Sandra's home was in the Bird Streets enclave of Beverly Hills, right next to the star-packed Trousdale Estates.
The Range Rover turned into the quarter-acre estate, and before Simon had even stepped out, Sandra came jogging from the villa in a white dress with mesh straps at the waist.
Simon took in the packed driveway and the crowd milling near the house, hugged her, accepted the gift from Neil Bennett and passed it to her, then asked with genuine curiosity, "How did it turn into such a big crowd?"
Sandra kept her arm looped through his after the hug, cradling the gift as they walked toward the villa. "I really just wanted something quiet. But starting two weeks ago, people kept asking about my birthday and whether Simon Westeros would show up. I couldn't exactly say no; that would have been embarrassing. And then it snowballed into this."
Simon laughed. "You should have told me sooner. I'd have lent you the Palisades place."
Sandra rolled her eyes. "No thanks. I can't afford the kind of production your birthday party turned into."
It was already evening when they stepped inside. Conversations—real or pretended—halted as nearly every guest turned to look.
Daenerys Entertainment had been burning brighter than ever in Hollywood lately. Both summer releases, Pulp Fiction and Basic Instinct, were massive hits, and the company had stormed television with Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, delivering ratings that left the industry stunned.
The man responsible for all of it had naturally become the center of even greater attention.
There was plenty of controversy swirling around him, of course, but everyone understood the only currency that mattered in Hollywood: box office and ratings.
Deliver blockbuster films and hit shows, and the studios and networks would treat you like God.
Pulp Fiction and Basic Instinct had also minted a new crop of stars. To the countless actors forever chasing that kind of break, Simon was the deity who could catapult them to the top overnight.
With his crushing schedule, Simon had rarely appeared at parties recently, turning Sandra's birthday into a prime opportunity for many to get close to him.
As the first leading lady he had launched, their relationship fueled endless public and private rumors. No one imagined it was entirely innocent.
Sandra openly kept hold of his arm as they made a circuit through the crowd, and Simon greeted guests like the host for well over half an hour. When they finally stole a moment, they slipped upstairs to a quiet sitting room.
The house wasn't huge, but its location was prime. Facing south down a gentle slope, the terrace off the sitting room offered a clear view of downtown Los Angeles already beginning to sparkle with lights.
Sandra brought him a glass of red wine and perched on the edge of the daybed. Watching him lounge back and flip through a magazine, she handed over the glass and teased, "How come Janet didn't come?"
Simon took a sip, savoring the pleasant scent drifting from her. "Would you have wanted her here?"
Sandra leaned in and simply rested her head on his chest. "So—are you staying tonight?"
As a normal man, Simon had no objection to the closeness. But closeness was one thing; staying the night would invite real complications.
He shook his head with regret, imitating Janet's tone. "I have to be home by midnight."
"That strict, huh?" Sandra's face immediately showed disdain. She took his wrist, stole a tiny sip from his glass, and added, "Then dump her. I'd let you come home at two."
Simon steadied the goblet to keep it from spilling. "And what if I find someone who lets me stay out all night?"
Sandra frowned as though facing a genuine dilemma. After a moment she conceded, "We can negotiate."
"I don't like women without standards."
"Hmph. Spineless men who come home whenever a woman tells them to."
Male pride stung, Simon objected at once. "As if. I do what I want. To prove it, I'm leaving at eleven."
"Heh."
More guests kept arriving, and as hostess Sandra couldn't stay away long. After a little while upstairs, they headed back down.
When the crowd in the living room saw them descend together, everyone kept perfectly neutral expressions—though eyes betrayed varying degrees of knowing amusement, and a few women looked faintly disappointed.
Less than half an hour, after all.
Night fell, and the real festivities began.
The party wasn't as lavish as Simon's own birthday celebration earlier in the year, but it drew an impressive roster of Hollywood power players.
Top WMA executives and studio heads all put in appearances. Many stayed only briefly—exchanging pleasantries before slipping away—but even that was enough to make the aspiring talent in attendance green with envy.
Even Sandra herself understood perfectly well that most of them had come primarily for Simon.
Like Terry Semel's overture that afternoon, everyone in town knew Daenerys Entertainment was actively hunting new film projects.
Pulp Fiction and Basic Instinct had lined the pockets of partners Orion and Fox. Pulp Fiction had practically carried Orion's entire year. Hollywood insiders who had watched it happen were now scrambling to forge ties with Daenerys.
On the back lawn, Simon listened patiently as a producer named George Crane—introduced by Jonathan, pitched a script. "Nancy is a commodities trader in Chicago, but her performance is mediocre; she's even facing layoffs. By chance she meets the devil, Nack, who can clearly foresee the future. Desperate for success, Nancy makes a deal: her soul in exchange for market tips from Nack…"
Simon smiled. "George, it's an intriguing premise. But a commodities trader feels a little remote for most audiences."
George brightened as if a light had switched on. "That's a fair point, Simon. We could easily change her to a stock trader."
Simon had no intention of leading him on. A deal-with-the-devil story rarely broke new ground; it almost always ended with the heroine seeing the error of her ways, rejecting the devil's terms or passing his test, and finding true love.
"Here's what we'll do, George. Have someone drop the script at Daenerys tomorrow. If I like it, I'll reach out."
Hearing the polite brush-off, George understood the odds were slim. After a few more pleasantries, he tactfully withdrew.
Jonathan watched him go and said to Simon, "I actually liked that one. You don't see potential?"
Simon shook his head candidly. "The story's too familiar, and nothing in the pitch really stood out."
"Hollywood's never short on original scripts," Jonathan said, sharing hard-earned wisdom. He glanced at Sandra beside Simon and added, "Speaking of surprises—that A Fish Called Wanda you recommended to Sandy has been a revelation. It's tracking over sixty million domestic. With her ten percent all-channel profit share, she'll probably end the year as Hollywood's highest-paid actress."
Simon shrugged. "I was surprised too. I just thought the script was hilarious."
Jonathan smiled outwardly, but inwardly he doubted it was pure luck.
Having just heard a pitch about trading one's soul for foresight, he couldn't help feeling that everything Simon had accomplished—his Hollywood mastery and the billion-plus he'd made in index futures last year—looked suspiciously like the fruits of a demonic bargain.
He kept the thought to himself, of course. He wasn't an atheist, but the notion still felt absurd.
Once Jonathan moved on, Sandra wasted no time. She stroked Simon's arm and leaned close to whisper, "Hey—did you actually make a deal with the devil?"
Simon nodded with exaggerated mystery, glancing around. "Actually, it was an angel. I met her two years ago in the psych ward."
Sandra put on a theatrical gasp. "Introduce me."
Simon sighed dramatically. "Too bad. She's gone back to God."
As they murmured nonsense, a tall woman in a black evening gown approached—Nicole Kidman.
"Simon, Sandy—what are you two plotting?"
Sandra answered breezily, "Simon says he's met God."
Nicole blinked, then nodded. "Well… that's interesting."
Simon, feeling helpless—he was very much alive, after all, ignored Sandra and asked Nicole, "How's prep going on George's film?"
Though Daenerys still held two options on her, there was nothing ready yet, so Simon had allowed her to take George Miller's project first.
Similar circumstances applied to others under option, like Samuel L. Jackson and Meg Ryan.
"It's freezing in Australia right now. We probably won't start until September," Nicole said, her gaze lingering on Simon. "I hear you're planning to shoot Batman there."
"That's right," Simon confirmed. "Seasonal timing. Early next year will be ideal."
Nicole didn't bother hiding her interest. "Any chance there's a role for me? Even a small one would be fine."
Simon shook his head regretfully. "I wouldn't want to burn one of your options on a minor part."
"Then don't count it against the contract," Nicole said readily, adding with open flattery, "After all, who would turn down an invitation from Simon Westeros?"
The lively party flew by amid such conversations.
After ten o'clock, guests began leaving in waves. By nearly eleven, the house was almost empty.
Though attendance had been high, Sandra hadn't hired a professional cleanup crew.
Simon and Sandra saw off the last stragglers. Seeing her assistant Gina Colos tackling the mess alone in the living room, he offered, "Want to call someone to handle this?"
"Tomorrow's fine," Sandra said, sending Gina off to rest. She tugged Simon to the sofa, curled up against him, and asked again, "You really won't stay?"
Simon's fingers slipped through the mesh at her waist to tickle lightly. "You don't want to wake up on tomorrow's gossip pages, do you?"
Sandra laughed and swatted his hand away. "If it meant stealing Simon Westeros, I wouldn't mind at all."
Simon shook his head with a smile, leaned in for a goodbye kiss on the forehead—but Sandra wrapped her arms around his neck and claimed his lips instead.
They lingered on the sofa for a while longer before Simon finally stood to leave. Even if neither of them cared about rumors, he had to consider Janet's feelings.
The next day was Wednesday.
Though Simon hadn't stayed the night, his appearance at the birthday party still earned a splash in the tabloids—without causing much real stir. A twenty-year-old with fame and fortune beyond most people's dreams was expected to generate constant womanizing gossip; anything else would have seemed odd.
Simon paid it no attention. He had a far thornier problem to deal with: Rain Man.
Before last year's Good Morning, Vietnam, Barry Levinson—like Robin Williams—had been a solid but second-tier director, largely known from television. That film's $123 million domestic total exceeded the combined box office of everything he had previously directed.
Any director delivering a domestic hundred-million hit in this era became Hollywood royalty.
With his stock risen, Barry Levinson's ego and creative demands had risen accordingly. During Rain Man, he had indulged himself as freely as the two leads, contributing significantly to the budget overruns.
To keep the project from spiraling completely out of control, Simon had personally monitored filming. Once post-production began, he handed Barry a seventeen-page memo compiled from weeks of dailies, urging him to incorporate the notes during editing.
And then the trouble truly started.
Lately Simon kept hearing that Barry was openly complaining about his "overreach" on Rain Man. If Daenerys hadn't quashed a story, it would already have run in The Hollywood Reporter.
Michael Ovitz had negotiated a full month of post-production editing time for Barry in the original contract.
Simon hadn't foreseen the current situation and, respecting the original team, had agreed. He now regretted it.
Fortunately, the month was finally over.
Simon made it clear he would view the rough cut—and he would not compromise.
In the screening room at Daenerys headquarters.
The rough cut ran three and a half hours. Simon watched barely an hour before shutting off the projector himself. He turned to Barry Levinson beside him. "Barry, in just this hour I counted at least five specific details from my memo that are missing. I need an explanation."
Barry answered nonchalantly, "Simon, I think it works better this way. Those details you mentioned—I felt they weren't essential."
Simon held his gaze. "Or, Barry, you left them out on purpose."
Barry met his eyes without flinching. "Simon, I really don't appreciate interference in my work."
"But you need to understand," Simon's voice cooled, "I gave you this job. You've spent twenty-five million of my money—probably more—and that means you have an obligation to deliver something I'm satisfied with."
Barry's temper flared. "Westeros, I'm a director, not your servant. I'll make this film the best it can be according to my own vision. If you can't accept that, you shouldn't have hired me. Do you have any idea how many studios would hand me twenty-five million to direct?"
"Then it seems we're done here," Simon said, standing. He had no intention of wasting more words. "Daenerys will take full control of post-production from this point forward. And let me remind you, Barry—per your contract, you're obligated to protect the film's reputation. I don't want to hear you discussing Rain Man publicly again. It's in both our interests."