yank’ (I’m offended to say the least), so Priscilla, the bubbly features journalist took a break from her article (Have Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley finally divorced?) to give me a crash course on London’s streets (‘Pitt is for the shopping and Oxford is where all the most fabulous stores are!’) just so I could navigate my way through and avoid being tragically (but fashionably) late for my first freelancing job.

Talk about traffic, I thought NY was bad!

But I have to admit, taxi drivers around here are the same as over in the US- they know little English are more lost with direction than the English words they know and take the longest route there, and as I got out of the cab, I had a suspicious feeling he had taken me a mile longer than was necessary.

So I stumbled in, not really knowing what I was doing, where I was going, until I spoke to some butch guy posted like an English guard at a door.

“’Round yer left, she’s ge’in ‘er make up done”

“Thanks” was all I managed; I was so intimidated by his cold glare, I could barely breathe.

So I met this tiny woman (I mean tiny, as in five feet) and I was so afraid she was going to fly away, I made her sit before I began my interview.

She was nice enough, but she must have been a little worried about my ‘american twang’

“You’re not English are you?”

“Er… no….”

She withered at me with one heavily made up ‘starry night blue’ eye outlined in ‘charcoal’ mascara, while poising one carefully manicured finger on her high ‘tawny’ cheekbones.

“I’ve just never been interviewed by you before” she shrugged, while generating this svelte, shiny smile. “I was told Belyndah was interviewing me today”

“She had a little accident in her bathroom this morning. I’m her replacement”

“Oh” was all she said before she picked up a fridge cold bottle of Evian and brought it to her lips when suddenly, someone motioned her to move along.

“Where’s your photographer?”

I held up the trusty Nikon, and waved it around “Right here” I said.

She just gave me this snooty once over before she walked out, an entourage of personnel following her smoother-than-a –slide walk.

Her publicist came up to me and shook my hand vigorously “Chloe Bellamy, Kylie’s publicist. Are you a professional photographer?”

I shook my head, as she gave me this phony, apologetic smile and said “Well, Kyles’ best angle is her left, perhaps not fourty five degrees, but maybe about fourty three, forty degrees…”

“Okay” I managed to squeak as she patted me condescendingly before leaving me alone.

The lights finally dimmed, and a bevy of dry ice clouded the bottom of the stage, as fans in the back began to scream.

I looked up, poised with the camera when a familiar beat pumped out; my mind reeled as I tried desperately to match the track from my memory, but an explosion of dry ice clouded and then; I remembered.

  Oh My God- Backstreet was back again.


  Shit.

  I almost lost my pants in the middle of the performance!

I was you, know doing my thing when Nick or someone must have tripped on the wire that I connected to, and the pact clipped to the band of my pants- yup, just about ripped em down!

 Just as my eyes lowered enough to fix it, my mind went into overdrive.

 Oh no. Not now.

A huge silver camera hung from her neck, her mouth gaped open in horror, as her eyes fixated on my moves.

  What the fuck was she doing here?  

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