By the second week of December, it was tinsel and string lights everywhere in Los Angeles.
The palm trees on Sunset were wearing garlands like a cheap scarf, and every storefront seemed to be blaring the same loop of Sinatra singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Harry barely noticed. Days passed by in a blur of his desk, yellow legal pads, and the glow of his desk lamp long after midnight.
He was obsessed with the blind pianist script.
The characters were there: Arin, Sophie, Simone, and the house with the body in the corner. Now he was stuck on a stretch of dialogue that didn't feel real. He wrote it in four different ways, and then finally threw the pages across his desk and leaned back, exhausted.
From downstairs came a low hum of Maria hanging garlands along the staircase, and the smell of cinnamon sticks simmering on the stove.
She took it upon herself to decorate the Berkeley Hills mansion because, as she often muttered in Spanish, "El jefe está casado con sus papeles, no con la Navidad," meaning, the boss was married to his papers, not Christmas.
Lisa had the luxury, with mercifully her first proper break in months, of either laying on the couch with a paperback or stealing naps in the guest room. That happy state lasted until Sparky decided she made the far more interesting target. The golden retriever ignored Harry when he worked utilizing Lisa's ankles, which he found were wonderful to chew on, and her hair was a fun thing to tug.
"Your dog thinks I'm his chew bone," Lisa shouted one afternoon when Sparky barreled into the living room with one of her slippers. Harry only half looked up from his boyish scrawled notes then just grinned faintly and continued his work. Lisa threw the slipper back at him muttering, "worst dog owner in California."
James, on the other hand, was nowhere near the house. He was entrenched in costly negotiations with Fox, hashing out profit splits for Providence. The film had just been taken out of theatres after a twelve-week run, and it had finished at an astonishing $85 million domestic.
With a budget of $10 million, an extra $10 million in marketing and this thing was a bona-fide win. FunTime Pictures, Harry's baby, just got its second war chest (after Memento), and James wanted every drop of their foreign rights share to be nailed down before awards season.
Harry stretched, rubbed his eyes, and finally pushed away from the desk. It simply wasn't going to come tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either. He needed air, perspective. Maybe some good ol' beer.
He dialed up Marsh Wahan.
"Mr. Jackson," Marsh's voice said a little scratchy, background noise was typical, but thinking it sounded like a full lobby. "It looks like I'm checking in just in time. We had a sold out crowd for the The Two Towers premiere."
Harry smiled a half-smile. "And...? How's the place holding up? No toilet scandals this time?"
Marsh chuckled. "Nothing! Dream Theatre London is behaviour is impeccable. And that's not even the best part. We have expanded into Manchester, Birmingham and Leeds. And all three cities are performing better than our projections!"
Harry put his feet up, and listened intently. When Marsh said better than projections, he certainly spoke with some quiet pride. "And France?" Harry asked.
"That's where it gets complicated. We've opened two sites in Paris. The competition is tougher here, Pathé and Gaumont are dominating the market. But we've been steady by following your rules. Best seats, best service, food that actually doesn't taste like cardboard. Customers are taking notice. The staff call it the 'noble rule', though I could not tell you why."
Harry laughed. "Because I told you, make them feel noble, nobody cares if they buy a ticket for five pounds or fifty. There are no short cuts. People remember how they are treated."
Marsh paused. "We are spending a lot of money, you know. The people over here are worried about cash flow with all this aggressive expansion. But... I have to say I think you are correct. Word of mouth advertising is doing half our advertising for us."
"That's just where we'll win," Harry said with conviction. "We cover Europe first, and then Asia. Don't start again there, that's suicide. Buy chains, build the, rebrand them as Dream. Then in ten years I can go to a cinema in Tokyo or Mumbai and see something close to good; the same standards we had in London, with clean halls, courteous staff, good food at a fair price. No excuses."
Marsh exhaled a low whistle. "Ambitious as ever, Mr. Jackson."
"Well, I wouldn't hire you if you were not ambitious," Harry responded with a smile.
They spoke for another ten minutes and went through details-staffing, vendor contracts, a prospects food vendor in Lyon-before Harry finally let Marsh get back to his lobby. "You're doing good work," Harry said finally. "Don't let anybody tell you different."
When he hung up he stared at the blinking Christmas lights that Maria had daintily strung across his study window. For the first time that day, he allowed himself to take a breath.