An apartment in Brentwood, northern Santa Monica.
After last night's party, Nancy Brill had invited Sophia to stay at her place. Both women were French and had clicked instantly, so Sophia happily agreed, checking out of her hotel that same night and moving in.
It was Sunday.
Sophia woke around seven. On the other side of the king bed, Nancy was still fast asleep.
They were roughly the same age, yet gazing at Nancy's petite face half-hidden by stray strands of hair, Sophia inexplicably thought of her own children back in France with her parents.
For a fleeting moment she even felt the urge to lean over and kiss the sleeping woman's cheek.
The impulse, of course, went nowhere.
Sophia wasn't gay; though she'd learned last night that Nancy had been single for years, she saw no sign of that inclination in her either.
She slipped quietly out of bed, drew the light-blocking curtains tight, and left the bedroom.
Standing in the second-floor hallway, Sophia's old real-estate instincts told her the two-story apartment had at least twelve rooms. Yet nothing about it suggested a busy single career woman lived here; instead it radiated the meticulous order of someone borderline obsessive.
After freshening up in another bathroom, Sophia instinctively began preparing breakfast for both of them. She was always attentive; last night at the party she'd noted Nancy's tastes. And whatever was in this kitchen, the owner clearly didn't dislike it.
Half an hour later, as Sophia simmered corn chowder, a sleepy "good morning" sounded behind her.
She turned. Nancy stood in the doorway in a pale-pink silk camisole nightdress, hair unbrushed, face still soft with post-party fatigue. The delicate collarbone and rounded shoulders looked undeniably alluring; she was barefoot too.
Sophia returned the greeting, though her level gaze had to drop a little to meet the shorter woman's eyes.
Nancy caught the smile tugging at Sophia's lips and instantly bristled like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. "Please, whatever you do, don't say I look like a doll. I'll get mad."
Sophia had almost teased that her eight-year-old son would catch up to Nancy's height in a few years, but seeing the reaction she let it go. "Breakfast will be a bit. You could shower first."
Nancy agreed and padded back upstairs.
At the dining table they ate together. Nancy opened up about a long-standing insecurity: "My dad's six feet, Mom's five-nine. For some reason I stopped growing at five-one. They never said it outright, but I know Dad always wondered if I was really his."
Family privacy wasn't something to probe, so Sophia simply listened.
Nancy continued without hesitation. "A few years ago when DNA testing came out, Dad rushed to get one. probably multiple times. Once he confirmed I was his, he apologized solemnly to Mom and me. But damage like that doesn't vanish with one apology. From middle school on, realizing I was shorter than everyone else, I became really self-conscious. After the first boy I tried dating bragged to his friends that I was like a doll, I never had another boyfriend. Then I just got more and more competitive, determined to outdo everyone taller than me."
Sophia wisely skirted the family impact and said lightly, "Being short isn't a big deal. We're women, tall or short doesn't matter. Besides, you're gorgeous."
"You can't possibly understand," Nancy sighed with a touch of world-weariness. She sipped her chowder, then asked, "What about you, Sophie, how did you end up working for Westeros?"
"I was a real-estate agent. Last year at Cannes, Simon was interested in a property I was listing, so I seized the chance. To get his attention I called every day, found excuses to visit until he finally noticed."
Nancy listened, stunned, then said, "Sophie, you're quite the schemer."
Sophia figured she could become close friends with this straightforward little woman, so she revealed a glimpse of her sharper side. Sensing no malice in the comment, she just rolled her eyes. "Without a little cunning, I'd probably be on Corsica right now, married to a fisherman, doing endless mundane chores, raising kids, looking after a husband, fading quietly into old age. That's my mother's life, but it's not what I want."
Nancy had grown up comfortably despite her suspicious father and had faced few real hardships.
Hearing Sophia's quiet account, she sensed a bitterness she'd never known. She set down her spoon, reached over, and patted Sophia's hand reassuringly. "Sophie, I declare, as of now, you're my best friend."
Sophia smiled and squeezed back, but didn't match the directness.
Nancy withdrew her hand, stirred her chowder, then asked abruptly, "Have you slept with him?"
Sophia knew who she meant. "No."
Nancy looked surprised. "Why not?"
Sophia found the counter-question odd, as if it were inevitable. Still, she considered. "Simon… he's very restrained in that area."
Probably not for much longer, a quiet inner voice added, with a faint smug satisfaction.
Nancy couldn't hear that, of course. She just said with interest, "If you do, tell me."
Sophia gave a helpless laugh. "You're that curious?"
Nancy answered honestly, "I'm curious about everything involving our little boss."
"Then why not try yourself?"
Nancy shrank as if imagining something terrifying. "I'm not sleeping with any man."
Sophia teased with a smile, "You should at least try it once."
After breakfast Nancy changed into a black power suit and her signature thick-heeled shoes. The two women drove to Burbank, Gaumont's offices were in Daenerys's Burbank complex to meet Ira Deutchman about the Gucci documentary.
Leaving the Brentwood apartment, Nancy slipped into work mode.
Sophia gripped the wheel and glanced at Nancy in the passenger seat, absorbed in a thick stack of game documents. "I actually think Daenerys should develop its own console. Making games alone means always being at the mercy of hardware makers."
"I've considered it," Nancy said. "But we have zero foundation. We missed the 8-bit era, we're late for 16-bit, if we enter, we'd have to jump straight to 32-bit third generation. Console R&D takes massive money and time. Atari nearly went bankrupt developing the 2600 because funding dried up forcing the Warner sale. That project spanned four years and cost a hundred million, in the seventies. Even with unlimited resources, we'd face Japanese patent walls and content barriers."
Sophia smiled. "You don't strike me as someone who backs down from difficulty."
Nancy lifted her chin slightly. "I'm not. Beyond those external hurdles, the real reason is I don't think building hardware is smart. Nintendo dominates 90% of the market now, raking in profits. But Sega, Atari, Sony, they haven't given up. New players may emerge. Nintendo's already lagging on 16-bit, and PC gaming is growing fast. The hardware market will become brutally competitive, likely no true winners. Quality content, though, is always in demand. Plus, great games have incredibly long lifecycles. One hit franchise can be milked generation after generation for steady, rich profits. My core goal is making Blizzard a game developer and publisher. Hardware? Not interested."
They talked all the way to Burbank, where Ira Deutchman was already waiting.
Even on Sunday the building buzzed.
Daenerys's relentless pace had drawn media attention; California labor groups had even investigated forced overtime.
There was no coercion, just culture. When everyone worked, those wanting rest felt embarrassed to stop. Some quit from the pressure.
Since news of Simon's collapse from exhaustion reached L.A., complaints had quieted.
The boss himself collapsed, what right do you have to complain?
My Left Foot wrapped end of February. At Ira's insistence, director Jim Sheridan and the team came to L.A. for post-production.
Unable to secure Sex, Lies, and Videotape, Ira positioned My Left Foot for Cannes. With Simon's connections from last year, a main-competition slot was achievable if quality held.
Sex, Lies, and Videotape had earned raves and the audience award at Sundance in January. Columbia wasn't rushing theatrical; they too aimed for Cannes in May.
The two films would compete head-on.
After his routine meeting with the My Left Foot post team, Ira joined the women to discuss the Gucci documentary.
Public fascination centered on the family scandals, but anything damaging the brand image would be glossed over.
After a morning's discussion, they settled on starting with the hiring of Gucci's new creative director and ending with the Milan Fashion Week Spring/Summer 1990 show in September, interspersing Gucci heritage, style, classic pieces, and anecdotes.
There were disagreements.
When Ira insisted Gucci cover at least half the budget as "sponsorship" yet receive no rights or revenue, Sophia firmly objected. Final deal: Gaumont and Gucci split costs and shared rights/revenue.
Gaumont, as distributor, would take 12.5% of all-channel earnings.
Time was tight; prep began immediately. Shooting would start late this month or early next once the new creative director was onboard.
Monday, March 6.
Sophia spent another day with Amy negotiating brand collaboration, primarily Gucci product placement in Daenerys films.
Simon's synergy policy applied across all Westeros subsidiaries, so Amy cooperated fully.
Finishing L.A., Sophia flew to New York, her schedule there even denser.
First: the $20 million Simon had approved.
Westeros continued liquidating Apple and the other five tech holdings, but proceeds were earmarked. Gucci would finance through loans—again from Citibank, due to prior priority agreements.
Next: restructure Gucci USA management, hire a new head, and consolidate North American operations.
Two creative-director candidates were in New York, critical for Gucci's next several years, requiring extensive talks.
Finally: PR visits.
While still in Melbourne, Simon had arranged a meeting with the Murdochs, News Corp had invested $100 million in Cersei.
Favors should be used when useful.
News Corp tabloids in Europe and North America, The Sun, News of the World, New York Post—had feasted on Gucci family scandals for years.
With Westeros now controlling Gucci and Murdoch ties available, Simon wouldn't let it continue. Murdoch wouldn't refuse the easy favor.