The wrap party the night before had left Simon ambushed and thoroughly drunk by the crew. He didn't stir until nearly noon the next day.
After washing up and heading downstairs, the Kendal Hotel felt strangely empty. It was lunchtime, yet the restaurant had only a handful of people. After three intense months of nonstop work, everyone had clearly made plans to unwind some had already bolted back to the States.
Peter Jackson, waiting in the restaurant, stood to greet him. The two sat down together.
Simon had asked Jackson the day before, once filming wrapped, to meet for lunch today, that was why he was here.
Over the past three months, Simon had found Jackson an exceptionally capable assistant director: smart, hardworking, socially adept, and rare for someone already twenty-eight still burning with passion for film, full of curiosity and hunger to learn.
If Simon didn't have bigger plans for him, he would have taken Jackson straight back to Hollywood and groomed him into a contracted producer for Daenerys. In Simon's view, Jackson seemed better suited to producing than directing.
They ordered, made small talk, then Simon asked, "Peter, have you thought about what you want to do next?"
Jackson smiled, a sly glint in his eye. "Simon, I still haven't figured out why you hired me in the first place."
Simon had no intention of explaining. "A lot of things in this world don't come with answers."
"Well," Jackson hesitated, then said, "I think I'd like to stay in New Zealand."
The relief on his face was immediate. He'd assumed Simon wanted to lure him to Hollywood an opportunity most filmmakers would kill for. After the wrap party, even with a few drinks in him, he'd lain awake all night wrestling with it.
Saying it aloud finally lifted the weight he'd carried since last night.
Simon was mildly surprised by the decisive choice, but quickly understood.
In his memory, Jackson had turned down plenty of Hollywood overtures to stay in New Zealand. Simon respected people with convictions, whatever the reason. If Jackson had been eager to go to L.A. today, Simon probably would have taken him. But then certain opportunities would have passed him by forever.
Seeing Simon fall quiet, Jackson worried the young mogul was displeased and hurried to explain: "Simon, I'm really grateful for the chance on Batman, but I don't think I'm cut out for Hollywood. I don't like being boxed in, and Hollywood has too many rules that tie filmmakers' hands."
Hearing the anxious edge in Jackson's voice, Simon grasped his concern and dropped any pretense of persuasion. He smiled. "All right. I respect your decision. Anyway, even though Batman is wrapped, Daenerys still has its Australian branch running. We'll likely invest in a slate of local films every year. I saw Bad Taste, it's great. So, do you have any ideas right now?"
Relieved that Simon's tone hadn't cooled, Jackson described a dark-comedy puppet project he had in mind.
Simon recognized it immediately: Jackson's gleefully twisted Meet the Feebles a wildly inventive puppet film about a variety-show troupe of animals whose glamorous public lives hid sordid, depraved private ones.
Over lunch they hashed it out; Simon tossed in a few extra outrageous gags. In the end he readily agreed to invest one million dollars through New World Pictures' Australian arm.
After lunch Simon headed to Johnston Holdings headquarters.
Throughout the meal and the past few months neither had mentioned anything related to The Lord of the Rings. Jackson wasn't remotely ready to tackle a franchise of that scale. He might have dreamed of filming Tolkien someday, but he knew his own limits. Far away in New Zealand, he probably didn't even know who currently held the rights, so he never brought it up.
In the original timeline, Jackson had spent a full decade honing his craft after Bad Taste before launching The Lord of the Rings and created an untouchable fantasy epic.
Simon had the same high hopes for him now, but no intention of rushing it.
At Cersei Capital's offices in Johnston Holdings, it was already past two in the afternoon. Singapore and Tokyo markets had closed.
Lately the Japanese market had kept climbing amid volatility.
Simon kissed Janet's cheek while she finished a call, then glanced at the stock terminal. The Nikkei 225 closed at 34,793—only 2,207 points from the 37,000 mark he'd targeted.
It was still only late April. Clearly, thanks to one large butterfly himself the rise was outpacing the original timeline. Simon knew it wasn't just Cersei's billion-plus dollars; he'd acted as a catalyst, accelerating the entire market.
According to Wall Street estimates, global hedge-fund assets had more than doubled in recent months.
Before Simon entered Japan, the industry totaled around $30 billion; Soros's Quantum Fund, under $2 billion, was the biggest. Now public figures put the total near $70 billion.
Simon's overnight fortune two years earlier in U.S. index futures had inspired countless imitators. These new funds had sprung up in his wake, then swarmed Asia like sharks scenting blood. Add in the far larger mutual funds, pension funds, investment banks, and commercial banks piling in, and the accelerated climb made sense.
At this pace, the Nikkei would hit 37,000 in two months, possibly topping 38,000 by July or August.
With waves of reckless speculative money flooding in, Cersei's returns had grown richer.
Last week's figures showed net assets over $2 billion, $2.23 billion, to be exact. Profitability had crossed Simon's original 30% threshold to 42%. He'd skipped the standard 2% management fee in favor of a tiered performance split.
Above 30%, his cut rose from 20% to 30%.
Janet finished her call, hugged him again, then gathered a stack of files and pulled him into the small office next door.
She pushed him into the leather chair, settled onto his lap, opened the folder, and said, "Two analysts from Fund 5 recently looked into the Michael Milken situation. They think the junk-bond market is cooling because of the investigation, and we might see a wave of defaults in the U.S. later this year. Take a look."
Simon took the report, one arm around her slim waist as he read.
After months of immersion, these analyses were easy for him now.
The hedge-fund world was still in its infancy--total assets spoke for themselves. In his memory, explosive growth hadn't come until the '90s, especially after Soros's famous pound attack. Right now many managers probably had less experience than he did.
And he had the advantage of two lifetimes' foresight.
He quickly cross-referenced the report with memories of the North American junk-bond market.
The analysts were right: around October this year, a string of defaults had triggered a cascade, causing a sharp drop in both stocks and bonds called a "mini-crash" after 1987.
Finishing the file, Simon asked the woman in his arms, "What do you want to do?"
"You said we start pulling out at 37,000, right?" Janet looped her arms around his neck. "That gives us two or three more months here at most. While the market turns, Cersei could slip over to North America and short junk bonds."
Simon had never explained his reasoning, but he'd been open about his view: the Nikkei would top out around 40,000. To leave room to maneuver, he wanted to exit starting at 37,000 and be fully out before 38,000.
Beyond 38,000 he couldn't predict direction; sitting out until clarity returned made sense.
Then re-enter on the way down.
But shorting junk bonds reminded him of the 2008 subprime crisis. He didn't want Cersei blamed for collapsing Japan's market, nor for wrecking Wall Street's junk-bond market.
Soros was idolized by some, despised by governments as a financial predator.
Simon was a legitimate businessman; he had no plans to run a hedge fund forever. Burning bridges with excessive aggression could harm Westeros Company's other ventures.
Weighing it carefully, he realized this junk-bond collapse couldn't possibly reach 2008 proportions. The instrument that had magnified that crisis, credit default swaps didn't exist yet.
CDS were essentially insurance bets: one side collected premiums betting a bond wouldn't default; if it did, they paid out. The twist: buyers didn't need to own the underlying bond. It was pure speculation, standing on the sidewalk wagering whether a passing car would crash or a nearby house would burn.
Without CDS, Janet's traditional shorting couldn't trigger a catastrophe.
Comforted by that, Simon patted her waist. "Use your judgment, but one rule—no excessive risk."
Janet sensed he was holding something back but didn't press, just nuzzled his cheek and said insincerely, "Got it."
Obviously.
Knowing and obeying were two different things.
Simon smiled wryly, even more reluctant to mention CDS. With her reckless streak, she'd invent the damn things early. If a future crisis traced back to "Simon Westeros," the joke would be on him.
They spent the afternoon at Cersei, then headed to the Johnston mansion instead of the hotel that evening.
Simon stayed in Melbourne a few more days to tie up loose crew ends, then it was time to return to North America. Janet would remain to run Cersei.
A luxury estate in Melbourne's northern suburbs.
This was the property Simon and Janet had carefully chosen and bought recently--two acres on the scenic Yarra River, closer to the city center and only about five kilometers from the Johnston mansion.
With Batman wrapped and the crew dispersed, Daenerys no longer needed the entire hotel.
After checking out, Simon had spent the last few days at the Johnston estate with Janet. Jennifer, as his assistant, couldn't leave like the others and had been temporarily housed there. The new place would serve as their Melbourne pied-à-terre going forward.
A few days was fine; neither liked long stays at the Johnstons'.
Departure was that afternoon.
In the villa's living room, Janet and Jennifer packed luggage--mostly Simon's, mainly gifts for everyone back in L.A. He wasn't a gifting maniac like Michael Ovitz, but he paid attention to such details.
The two women worked together. Noticing Simon lounging on the sofa, idly flipping TV channels while reading a document on his knee, Janet tucked a gift box into a suitcase, eyes twinkling, and suddenly said to Jennifer, "Jen, I just thought of a really fun Korean name, perfect for you."
Jennifer, labeling a present, looked up puzzled. "What?"
Janet glanced at Simon again, smiling brightly, and pronounced a name that sounded utterly bizarre to Western ears: "Ji-an. What do you think?"
Jennifer was completely lost and looked to Simon.
Privately, to keep up with her boyfriend, Janet had never stopped studying Korean. She still regularly reread that copy of The Cloud Dream of the Nine—now even tackling it in bilingual editions. Simon knew this, of course. He shot Janet a look and said, "Then what name are you giving yourself?"
[TL/N: From now on, every mention of China/Chinese will be converted into korea/n (mostly ig)]