She watched the boy leave with great curiosity, only hurrying toward her agent's office when she heard Jonathan Friedman calling her.
But Jonathan just motioned for her to sit first, then started whispering instructions to Owen Wright, who'd been called in too.
She could only wait patiently, not daring to show any dissatisfaction, though she envied that boy inside. To get such serious attention from Jonathan—could he be from a Hollywood family?
The thought popped up but was quickly dismissed; his clothes looked nothing like a rich kid's.
Pretending not to notice, she still overheard Jonathan telling Owen to draft a contract based on his notes and copy a script—obviously related to that boy.
What a lucky guy. Good thing he was a boy—no competition for her. But Pasadena and the others might have a rival now.
Thinking that, she felt a tiny spark of schadenfreude.
Once Owen left, Jonathan turned to her business.
NBC had axed Family Ties after all—this was her first starring TV role. But she wasn't too upset; she wanted to be a movie star anyway. TV was just to build credits.
Jonathan had just been promoted to WMA vice president. Sure, any agent with big clients got a VP title easily, but at WMA, it should mean more opportunities for her.
Her agent didn't disappoint.
Warner Bros. was prepping a fantasy comedy called Beetlejuice, fifteen-million-dollar budget—a big production, same as Top Gun. Jonathan had snagged her an audition for a meaty supporting role. Plus a lead in an MGM TV movie—both next week.
She left happily with the audition materials.
In the parking lot, she got her car, turned onto Camino Street, thought a bit, and headed south toward Olympic Boulevard back to Santa Monica. Rush hour—Wilshire to the north would be a nightmare.
Traffic on Olympic was indeed lighter. She drove two or three minutes, almost out of Century City, when she spotted a figure ahead: cheap black T-shirt, faded jeans, light gray canvas backpack—definitely that guy.
And in his shabby, down-and-out getup, walking along the sunset-lit urban road with cars streaming by, he gave off a wandering-the-world vibe, like a lone drifter poet.
Drawn in, she unconsciously slowed and pulled toward the curb.
This guy's got a great build.
The thought flitted lightly through her mind as she rolled down the window and called to the roadside figure: "Hey."
...
Leaving WMA headquarters, Simon used Kathryn's contact from a phone booth to call her, wanting to tell her he'd signed with Jonathan Friedman.
No answer, so he left a message.
Then he started planning his next move for lodging.
Renting an apartment was out for now—motel it was.
Price-wise, options abounded.
But in L.A., safety was a big deal. No car meant he couldn't stay too far from WMA HQ.
Weighing Hollywood to the north versus Santa Monica to the east, he picked Santa Monica. Memories told him cheap motels lined both sides of the 405 freeway cutting through Beverly Hills and Santa Monica.
Decision made, he headed south on Camino, then turned onto Olympic. Santa Monica was about four or five miles away—a hour's walk at most; no rush.
After twenty minutes or so, he sensed a white sedan easing toward him. Puzzled, a girl's greeting came from the lowered window.
Driver's side on the left; Simon peered in—it was Courteney Cox from WMA.
Stepping into Hollywood, signing with a giant like WMA, Simon knew he'd meet plenty of faces he'd only seen on screen before. So running into Friends' "Monica" earlier hadn't fazed him much.
Surprised she was initiating now, he still replied politely: "Hi."
Courteney Cox saw the boy outside the window looking at her with bright eyes. She waved vaguely. "Um, we met in Jonathan's office. I live in Santa Monica—need a ride?"
"Sure, thanks."
Simon nodded with a smile. The curb was painted bold red—no parking—so he didn't hesitate, opening the door.
Courteney Cox moved the audition materials from the passenger seat to the back. Once Simon was in and settled, she hit the gas.
When the car was steady, she glanced at him via the rearview mirror. "I'm Courteney Cox. You?"
"Simon Westeros."
Simon replied, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror.
Courteney Cox was early twenties now, with tomboy-short hair, slim face making her eyes look huge—full of spark. Pretty overall, but still green, lacking the flair from later Friends.
"Oh," Courteney nodded, shifting her eyes from the mirror to the road ahead, searching for a topic. "So, you and Jonathan go way back?"
Simon shook his head. "Nah, friend intro—first time today."
"Impressive, chatting over an hour on a first meet. Just got to L.A.? Actor?"
"Nope, screenwriter."
Courteney twisted her head in surprise, then quickly looked forward. "Even more impressive."
First encounter, their chat stayed superficial.
Minutes later, past the 405 into Santa Monica proper, less than a mile on, Simon signaled her to pull over and drop him.
Bidding her goodbye, Simon started hunting for a spot in Santa Monica's streets.
As remembered, motels were plentiful nearby.
But learning he had no bank cards of any kind, wanted long-term but couldn't prepay enough deposit—most turned him away.
After several blocks, he finally found one willing, in a lane near the southern edge.
The owner, Diego Salcado, was Spanish descent, sixties, first-gen immigrant. After some heavy-accented English, Simon tried Spanish—and they hit it off.
Boss agreed to rent a single room upstairs by the road: $100 weekly. Simon paid $50 deposit upfront, then weekly after.
Clearly spotting his tight finances, the boss kindly noted no need for housekeeping tips—his wife handled that.
The whole thing reinforced that "master a foreign language" truism.
Signing took the whole next day.
To avoid surprises, Simon pored over the twenty-plus-page contract meticulously. No lawyer funds, but memory knowledge sufficed. He even renegotiated some details with Jonathan Friedman.
Contract signed, now wait.
Even if Jonathan loved Butterfly Effect, sales weren't overnight—some scripts lingered years. Simon was mentally prepped.
But though three-year deal with Jonathan Friedman, he wasn't hanging everything on WMA blindly.
A clause: if Jonathan couldn't sell three consecutive scripts, Simon could terminate after the third's three months, provided full term over nine months.
WMA deal done, Simon tackled livelihood.
This came easier than the rest.
Two days, he landed a job at a decent-sized supermarket in mid-Santa Monica.
Griffin Supermarket, 24-hour independent store. When middle-aged, pudgy owner Roger Griffin saw this good-looking kid nail stocking, inventory, stacking, even cashiering—he pegged Simon as a keeper and hired him on the spot.
Pay-wise, maybe figuring Simon as a broke Hollywood hopeful, Roger was stingy: bare minimum $3.50 hourly.
One perk: weekly pay. Simon'd get $140 each week—enough for basics.
But third day on the job, a snag: a week ago checking in, under $100 in pocket, paid $50 deposit.
Now.
First week's rent due; Griffin's payday not yet.