Sandra leaned closer at his words, feigning curiosity. "What's Janet doing in France?"
"I'm planning to acquire some properties in Europe," Simon began to explain, only to spot Terry Semel weaving through the party crowd toward them. Surprised, he stood and shook hands. "Terry, I didn't expect you tonight. This is a pleasant surprise."
"Mel's here too—he's chatting with Pascal," Terry Semel replied with a smile, shaking Simon's hand before greeting Sandra. "Good evening, Miss Bullock. You look stunning tonight."
"Thank you, Mr. Semel."
Sandra rose with Simon and, sensing that Semel had business to discuss, excused herself politely.
Semel sat down beside Simon. "I heard there's been some trouble with the rating for Scream?"
Simon picked up his utensils, noting the genuine concern on Semel's face, and nodded. "It needs a few adjustments. Nothing major."
Unlike the broader Producers Guild, which represented hundreds of companies, the MPAA had always been controlled by the major studios, with its board largely composed of their top executives.
Whether Warner had a hand in the pressure on Scream's rating was impossible to say for certain.
Semel registered the calm in Simon's tone and understood he could not treat the young man as an outsider. Still, he added, "If there's anything I can do to help, just say the word."
Simon nodded politely. "Of course."
He had no intention, however, of taking Semel up on the offer. If Semel truly wanted to intervene, he could—but Simon had no wish to owe him a favor. Daenerys was not in the business of one-off deals; a debt today could mean concessions tomorrow.
He preferred a permanent solution.
Semel suddenly regretted opening with Scream and shifted topics. "About the soundstages. Simon, I know you chose Fox because it's closer to Malibu, but Warner's facilities could offer far more support and coordination."
Having turned down Semel's earlier proposal to buy the old MGM lot in Culver City, Daenerys still had to rent stages from the majors whenever needed.
With Simon back from Australia, preparations for Batman had accelerated. In recent days he had leased a dedicated soundstage at Fox for tests and rehearsals.
When Semel raised the issue, Simon let the previous subject drop and discussed Batman with him. A short while later Mel Gibson arrived with his wife Robyn Moore, and the conversation turned to Radio Flyer. [TL/N: Gibson later divorce this woman, and this woman managed to get $425M from him. Dunno if its true.]
Simon continued circulating, greeting guests and filling his plate. Sandra soon rejoined him and, without ceremony, claimed the role of his companion for the evening.
After a brief chat with Robert Iger, who had flown in from the East Coast, Madonna appeared at Simon's side in a low-cut white evening gown and pitched herself bluntly. "Simon, I hear you're prepping Lawrence Kasdan's The Bodyguard. How about me for the lead?"
Simon nodded to Iger, then shook his head at Madonna with equal directness. "Not a good fit."
Madonna frowned. "Rejecting a lady so bluntly is hardly gentlemanly."
Simon glanced around. "Where's Sean?"
The mention of Sean Penn drained the former affection from her tone. "He has his own life. We're not joined at the hip."
Timing suggested that after recently signing with CAA, Madonna had likely connected with Warren Beatty Hollywood's most notorious playboy and might even reprise her original-timeline role in his next film, Dick Tracy. Her marriage to Penn was presumably nearing its end.
Relationships in Hollywood came and went; Simon paid it little mind. Returning to the subject, he said, "Sorry, Maggie. We've already cast the female lead."
"Can I at least know who?" Madonna assumed he was brushing her off and glanced at Sandra. "It's not Sandy, is it?"
"Of course not," Simon said. "You'll know her, Whitney Houston."
Though several years ahead of schedule, Whitney Houston Madonna's near-contemporary had also dominated the music scene in recent years and was eager to break into film. Once Daenerys approached her, the deal came together quickly.
Madonna's expression turned dismissive at the name. "Simon, Whitney Houston is Black. If you didn't want me, you didn't have to cast a Black woman. I read the script it's a romance."
Simon was unsurprised by the edge in her voice. Sandra wore a similarly questioning look.
"Whitney's fame more than compensates for any perceived drawback," Simon explained. "And the romance is understated nothing that makes her casting inappropriate."
"Fine, it's your money," Madonna said indifferently. As she turned to leave, she remembered something else. "By the way, Simon, remember our deal on the set of Pulp Fiction? You promised to play guitar at one of my concerts."
Of course he remembered; he had agreed to keep the queen cooperative.
"You don't have any concerts scheduled right now, do you?"
"No, just reminding you so you don't forget." She reached toward his chest. "A billionaire worth over three billion playing guitar at my show? The thought alone is exciting."
Simon swatted her hand away. "If you're that excited, there are plenty of bedrooms upstairs. Feel free to entertain yourself."
Madonna was unfazed and threw him a wink. "Want to watch? Pick a room—I'll put on a show for you."
Simon shook his head firmly. "No thanks."
"Such a hypocrite."
Madonna delivered her self-satisfied verdict, blew him a kiss, and sauntered off.
As she disappeared into the crowd, three elegantly gowned women approached amid a cloud of perfume—three of the six leads from The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Per Simon's preferences, Daenerys had avoided the extreme plastic-surgery looks of the original timeline; on the surface, at least, they all appeared natural.
The 1980s were not yet as socially open as the following decades, and as a broadcast network show, Simon had significantly adjusted the tone. The series dialed back the catfighting and focused more on the daily lives of affluent women.
Pure lifestyle content, however, would not sustain viewership long-term. Each of the six housewives had her own storyline: one aspired to launch a fashion line, another grappled with family business troubles, a third reconsidered her children's education, and others faced marital or emotional crises.
America had a vast population of stay-at-home wives, the show's core audience.
Simon's ultimate goal was to turn The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and potential future spin-offs into trendsetters for North American housewives in fashion, recipes, home decor, travel, and more.
Previously too busy—and privately uncertain of the show's success—he had not planned deeply. Now, with solid ratings and CBS's renewal, he could fully exploit its commercial potential.
In syndication, both domestic and international, The Real Housewives held the greatest repeat-viewing value among the four reality shows. Knowing the outcomes of Survivor or Millionaire reduced rewatch appeal, but audiences would return repeatedly to the housewives' lifestyles and even buy videotapes to study them more closely.
None of the women cast were naive. As Simon outlined his vision of building the show into a brand, their eyes grew eager; they recognized the profound boost it could provide their families and careers.
The other three housewives soon ditched their husbands and joined the conversation with keen interest.
Half an hour later the women departed, satisfied.
In the mansion's courtyard, Sandra watched the graceful figures retreat. Noticing Simon casually trying to slip his hands into his pockets, she reached over, snatched several business cards from his palm, and mindful of nearby guests tucked them into her clutch. She shot him a fierce glare.
Simon ignored it and smiled. "Leave me at least one?"
"Leave me at least one?"
"Not a chance." Then, realizing he could obtain the women's contact information effortlessly anyway, she swatted his arm with her clutch. "Jerk."
Parties always flew by.
Guests began departing around ten.
Sandra patiently stayed until the end, directing the cleanup crew like the lady of the house. By the time the team left, it was nearly one in the morning, and the once-bustling mansion stood empty and quiet.
After checking the house, Sandra joined Simon in the backyard. He stood at the cliff-edge railing. She approached silently, stood beside him, and together they gazed at the sparse city lights across the darkened bay, gradually savoring the peaceful calm.
After several minutes Sandra spoke first. "Hey, are you trying to figure out how to get rid of me?"
Simon turned, studied her face striking rather than classically beautiful and brushed her cheek. "Of course not. As a man, I like being liked by as many women as possible."
Sandra tilted her chin into his touch, then leaned closer, moved.
Simon kissed her lightly, then pulled back. "That's enough. Don't be greedy."
"You're the greedy one," she protested, but did not press further. Leaning on the railing again, she lifted her clutch. "The cards are still in here. Want them?"
Simon shook his head. "I'm not used to being the prey."
Sandra paused, then understood and gave a mocking laugh.
Hunting was never exclusively male territory.
To those housewives, a twenty-year-old worth billions, with fame and power to match, was far more enticing than a muscular trainer or handsome waiter, the perfect target.
After a quiet moment, Sandra asked, "So what do we do tonight?"
"Have you seen When Harry Met Sally?"
"Of course. You picked it—I watched it."
"We could be like Harry and Sally. Just friends. If we sleep together, we might not even keep this."
Sandra frowned, but recognized the truth. She would not mind if something happened tonight, and she doubted he would either. Yet she knew it would not let her take him from Janet; instead it would leave her more uncertain.
Still, she objected. "Harry and Sally ended up together. You have a girlfriend. I don't have a boyfriend."
Simon nodded. "True."
She glanced at him. "You wouldn't suggest I get one?"
Simon shook his head honestly. "I don't make a habit of telling women who like me to date other men."
She pinched his arm lightly. "You really are a jerk."
"Or," Simon said with a grin, "you could try dating a woman."
Sandra blinked, then pinched him harder. "Jerk. Why don't you date a man?"
"No way, two guys together is brutal. But two beautiful women…" He warmed to the idea, voice turning suggestive. Seeing her bristle, he raised his hands. "Hear me out, it's a great idea. You should try it."
"Get lost."
"Be ladylike, or you'll never find a girlfriend."
"Jerk."