Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

Authors Notes: Thank you so much to my amazing team: LisaDawn75, my wifey for all intents and purposes and beta, plus my fabulous team of pre-readers: NeonBurning, TantalizingTwi, LydiaEstelle and naurarwen, You ladies rock my world.

More at the bottom.

The Pap Who Loved Me.

Chapter One – Simple Shots

"BELLA!"

"BELLA! TO YOUR RIGHT!"

"LOOK UP!"

"COME ON! TURN AROUND!"

"BELLA! OI! LOOK UP!"

"BELLA! THIS WAY PLEASE!"

Smile, turn, hand on my hip. Smile. Love them with your eyes. Turn around, show off the dress. Look happy. Look like you want to exist...

And move on to the next crowd. Don't forget to smile at them and thank them.

On the red carpet, it's simple. You stand, you pose, and you let them get their shot. Your publicist pulls you away, and you move onto the next pen. You will pose alone and then with your co-stars. It's easy, and it's safe.

Apart from the fucking freezing cold weather and teeny-tiny and hideously thin designer dresses, it's okay. You'd think that with designers begging for me to wear their gowns, I'd have enough clout to say, "Actually, you know what, Mr Gucci? It's fucking December. How about you make me a pretty dress out of wool? You know, maybe with a sheepskin lining?" But no, it's lace... with a few beads. And yes, it looks awesome, and I really like it... but it's freaking cold, and the last thing I want to do is stand over and over again in front of the paparazzi.

Nipple-Ons are so last year, yet as soon as they're visible, zoomed in pictures are everywhere. Some people even consider chilled-nips to be along the same lines as up-skirt shots. Seriously? My nipples through my dress or the entire world getting a peek at my coochie as I get out of the car? I know which one is better.

I quite like the idea of looking like a human Ugg Boot. I seriously think it's a step forward. Screw being voted Best Dressed. I'd rather be warm and comfortable.

But like I said, the premiere's are not so bad. It's controlled. They know what I'm doing here – they can't question that. They know what they're getting. Me, promoting my new movie, dressed up to the nines, with makeup artist on hand and family waiting for me inside the theatre.

Off the carpet, however, it's a totally different story. It's scary, and it's dangerous. It's all about car chases and denial of freedom. They lurk around every corner as though they're trying to catch me out somehow.

When you are a young celebrity in Los Angeles, your life isn't your own. Every move you make is recorded and scrutinized. You go out and get a cheeseburger, and five minutes later, a blog has published that you have bulimia. You meet a friend for lunch, and you're automatically cheating on your partner. And God forbid, you ever have to visit the hospital...

I'm used to hearing camera shutters now, but they still make me jump as I walk out of my house and get into my vehicle.

Some of them talk. Hell, some of them I even know by name. Some of them don't say a word. They just run, get in my face, and click away till they've got 'the shot'. It drives me crazy. Fucking hell, dude, I'm buying a goddamn cup of coffee. Why do you need to press that damn thing and take fifty photos of me handing over my three dollars and ninety five cents for my hazelnut latte?

I know what you're thinking: as a celebrity, it all comes as a part of the package. You wanted the fame, and stardom comes with its costs.

I didn't really ask for it, as such. If you'd asked me as a small child what I wanted to be when I grew up, I probably would have said that I'd have liked to be a nurse... or maybe a forensic scientist. But at the age of eleven, I was discovered by a little corporation known as Disney. And it all went on from there. By thirteen, I had two major motion pictures under my belt plus a kids' TV game show and my own a mini-series on The Disney Channel. By sixteen, I'd got two Kids' Choice awards, an Emmy, and a Golden Globe.

And by eighteen, I had added an MTV Music Award and an Oscar nomination to my collection... Oh, and I was also apparently in rehab.

Only I wasn't. Wrong place, wrong time, and a shit load of Chinese whispers. Long story short, I was photographed smoking pot with a friend. I was an idiot... Oh, and I may or may not also have had a crate of beer next to me ... so, clearly, I was obviously a pothead and an alcoholic.

Disney dropped me like a sack of shit. There was no rehab, but I did have to prove to a lot of people that I wasn't just another child-star who'd run themselves into the ground before they were out of their teens. I think they were getting me confused with Lindsay Lohan. Nice girl, that Lindsay.

So, for the last four years and nine movies, I've not had a day's peace. Every time I set foot outside, I know they are going to be there. I don't even bother acknowledging them anymore. What's the point? I'd only end up flipping them the bird or telling them to fuck off. And what would that get me, really?

The blogs would fucking love it, I'm sure... again. It's such a damn controversy when I give people the finger. I have no idea why, and if I'm honest, I don't give a shit what people think. I don't care if it's tacky. I'm twenty two years old, damn it. It's not like I'm hurting anyone. If you don't like me, then don't stalk me.

I'm pulled back to reality by Tanya, my publicist, tapping me gently on the shoulder. "Bella, we need to move on. They want you to stand with Garrett and Emily next."

Great. My secretly fucking co-stars.

I nod and flash Tanya a small smile before turning back to the first of the press-pits, giving them a small wave and a nod – which in my world was universal for 'thank you very much for photographing me and making yourselves a few bucks.'

"OI! BELLA, DON'T GO! COME ON, GIVE US A SMILE! TURN AROUND."

I sigh and put on my best happy face before shooting them all a dazzling smile over my shoulder. The shutters echo, and I'm momentarily stunned by the bright flashes off their cameras. The back of my dress is awesome, I know it, as do they as they're happily snapping away, getting their shots.

I really want to flip them off. Get everyone talking. But apparently it's not red carpet etiquette, and seeing as there will be kids watching the movie, flipping the birdie might not be the best idea. The press will be all over it like a rash, and bad press... it's, well, bad press. Tanya would be mad, and she gets pissy when she has to do damage control.

Pissy Tanya isn't fun. Seriously, she is scary, and I sort of need her. She's far more useful when she's talking to me.

I want nothing more than to get these four inch heels off and put my raggedy old Chucks on, but apparently, they don't like Converse on the red carpet, either. It was only okay when I worked for The Mouse.

So, I carry on. I stop when I'm asked, I smile sweetly, and try and help them all get their shots. I make a good impression, I remember who I'm wearing, and I try to answer the interview questions without 'umming' too much. I have a good chat with MTV's Josh, and thankfully, he sticks to the subject of the movie, which I'm grateful for. Others' attempt to go off topic and bring up my failed relationship with my ex-boyfriend of three years, Eric, who recently all but leapt out of the closet and married some dude called Tyler... whilst we were still dating.

Yeah. The press love me. I'm the successful twenty-two year old child actor brat who turns hunky actors gay. That's just me, Bella Marie. I'll just wait and see what the next thing will be, but I'm betting it's going to be lesbianism. I've not been called gay myself yet, so I think it's about time. Maybe they'll think I'm doing Tanya. We spend enough time together, after all, and she's the closest thing I have to a friend in the world.

When I've not pissed her off with my shenanigans, as she refers to my behaviour.

The movie is great. The after party in a huge hotel suite is pretty awesome. The director has left us each gift bags with little keepsakes from filming. The champagne flows freely, as usual, and I'm left a little worse for wear.

I like to party hard at these events, so it's almost five in the morning when I decide to call it a night, and along with my bodyguard, Steve, we head outside to get into the hired Audi.

I'm sure I stumble – a lot – on the way to the car. Steve has his arm around me as he shoves away the much larger men with their damn cameras who are literally screaming in my face.

"So, how was the movie? Are you happy with it?"

"Bella, have you been drinking tonight?"

"When are you going back to rehab?"

"Were you affected by Eric and his husband showing up tonight?"

I don't answer those questions; I just pull my beanie across my head and half run and half stumble into the car with Steve's help. I start to buckle up when I see a lone flash which comes from the front of the car. I glare out of the windshield and spot a hypnotic pair of green eyes just staring at me. Upon closer inspection, he clutches a camera tightly to his chest. I can't look away.

Like me, he dons a plain black beanie. He has a lot of stubble and pouty lips. Even through the semi-beard, I can see a delectable jaw line that calls out to be licked.

The camera flashes at me again.

I realise then I've seen this guy before. Over the last week, he seems to have appeared everywhere. The silent one.

Pissed, I yell out of the car, "Yo, Chaplin!" And then I do what it is I do best.

I fucking flip him the bird.

Flashes go wild and I smirk to myself as I recoil back into the soft leather interior of the Audi.

This is something different for me. I decided that I wanted to write a very strong appearing Bella. Some of you will get who I'm basing her character on. Please do let me know what you think.

This will update for now every fortnight. I'm writing and editing ahead, so If it goes well, updates will increase.