She'd gotten a baffling phone call from some baffling guy asking if she was interested in starring in a movie.
Simon Westeros.
She knew the name Simon.
Westeros—it seemed familiar, like she'd heard it somewhere.
Right, at Robert's party.
Robert Duvall, the Oscar winner for Best Actor. Though he was thirty years her senior, he was her acting school senior.
Years ago, Robert Duvall had studied drama under Sanford Meisner too. She'd been lucky to get signed by WMA vice president Jonathan Friedman, thanks to Robert pulling some strings.
After moving to L.A., this enthusiastic older mentor had invited her to a party at his place last weekend, introducing her to plenty of Hollywood stars.
By chance, she'd overheard someone talking about a guy with the last name Westeros.
Such a weird surname.
So she'd remembered it right away.
But she wasn't quite sure what he did.
Maybe it was someone else.
Warily, she'd asked how he got her contact info.
Sensing her caution, the voice on the other end explained the situation.
He was also Jonathan's client and had gotten her number from their agent.
She wasn't buying it that easily.
She called her agent. Jonathan seemed a bit surprised by her story but confirmed the guy's account, even suggesting she take the role, saying it could turn out to be a truly magical experience for her.
Being signed to a top Hollywood agent had obvious perks, but drawbacks too.
Her agent—with over thirty clients—had been swamped lately and hadn't had much time for her.
Since she wanted to make her mark in Hollywood, she'd prepared herself to be patient.
Lately, she'd even been thinking about picking up a part-time job to cover living expenses.
Or heading back to New York for some stage work.
She couldn't just sit around.
Her family was well-off; she didn't have to worry about money.
In fact, most of the men and women who stuck it out in Hollywood long-term had solid family backing.
Those without basics needed acting lessons; every audition required careful prep; landing a film or TV role often meant cramming various skills classes...
All of that took heaps of time and cash.
So, while not absolute, folks from the bottom really struggled to break through in Hollywood. Just scraping by often ate up most of their energy, leaving little for chasing dreams.
Many couldn't hang on and ended up in L.A.'s other massive "film" industry.
Coordinates: San Fernando Valley.
Like Stallone before he hit it big.
She'd secretly watched that video back in the day.
So embarrassing.
Rocky's lifelong blemish.
Since her agent confirmed it was legit, after a quick think, she agreed to meet him.
Sunday afternoon at two.
Location: next to Douglas Park in mid-Santa Monica.
She arrived right on time in her shiny new Chrysler, only to get stood up.
That was too much.
She was about to drive off but decided to call instead.
The phone was answered by that old guy with the thick accent, who babbled on before passing it over.
His tone was deeply apologetic: his tire had blown, he was fixing it. He gave her a new address and offered to treat her to dinner as an apology.
She pondered the address; it didn't seem too far.
Fine.
For the sake of that sincere tone.
She started the car again, wove through Santa Monica's streets for a bit, and found a motel in north Santa Monica, near the southern edge.
Parking in the lot out front, she got out and scanned around.
A few cars sat quietly nearby, none in the midst of repairs. Under the motel's eaves, though, next to a laid-back old man in a floral shirt and beach shorts, was an upside-down bicycle.
The young guy with the bike.
Hmm.
That had to be him.
So she walked over.
Seeing her approach, the relaxed old man patted the young guy's shoulder and said something to alert him.
He looked up, spotted her, and stood with a smile.
Nice smile on that guy—tall, handsome, with really healthy bronze skin.
He was probably an actor too.
Not sure why he wanted to make a movie.
Anyway, boys loved to tinker.
"Hi, I'm Sandra Bullock," she said as he extended his hand, shaking it before adding, "We just spoke on the phone."
"Simon Westeros," he introduced himself, then apologized again. "Really sorry—right as I was heading out, I found the tire flat. Worried I'd miss you if I went late, I stayed at the motel to wait for your call."
Guys often acted big-hearted around pretty girls.
It seemed.
Girls did the same around handsome guys.
Though she'd been a cheerleader in high school, she knew she wasn't that pretty.
So right now, she felt pretty big-hearted.
"No big deal," she shook her head briskly, then pointed to his bike. "So, you're fixing it yourself?"
"I just bought the tools after our call; it'll take a bit," he explained, gesturing invitingly. "Let's chat over there."
She followed him under the motel's eaves and politely greeted the old man who'd brought her a stool.
He nodded back with a grin, then babbled something to Simon Westeros, glancing her way with a mischievous, unbecoming wink for his age.
It sounded like giberish.
Hmm.
That had to be Spanish.
She'd grown up in Germany as a kid; besides English, she spoke German.
But not Spanish.
She could only sit there awkwardly as the boy next to her babbled back to the old man.
Definitely not saying anything nice.
But though his skin was darker, it was clearly from the sun. From his features, he didn't have Spanish roots—more Germanic, surprisingly fluent in Spanish.
And he could fix bikes.
Wonder if he could fix pipes.
She remembered as a kid, when the home pipes burst, her dad fumbling around, just calling workers, not even knowing to shut off the valve first.
Lost in thought, sitting on the stool, she watched him pump up the tire, then roll it in his hands, turning it slowly close to his face.
The old man next to him babbled something, probably criticizing his method.
Then came his rebuttal.
Curious, she couldn't help asking, "What are you doing?"
He didn't answer, turned the tire a bit more, then stopped and smiled at her. "Bring your face over."
She leaned in obligingly, and he held the tire close.
A small puff of air brushed her face.
It felt oddly nice.
Before she could savor it, he pulled away. "That's where it's leaking."
With that, he took a toothpick and carefully stuck it in the newly found hole, then started turning the tire again.
This time she got it; he was checking for other leaks.
Watching him work so earnestly, she suddenly recalled what her agent had said on the phone yesterday—maybe this really would be a truly magical experience for her.