After more than seven hours on the road, the bus finally reached its destination in the evening.
Simon got off and stood on the street, looking around. Though he'd never been here himself, based on the information in his mind, he quickly figured out this was Burbank, in the northwestern San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles County. His ideal destination was still over the Santa Monica Mountains to the south.
On the other side of those mountains was Hollywood—the real, geographical Hollywood.
In the eighties, while many Hollywood studios had started migrating to the outskirts, most film-related production companies, distributors, agencies, and the like were still clustered on those world-famous streets in Hollywood proper.
Kathryn followed Simon off the bus and stood on the roadside, glancing around. Her friend who'd agreed to pick her up hadn't arrived yet, so she turned to Simon beside her.
What she'd expected to be a tedious journey had turned fulfilling because of this young man. After swapping and reading each other's scripts, they'd spent the rest of the trip chatting animatedly about all sorts of topics.
Though he was much younger, there were moments when Kathryn felt like she was the naive newcomer in front of him.
It was hard to imagine how this guy had accumulated such vast knowledge—whether on film, music, or even her own field of painting, or countless other subjects, he could discuss them effortlessly and insightfully. In just a few short hours, she'd even felt like she'd learned a thing or two.
As they were about to part ways, Kathryn suddenly realized that aside from his name and that he was coming to L.A. probably to become a screenwriter, she knew almost nothing else about Simon. Yet she'd been subtly guided into spilling a ton about herself—like growing up in San Francisco, this trip home to see her parents, her time in Manhattan's SoHo, why she got interested in film and wanted to direct, and so on.
If he'd done it on purpose, that was downright sneaky.
But thinking back, she hadn't really asked him much; his topics had kept her plenty occupied.
Simon finished surveying the area and turned to Kathryn, catching her looking at him. He nodded with a smile.
Along the way, Simon had noticed a stark contrast between Kathryn's personality and her film style. Her on-screen characters often killed, set fires, and cursed without restraint, living wildly. But in real life, Kathryn was quiet, soft-spoken, even shy.
Of course, Simon didn't find it too odd—this kind of near-schizophrenic split between real life and artistic work was common among all sorts of creators.
With that in mind, he asked her, "Kathryn, no one's picking you up?"
"Yeah, but they haven't arrived yet," Kathryn hadn't quite formulated what she'd wanted to say, but hearing him speak first, she shook her head and asked back, "What about you?"
Simon shrugged. "I was hoping we could share a ride, split the fare."
"I live in Malibu," Kathryn pointed west. "Where are you headed? If it's on the way, I could give you a lift when they get here."
"Malibu—nice place," Simon said with a grin. "How about taking me in? I can cook, do laundry, clean—room and board is all I need."
Kathryn gave him a mild glare, her way of scorning such mooching, but then explained seriously, "I'm staying with a friend myself; I can't just take you in."
Simon chuckled—he was just kidding, of course. Even if she agreed, he'd politely decline.
Not because he couldn't stomach "mooching" off Kathryn, but because deep down, he had a strong aversion to staying in someone else's home. He preferred having his own place.
Though that might not happen for a long while.
But hearing her mention staying with a friend, Simon suddenly recalled something.
A friend?
Could it be James Cameron?
In the original timeline, Kathryn and Cameron had been married—it was a big deal the year The Hurt Locker won the Oscar: The Hurt Locker vs. Avatar, ex-wife vs. ex-husband.
Rifling through his mental info, Simon quickly dismissed the idea.
Cameron's wife right now was still Gale Anne Hurd, producer of The Terminator and basically his big break. They'd just married last year. Cameron wasn't exactly faithful, but they wouldn't divorce for another three or four years.
Kathryn, oblivious to Simon's thoughts, finished explaining and added, "Simon, since you don't know anyone in L.A. and you're aiming to be a screenwriter, you'll need an agent, right? Maybe I can help."
Though Simon had his own plans, he perked up at her words. "Really? I mean, if it's not too much trouble?"
"Of course not," Kathryn shook her head. "But I can only introduce you. Convincing them to take you on—that's up to you. WMA—you know it? It's a solid agency."
WMA (William Morris Agency)—Simon knew it well. Founded at the end of the nineteenth century, it was still Hollywood's biggest talent agency to this day.
Of course, from what Simon knew, WMA wasn't in great shape right now, but a skinny camel is still bigger than a horse. And WMA was far from skinny—it could crush a herd of camels. Landing there would save him a ton of hassle.
After all, while Hollywood stars often claimed they got discovered randomly while shopping, eating, or walking, leading to instant fame...
Don't buy it—ninety-nine percent of those stories were bogus. Just check any star's IMDb page: see how many years passed from their first gig to their breakout role. Their paths to success were anything but straight.
Though he had advantages no one else could match, Simon had been prepared to grind in Hollywood for three to five years. At eighteen, he had time.
But if Kathryn could give him a leg up, he wasn't about to play coy and turn it down.
They walked to a nearby payphone booth. Kathryn dug out a phone book from her bag, flipped through it for a bit, then dialed.
Simon waited patiently beside her.
After chatting with the other end for a while, she covered the receiver and turned, whispering, "Simon, how do you spell 'Westeros'?"
He spelled it out immediately: "W-e-s-t-e-r-o-s."
Kathryn nodded, turned back, talked for another minute or so, then hung up.
"Good thing Mr. Friedman was still in the office—I forgot it was after hours. But WMA's been chaotic lately; overtime's normal." Kathryn said a bit sheepishly, jotting something quickly on her phone book with a pen, tearing it out, and handing it to Simon. "Tomorrow afternoon at four, William Morris headquarters. Don't be late. Tell the front desk you have an appointment; someone will take you. If not, call this number."
Simon nodded and glanced at the note.
At the top: a name, Jonathan Friedman—obviously the Mr. Friedman she'd mentioned. Then 150 Camino Street, Beverly Hills—likely WMA's HQ address. Finally, a phone number.
He tucked the note into his wallet. Seeing her pick up her bag, he suddenly remembered and said, "Kathryn, what about you? I mean, if things go south and I'm starving on the streets, I need to know how to find you for help."
Hearing that, Kathryn rolled her eyes lightly but pulled out her phone book again to write, teasing as she did, "If you can starve with two hands and feet, I'm not bailing you out."
As they talked, a loud car horn blared from the roadside. A wine-red Ford pulled up, and the woman in the driver's seat eagerly stuck her head out the window. "Kate, gotcha! Hey, kid, hop in—don't chat up random big sisters on the street; they'll drag you into an alley and eat you up."
Kathryn handed Simon the contact info, looking exasperated at the woman in the car. "Jenny, you're late again."
"Maybe I shouldn't have come—probably interrupting, huh?" The woman named Jenny pushed open the door, stepped out with a grin, and extended a hand to Simon. "Janet Johnston. What's your name, kid?"
Simon eyed the woman: pink tight T-shirt with fancy English lettering, high-waisted jeans, shoulder-length fluffy blonde hair. Not as pretty as Kathryn, but in heels, she was tall and curvaceous, her well-maintained looks making her age hard to guess.
But Simon could sense a bit of wildness in her personality.
And really, driving in heels?
Thinking that, he still shook her hand politely and introduced himself: "Simon Westeros."
"Weird last name," Janet Johnston muttered, then gave him a thorough once-over, looking quite pleased. She turned to Kathryn. "So, Kate, let's take him home!"
Kathryn stowed her luggage in the car's back seat and came over. "Jenny, quit joking. Let's go."
Janet clearly wasn't letting them off easy. She hooked her arm through Kathryn's to keep her from leaving, but her eyes fixed on Simon curiously. "Kid, looks like you're new to L.A. too—came with Kate? Hmm, let me guess: you're from San Francisco area, right? Which city? Asking for Kate, of course."
Simon saw Kathryn looking over with some curiosity too. He thought for a second. "Probably San Jose."
Janet shot him a dissatisfied side-eye, drawing out her words: "How interesting—'probably.'"
Simon shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't have a home. Just grew up in San Jose."
"How could anyone not have a home?" The blunt Janet didn't catch on right away, ignoring Kathryn's tug on her arm as she pressed, "So where'd you live before coming to L.A.?"
Simon curved his lips into a harmless smile. "Watsonville Mental Hospital."