Rushing back from Burbank to her West Hollywood apartment just in time, Renée Russo freshened up and hurried to Beverly Hills.
She was late anyway, because she got lost.
At eight-fifteen she finally located a mansion in the Trousdale Estates, nearly in tears, terrified she'd be turned away.
It didn't happen.
A small, intimate private gathering was underway. She was led to a sitting room off the villa's living room, where a group lounged on sofas chatting. Her gaze swept the circle: Martin Scorsese, Robert De Niro, Susan Sarandon, Jessica Lange… and, of course, that infuriating little man.
Few people, but every name thunderous to ordinary film fans.
She felt a stab of inferiority.
She knew everyone in the room; they probably didn't know her.
Simon spotted her, rose, and approached. Seeing him do so, everyone else stood and looked toward the door.
"Come on, let me introduce you."
He walked over without mentioning her tardiness, one hand on her waist gently propelling her forward. She stepped ahead, steadied by his introductions, and greeted Scorsese and the others one by one.
Brief pleasantries exchanged, everyone sat again.
Renée settled quietly beside Simon, accepted the glass of red wine he handed her, and listened to him banter with Scorsese and the rest.
For over an hour she barely registered anything beyond Scorsese discussing his next film, Goodfellas, and De Niro mentioning a movie coming late June something called The Sixth Sense, which Simon had written himself. She'd noticed the title recently; it was shrouded in secrecy.
Around ten, the small gathering wound down.
After seeing off the last to leave, Robert De Niro and Harvey Keitel, Renée realized the mansion had quietly emptied until only she and Simon remained.
He led her back inside. Catching her puzzled look, he explained, "I'm finishing some Batman post at Warner's lot lately. Don't want the long commute, so I'm staying here."
Daenerys had its own post facilities, but they couldn't handle all of Batman's technical needs.
The Trousdale villa was naturally Simon's property. He'd realized he couldn't cure his compulsive habit of buying real estate everywhere, but his net worth easily covered it.
He'd begun to think acquiring houses might simply be his hobby.
Renée felt deflated.
She'd resolved he wouldn't get his way tonight. Yet watching him head straight upstairs, she found herself following without thinking. Like earlier, sitting beside him among those giants had felt oddly safe, as if he were her anchor.
On the second floor, thankfully, he turned not to a bedroom but a study.
Simon rummaged through the cluttered desk, found a book and a script, turned, and handed them to her. "You just met Martin. This is the source novel and script for his next film. I think the female lead, Helen Shill, suits you perfectly. Take them, prepare, and Martin will arrange an audition next week. Perform decently, and the role's yours."
Renée took the script and novel, staring at the cover title Goodfellas, momentarily stunned.
Martin Scorsese.
Among Hollywood's big four directors, Spielberg, Coppola, Lucas, Scorsese--Scorsese was the one actors most craved to work with.
Unlike the others, a perennial awards darling, Scorsese's films gave actors room to shine and often elevated careers. De Niro, Keitel, even Jodie Foster's recent Oscar win--all had Scorsese breakthroughs.
Yet doubt crept in.
Could she really handle a Scorsese film?
Simon handed her the materials, sat behind the desk, and idly flipped through a document on HyperText Markup Language (HTML). Noticing her silence, he asked, "What's wrong?"
Renée hesitated, then admitted, "I'm not sure I can do it well."
"That's why you prepare seriously," Simon said. "I talked to Martin. This is a guys' movie; Helen Shill is technically the female lead but closer to supporting--limited screen time. As long as you're not terrible in the audition, it's yours. Martin will guide you during shooting. Plus, I read the script--Helen has real range. Put in the effort, and you could even land a Best Supporting Actress nomination down the line. You started acting late; Hollywood won't give you endless time to hone your craft. A Scorsese film is the fastest way to broaden your range and shed the vase label."
Renée listened to his patient explanation and nodded lightly.
Silence returned to the study.
He sat behind the desk reading.
She stood opposite, clutching the books, watching him read.
Simon finished the dozen-plus pages of HTML notes without seeming to notice her. Ten minutes later he looked up again.
Renée was still there, eyes now tinged with grievance and stubbornness, fixed on him.
This…
Punishing me again?
He studied her a moment, then asked, "You drove yourself?"
She kept staring, gave a soft "Mm."
"It's late--head home."
Her eyes widened. Had she misheard?
He walked over. Seeing her unmoving, he reached out, fingers brushing her cheek.
This body was her greatest asset; she'd always maintained it meticulously. At thirty-five she was confident her skin rivaled--or surpassed--girls in their early twenties.
Otherwise he wouldn't have been so… reluctant to let go that night, leaving all those marks.
But his fingers stopped at her neck and withdrew. "Go on home. You drank--I'll have Neil drive you."
He left the room first.
She followed again.
In the front courtyard, mood still tangled, she'd only had half a glass of wine and wanted to refuse the driver, but he insisted. She relented.
Her car stayed behind; she rode in his.
She'd half-hoped it might create some ongoing connection. Next morning his driver delivered her car to West Hollywood.
The audition was set for the following Wednesday.
She already had years of acting foundation. Hearing the news, ICM hired a renowned L.A. coach to help her break down the role. Four intense days of prep, and she aced the audition Martin Scorsese personally ran. He even praised her performance.
Genuinely, not politely.
Yet her mood stayed low in the days after.
Perhaps the role settled the score; the little man never contacted her again.
…
Right up to his departure for Europe, Simon kept himself buried in work. Since the collapse, he'd sensed foreign elements in his mind, unclear whether from the body's original owner or some awakening of his own. Either way, his mindset felt abnormal; he forcibly suppressed it.
The 42nd Cannes Film Festival opened May 11. Daenerys sent not only Ira Deutchman with Gaumont's My Left Foot in main competition but Robert Rehme's team to pitch the studio's slate.
Cannes was Europe's largest film market as much as an awards ceremony.
After committing to the May 20 "Gucci Night," Simon's European trip inevitably grew crowded with other stops.
Determined to lay groundwork for the internet era, he'd easily located Tim Berners-Lee via industry papers, the internet pioneer currently at CERN in Switzerland. Simon hoped to lure him to North America to refine global standards.
Since he owned Gucci, a visit to headquarters in Florence made sense.
Plus, with all the European properties he'd bought, he ought to see them personally.
Deutchman and Rehme's teams arrived before May 11; Simon departed L.A. the morning of May 19.
He landed in Cannes at eight a.m. local time May 20.
Sophia Fache met him personally. The group left the airport straight for the hillside villa in La Californie.
Inside the Spanish-style home, Simon and Sophia spoke quietly when Natasha Kinski appeared--curled on the sofa in nothing but an oversized white shirt, long bare legs tucked beneath her. Seeing Simon, she offered a cool greeting, then rose and headed upstairs like a Persian cat habitually aloof with its owner.
Looking around, the decor had shifted since last year--clearly more feminine. A faint perfume lingered; he'd spotted staff outside earlier. He'd never liked people hovering in his space.
He instructed Neil and the team to sweep for bugs, then settled on the sofa and asked Sophia, "How much has she spent this past year?"
Sophia smiled. "Around seven hundred thousand."
"Get the bills together these next few days. I'm collecting," Simon said. Recalling Natasha's jury vote last year at Cannes, he lay back on the sofa and added menacingly, "With interest. Calculate it clearly."
Sophia walked over, crouched, tucked a throw pillow under his head, and teased, "You'll never see a dime. Natasha got no alimony from her ex. She did three films last year, all low-budget European pictures. Total pay under two hundred thousand; after taxes, even less."
Natasha was a gorgeous European vase with decent fame, but European budgets kept her fees low, maybe a hundred thousand for commercial work.
"Then I'll just have to evict her," Simon said, lifting his head so Sophia could adjust the pillow properly. He kicked off his shoes, noticed Jennifer still standing nearby, and added, "I'll rest a bit. Take Jenny upstairs to settle her in, and have lunch prepared. Ira and Bob are coming over."
Sophia nodded, went to the other end of the sofa to straighten his discarded shoes, then led Jennifer upstairs.
Though Sophia seemed more attentive than usual, Simon didn't dwell on it. Remembering something, he called after the two women heading for the stairs to give the household staff time off, then closed his eyes and dozed, arm pillowing his head.
The busy days and fourteen-hour flight had left him drained.
He woke over two hours later, just past eleven.
Opening his eyes, he found Natasha Kinski curled on the neighboring sofa again, still in the long white shirt, now with pants but still barefoot.
Noticing his gaze, the woman flipping through a fashion magazine glanced over, then looked away.
Simon sat up. "Where's Sophie?"
Natasha didn't lift her head, drawling lazily, "Kitchen, probably."
"You're divorced?"
"Mm."
"The kid?"
"I'm no good with kids. Better with his father."
"So you plan to squat here forever?"
"I think it's fine."
"But I don't," Simon said. Feeling he should seize some initiative, he added, "And you spend too much. Time to settle the tab?"
Natasha shifted slightly, tone indifferent. "I have no money."
"Then I can kick you out?"
"Mm."
"…"
The standoff lasted a moment, or rather, only Simon was standoffish, like glaring at thin air before he surrendered.
Not great at evicting people.
Anyway.
Just treat her like a real cat.
Not like I can't afford it.
Seeing Jennifer return with Ira Deutchman and Robert Rehme, Simon ignored Natasha, rose, and went to greet them.