Feeling the car slow down, Courtney Cox peered through the window ahead. At the mansion's entrance up the winding drive, a black Mercedes was mired in chaos, hemmed in by paparazzi.
Moments later, the Mercedes finally slipped inside. The driver ahead braked, pulling to the roadside. The invitation had warned of the party's scale—no room for all the cars—so Courtney had booked a chauffeured ride.
Spotting the Cadillac halt, the roadside paparazzi surged forward, cameras raised.
A sharp pang of anxiety twisted in her gut.
She even felt the urge to tell the driver to floor it and leave.
The brief commotion had drawn two attendants from the mansion to manage the scene; the driver stepped out too.
Door opened, no turning back now.
So she exhaled slowly, gathered the hem of her black gown, and stepped out. The paparazzi, primed to pounce, took one look—some deflated in disappointment, others puzzled, a few clicking half-heartedly—before their attention swung to another arriving sedan.
In Hollywood, after a film's smash hit, nosy media always dug for stars who'd turned down roles and missed their shot at glory.
Run Lola Run was no exception.
But Simon had been such a nobody before it that reporters unearthed only scraps: he'd once wanted to offer the lead to a girl he'd pursued. they couldn't even pin down her name.
Courtney Cox knew full well that girl was her.
The indifference upon arrival only deepened her unease, stirring unwelcome thoughts of Sandra Bullock.
A total greenhorn with zero credits, rocketing straight to A-list leading lady—now locked in for two surefire Back to the Future sequels.
And all that should have been hers.
Trailing the ushering attendant, she took in the Mediterranean villa nestled amid greenery.
This should have been hers too!
A flicker of resentment stirred inside her.
If that guy had tried harder back then, made a real move instead of fumbling, she probably would have said yes.
Lost in the thought, she found herself at the villa's entrance.
Though others milled about, her eyes snagged on him at once—greeting guests personally, deep in animated chat with a couple. Drawing nearer, she clocked them.
Sean Penn and Madonna.
Likely the pair in that besieged Mercedes.
Spotting her approach, the Penns nodded politely and headed inside. Madonna, departing, ribbed him without mercy about writing her a song pronto—grinning all the while, clearly thick as thieves.
Simon watched them vanish into the villa before turning to Courtney.
Meeting his gaze, she suddenly felt a twinge of guilt.
She hadn't been invited; she'd wheedled the pass from Jonathan Friedman. Her agent had a batch earmarked for WMA clients.
Their last encounter: wrap day on Run Lola Run. Over half a year gone; Simon had nearly forgotten her.
Seeing her now, he smiled and extended a hand. "How've you been?"
The easy warmth in his voice eased her anxiety. She took his hand. "Great. Been meaning to congratulate you—finally got my chance."
"Oh, thanks." He released her, nodding toward the villa. "Come on in. Have fun."
She ached to linger, say more—but fresh arrivals loomed nearby. She nodded and slipped inside.
The living room held maybe twenty or thirty, standing or seated in quiet clusters—Robert Redford, John Travolta among the heavy hitters. The vibe was subdued; her entrance barely registered.
No squeezing into that crowd for her. She crossed straight through to the backyard, hit by a rush of openness.
The yard thrummed, far livelier than indoors. A hundred, maybe two, souls dotted the poolside and lawns—music from a string ensemble drifting on the air. Buffet tables lined the pool; bow-tied servers wove through with trays.
The buzz should have lifted her, but instead, hollowness bloomed.
Hollywood's young set had an unspoken code: pre-fame, unless you snagged a big-name sugar, steer clear of steady relationships—they killed opportunities.
So many freshly minted stars emerged seemingly dateless, only to flaunt flings with peers once the spotlight hit.
After last year's party spat, Courtney had flat-out told Simon she wasn't dating anytime soon— that rule in play.
Now.
No rewinding to a year ago.
She plucked a champagne flute from a passing tray, steadied herself, scanned the crowd. Spotting Jonathan Friedman, she mustered a smile and approached.
Nearing, she caught her back-turned agent pitching to a sweet-faced blonde—trying to poach her, it seemed.
The blonde noticed Courtney heading their way, gestured, then told him, "Joe, thanks for the interest. But Josh is great—I have no plans to switch agents."
Jonathan clocked the signal, glanced at Courtney, shot her a wait-here look, then pressed the blonde. "Meg, just think it over. If you join WMA, I, well... maybe I could get Simon to whip up a script tailored just for you."
Meg Ryan.
After two-plus months' recovery, Meg had shed the desolation from Simon's first glimpse—radiant now, as a woman in her twenties ought to be.
Simon had mandated her 'nine-to-five' job at Daenerys until shooting, but as When Harry Met Sally buzz built, rumors flew—despite their 'character immersion' spin. To dodge more tabloid fodder, factoring her progress, Simon had cut the gig short.
Now.
Hearing Jonathan's closer, Meg winced. "Joe, pass. I'm not exactly dying to star in one of Simon's films."