Nicole Kidman and another stylist with somewhat effeminate mannerisms came to a stop inside the office. Simon saw Amy out, then returned to appraise the young woman before him.
Like the original Uma Thurman, Nicole Kidman was dressed in a long-hemmed shirt and black slacks, though their hairstyles couldn't have been more different.
Uma Thurman's look in the film had been a blunt bob with straight bangs; Nicole Kidman's was now shoulder-length choppy black hair with long bangs skimming her eyebrows—the result of Simon's repeated tweaks.
Nicole Kidman was only twenty now; the black hair made her seem more mature than blonde ever could. And as everyone knew, Nicole's brow shape lent her an aggressive edge, which was the last thing Mia needed.
Now, with those wispy long bangs half-veiling her features, that inherent sharpness had vanished entirely; she looked like a different person altogether—ravishing, untamed, brimming with allure.
Though a world away from Uma Thurman's style, it aligned perfectly with Simon's tastes.
No matter how many layers audiences later peeled back, Pulp Fiction was, at its core, just an exercise in craft and flair.
On details that didn't upend the whole, Simon naturally shaped them to his own liking. After all, if a director felt nothing for the figures in his frame, he'd be hard-pressed to infuse the film with any real passion.
"Tony, it's still a touch too long—I want the ends to whirl free when she dances, so they can't graze her shoulders at all," Simon said after a moment's scrutiny, directing the stylist positioned just behind Nicole. He waited for the nod, then stepped back and addressed her: "Shoes off. Let me see."
In a handful of days: switching jobs, auditioning, signing the contract... Somehow, she'd landed the lead in one of Hollywood's hottest upcoming films. Nicole Kidman still found it all a bit surreal.
At the young man's command, she didn't hesitate, slipping off her heels obediently and planting her bare feet on the faintly cool floor.
Simon glanced down, taking it in for a few beats, then nodded. "Very pretty."
He lacked Quentin's blatant foot fetish, but Simon still found a woman with elegant feet undeniably sexy.
Though the moment struck her as odd, Nicole took the compliment politely. "Thank you, Mr. Westeros."
As she spoke, Simon's gaze drifted to her chest; he was about to comment when the phone on his desk trilled. Striding over, he snatched up the receiver, leaned against the desk with his back half-turned, responding to the caller while gesturing vaguely at Nicole.
She caught the meaning of his signal with surprising ease. But his casual assumption irked her—she had half a mind to bare her teeth at him in retort.
A thought she kept firmly to herself, of course; instead, she lifted her hands and began unfastening her shirt buttons.
On the line, his accountant, Charles Peyton, confirmed that the two payments from the Run Lola Run distribution sales had cleared fully. Simon chatted with a faint smile, glancing idly at Nicole as she undid her shirt across from him.
In the scene where Vincent and Lance jab Mia with adrenaline, the lead needed some cleavage to sell it—but Nicole, au naturel, was decidedly flat as a board.
Now, eyeing the impressive results of her push and pad, Simon gave a satisfied nod and waved dismissively for her to button up.
Am I really that unappealing?
Nicole caught his offhand gesture and buttoned back up with a twinge of frustration.
Simon wrapped the call quickly, set down the receiver, and turned to her. "Looks good—that's it for today. Come back tomorrow; we'll tweak the hair a little more, then do the publicity stills. Schedule's tight, but we'll keep you posted on everything else."
She glanced sidelong at the lingering stylist, hesitated a beat, then ventured: "Mr. Westeros, could I buy you dinner? I haven't properly thanked you for the role."
Simon smiled, giving her a frank once-over. "Lunch's fine. Dinner's out, though—things are a mess right now."
The buzz around his supposed fling with Sandra had simmered for a full week, with paparazzi still hounding them for date shots. The last thing Simon needed was more scandal fodder.
...
Once Nicole Kidman was on her way, the clock edged toward five.
But Simon didn't bolt for the door; instead, he settled back at his desk to comb through the prep status on Daenerys Films' trio of projects.
Final Destination, Pulp Fiction, and When Harry Met Sally—greenlit for May, July, and September starts, respectively, each with roughly two-month shoots.
Final Destination was locked in every way, just awaiting next month's kickoff; release slotted for October 23 in the latter half of the year.
With Orion on board and funds in hand, When Harry Met Sally's key talent had all inked deals this week. Four months of prep ahead? Plenty of time.
As for Pulp Fiction.
The Black actor pool wasn't vast; after the agencies flooded him with more profiles, Simon had zeroed in on Samuel L. Jackson without issue.
Born in 1948, Samuel L. Jackson was thirty-nine this year.
Degree in dramatic arts in hand by the early seventies, he'd logged a decade on Broadway in New York before dipping into Hollywood bit parts in the eighties—always under the radar.
The Pulp Fiction offer hit him like miracle from heaven; he'd jumped at it, signing on the dotted line just yesterday.
With Samuel L. Jackson secured, the rest of the supporting cast fell into place easily—except for the taxi driver. Simon still hadn't found the right fit.
He wondered if he had some accent fixation himself; of all the women in Pulp Fiction, the cabbie lingered most vividly in his mind. Hence his pickiness on this one.
After vetoing last week's slate entirely, the agencies had indeed pivoted to European actresses. He'd even run a proper audition round on Tuesday.
And that's where he'd slipped up.
Beyond looks and vibe, he'd wanted someone with authentically off-kilter English—an accent that didn't quite land. Instead, every auditionee showed up mangling vowels in bizarre ways; he couldn't sort the genuine from the forced.
Worse, he kept sensing something missing in them all—so he'd scrapped that batch too.
Now, he'd abandoned hopes of a natural accent; he just needed an actress who nailed the look and essence.
The accent? That could be coached on set.