studio – more as a gofer than an arranger – then hustled his way back across the States after an incident involving a black session vocalist, her equally black-tempered boyfriend, a damaged tape deck, and a wrecked Plymouth Fury (the latter due to Creed’s hasty and careless departure). It took him under a month to get back to New York where a job as a messenger for a fashion magazine got him interested in photography. He picked up what he could from the mag’s staff photographers and freelancers, but ended that particular career (which could have been promising, who knows?) when one day he borrowed a Leica from the studio to do some freelance work of his own and someone he didn’t know on the street ‘borrowed’ the camera from him. He wasn’t such an accomplished liar in those days, so he was collared soon enough.
Around the same time the authorities became interested in his activities, wondering why Joseph Creed didn’t appear to exist on any of their lists, particularly on those appertaining to work permits. The decision that he should return to England wasn’t his alone.
Within three months of his being home, his mother died miserably of a slow-failing heart (his father was long gone, but with a secretary, not an ailment) and with the small inheritance left to him, Creed bought himself the mews house which proved to be the wisest, not to say the only, investment he’d ever made. He had just enough left over to buy a few sticks of furniture and basic photographic equipment (like a camera and two rolls of film).
He took to life as a paparazzo like a duck to water or a pig to slime, finding he had an aptitude for the right moment, the right shot, in a profession where bravado was all and the photo-thief was king. A few lucky snaps got him under way and he soon established a certain reputation for himself with one or two pieces of derring-do. He took chances, he trod where devils feared to tread. He inveigled, he lied, he cheated. He gave his word and broke it. He had no regard for anybody’s – anybody’s – privacy. He was a pro. And so help him, he loved the smell of sleaze.
But lately – oh lately – something was lacking. One assignment seemed like the one before and the one after. They all had variations, of course, but essentially it was the same routine: hanging around, bored out of your skull, a sudden dramatic rush of adrenaline, the thrill lasting a couple of minutes at most, then waiting for the next fix, kicking your heels, wasting your time, married to your camera, cursing it when it let you down, loving it when it did all you asked; and you, yourself, scorned and courted in equal amounts – no, be real: scorned more than courted – cruising the streets when most good people were tucked up in bed, shrugging off indignities (Robert Redford had clipped Creed’s ear once), labelled a parasite by a society which, itself, fed off you.
These thoughts, and others, meandered through Creed’s mind during the down periods; at other times, when he was on a high, he had the greatest job in the world. Trouble was, the downs were exceeding the highs these days.
However.
Here he is, driving along Park Lane towards the Grosvenor House Hotel, his mood already beginning to lift. He’d checked it out earlier, had been thrown out the rear entrance, the staff entrance, the goods entrance (security being extra tight because of the visiting Royal) and had finally reached the conclusion that no way was he going to enter. Meanwhile, possibilities elsewhere could be pursued – the phone call earlier was from a publicist whose client, a fast-fading comedian of late-middle years, was celebrating his birthday with the latest bimbo in a BIG way at Annabel’s that evening (any publicity was good publicity when you were on the slide). Creed had covered that, particularly enjoying the moment when the estranged wife, along with the estranged daughter (who looked like a bimbo herself), doused the comedian’s
Around the same time the authorities became interested in his activities, wondering why Joseph Creed didn’t appear to exist on any of their lists, particularly on those appertaining to work permits. The decision that he should return to England wasn’t his alone.
Within three months of his being home, his mother died miserably of a slow-failing heart (his father was long gone, but with a secretary, not an ailment) and with the small inheritance left to him, Creed bought himself the mews house which proved to be the wisest, not to say the only, investment he’d ever made. He had just enough left over to buy a few sticks of furniture and basic photographic equipment (like a camera and two rolls of film).
He took to life as a paparazzo like a duck to water or a pig to slime, finding he had an aptitude for the right moment, the right shot, in a profession where bravado was all and the photo-thief was king. A few lucky snaps got him under way and he soon established a certain reputation for himself with one or two pieces of derring-do. He took chances, he trod where devils feared to tread. He inveigled, he lied, he cheated. He gave his word and broke it. He had no regard for anybody’s – anybody’s – privacy. He was a pro. And so help him, he loved the smell of sleaze.
But lately – oh lately – something was lacking. One assignment seemed like the one before and the one after. They all had variations, of course, but essentially it was the same routine: hanging around, bored out of your skull, a sudden dramatic rush of adrenaline, the thrill lasting a couple of minutes at most, then waiting for the next fix, kicking your heels, wasting your time, married to your camera, cursing it when it let you down, loving it when it did all you asked; and you, yourself, scorned and courted in equal amounts – no, be real: scorned more than courted – cruising the streets when most good people were tucked up in bed, shrugging off indignities (Robert Redford had clipped Creed’s ear once), labelled a parasite by a society which, itself, fed off you.
These thoughts, and others, meandered through Creed’s mind during the down periods; at other times, when he was on a high, he had the greatest job in the world. Trouble was, the downs were exceeding the highs these days.
However.
Here he is, driving along Park Lane towards the Grosvenor House Hotel, his mood already beginning to lift. He’d checked it out earlier, had been thrown out the rear entrance, the staff entrance, the goods entrance (security being extra tight because of the visiting Royal) and had finally reached the conclusion that no way was he going to enter. Meanwhile, possibilities elsewhere could be pursued – the phone call earlier was from a publicist whose client, a fast-fading comedian of late-middle years, was celebrating his birthday with the latest bimbo in a BIG way at Annabel’s that evening (any publicity was good publicity when you were on the slide). Creed had covered that, particularly enjoying the moment when the estranged wife, along with the estranged daughter (who looked like a bimbo herself), doused the comedian’s
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