The meeting ended at five o'clock, and everyone left for the day.
Simon, carrying the record company materials Jennifer had compiled, exited through the side door of the office building to the parking lot. There, he saw his female assistant standing in front of her car, the hood up, with Neil Bennett bent over, examining something.
Simon walked over, glanced at the car engine, and asked, "What's wrong?"
Neil Bennett straightened up and said to Simon, "Won't start. Probably an issue with the electronic control system."
Hearing Neil's explanation, Simon took another look at the engine. Sensing Jennifer's hopeful gaze, he smiled at his assistant. "You don't think I can fix cars too, do you?"
Feeling Simon's close gaze, Jennifer shyly ducked her head slightly but said, "You should be able to do everything."
Simon nodded in agreement. "Seems like I might know a little. But, wouldn't fixing your car right now show remarkably low emotional intelligence?"
Jennifer was puzzled. "Huh?"
Simon pointed to his own vehicle. "Come on, I'll drive you home. You can send your car to the repair shop tomorrow."
Jennifer's fair cheeks instantly flushed red. She couldn't help but glance towards the parking lot entrance, where paparazzi were already aiming cameras their way. Feeling a bit lightheaded, she found herself getting into his SUV without really thinking. Only when he asked for her address did she snap back to reality and quickly say, "I'm still staying at my uncle's place for now."
Simon smiled. "George's house? I don't think I've been there."
So she gave him her uncle's address, then quickly explained it to Neil Bennett in the front seat.
She felt like a nervous little fawn that had fallen into a trap.
Noticing the man beside her smiling, clearly enjoying her flustered state, a faint sense of embarrassed annoyance rose in her. She really wanted to reach over and pinch him.
After a moment of awkwardness—or what felt like awkwardness to her—she saw him look down and open the file in his hands, so she scrambled for a topic. "How is Miss Johnston lately?"
As soon as the words were out, she felt utterly foolish.
She knew perfectly well.
And what a stupid question.
Simon didn't look up, his eyes still on the documents. "She's still in New York. I'll be going there next week to spend Christmas with her. By the way, you can come along then; you'll be going back to New York too, right?"
She nodded, hurriedly changing the subject. Glancing at the record company materials she had compiled, now in his hands, she asked, "Are you planning to start a record company?"
Simon shook his head. "Just looking into it for now. But it would be better to buy one; starting from scratch is too much trouble."
He had been reminded of this idea because of the song he wrote for Madonna.
Although it was part of the deal to persuade Madonna to join Pulp Fiction, the song certainly wasn't written for free.
The specific contract was negotiated by Jonathan with Madonna's production company: a $100,000 base fee, which wasn't much to Simon. However, once the album became a hit, Simon's personal earnings multiplied.
Due to the immense popularity of "Celebration," Madonna's current album was projected to sell over 10 million copies worldwide.
As the songwriter of "Celebration," Simon's position was similar to a screenwriter in Hollywood. According to Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) regulations, songwriters receive a certain percentage of revenue from each album sale—a rule implemented since the early 20th century, much earlier than the Writers Guild's home video participation clauses. Songwriters initially received 2 cents per record; after decades of negotiations, it had now risen to 7.5 cents.
Thus.
Based on You Can Dance's projected global sales of 10 million copies, Simon's expected share would reach $750,000.
Similar to screenwriters receiving additional income from TV broadcasts beyond home video, apart from pure album sales royalties, Simon could continuously earn from "Celebration" through TV/radio airplay, concert performances, film/TV synchronization licenses, and other channels.
According to past industry statistics, this additional income could at least match the album sales royalties.
Overall, just one song on an album could bring Simon approximately $1.6 million over the next few years.
$1.6 million was a drop in the bucket compared to Simon's current fortune, but it made him realize the immense value of the countless songs from the next thirty-plus years stored in the memories of the thirteen individuals in his mind.
Take You Can Dance as an example. Just pure record sales, at an average price of $20 per unit and 10 million global copies, meant total revenue of $200 million.
As the songwriter, Simon might only get $750,000 from album sales. But if he became a record company owner, just as he transitioned from screenwriter to owner of Danielews Pictures, the corresponding profits would far exceed $750,000.
Of course, creating an album that sells over 10 million copies globally is no easy feat; otherwise, Madonna wouldn't be Madonna.
In reality, among all records released by major North American labels, even those achieving platinum status (1 million copies) account for less than 5%; over 95% end in failure. However, for Simon, who lacks neither fame nor capability and has an intimate knowledge of the trends in the European and American music industry over the next thirty years, leveraging the countless hit songs in his mind to create a few top pop stars and release bestselling albums shouldn't be too difficult.
Simon chatted casually with Jennifer while flipping through the file.
The SUV turned onto the hill road leading into Bel Air. Seeing they were almost home, Jennifer paused, then said, "Simon, there's one more thing."
Sensing Jennifer's sudden caution, Simon looked up. "What is it?"
Hesitating, Jennifer pulled a newspaper from her bag, unfolded it, and handed it to him. "I think you should see this."
Simon took the newspaper. A large portion of the page was dedicated to a 'Seeking Relatives' notice.
A couple from San Diego, Southern California, had lost a boy around four years old in 1972. The newspaper provided the child's photo, name, date of birth, case records, missing person notice, etc., from that time. The couple believed Simon was their long-lost son. Having failed to contact him privately, they were now publicly appealing through the newspaper for Simon to respond.
After just a brief glance at the content, Simon shook his head. "Fake."
Jennifer said softly, "The little boy in the newspaper photo looks a lot like the picture released by the orphanage you were in."
"Maybe. But they're definitely not my parents," Simon closed the newspaper. Sensing Jennifer's probing gaze, he frowned slightly, thinking for a moment. A certain emotion washed over him again, making him feel dizzy until he gave up trying to delve further into those old memories. However, over the past year and a half, he had accumulated some vague fragments. He now said, "Jen, you know, I was five then. I have some memories. Though fuzzy now, I roughly remember... my parents... well, probably weren't American. So, anyone claiming to be my parents from within North America is definitely fake." [TL/N: They are Aussies i think? I dunno, but it's most likely australian since they have connection with (?) family.]
As Jennifer listened to Simon speak haltingly, as if it were nothing, a strong wave of pity suddenly washed over her. She was shocked to see tears streaming from Simon's eyes as he spoke.
So he cries too.
This boy who seems so powerful, capable of conquering the world.
But.
Why does seeing him cry make me feel so awful?
She instinctively raised her hand, wanting to wipe his tears away, but Simon had already noticed. He reached up and wiped his face, realizing he had been crying again. He just gave Jennifer an awkward smile and said, "Sorry, I don't know why that happened."
She pulled a tissue from her bag and handed it to him, her voice filled with guilt. "It's my fault, Simon. I shouldn't have shown you this newspaper."
Watching him wipe the tear stains, she couldn't help but think about the things mentioned in the newspaper.
He'd rather be self-reliant since thirteen than be adopted, clearly showing an instinctive resistance to family. So, perhaps his birth parents hadn't left him with even a shred of warm memory. If that was the case, maybe there was no need to try finding those two people now.
She secretly resolved never to mention this matter in front of him again.
Entering Bel Air, the SUV soon stopped in front of a villa. Simon glanced out the window and said, "I won't get out. See you tomorrow. Send my regards to George."
Neil Bennett got out and came around to open the door for her.
She really wanted to hug him. But, seeing the paparazzi already crowding near the SUV's front window with cameras, she just nodded and said, "See you tomorrow."
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