They stayed at the party for two hours, leaving just after nine-thirty.
On Sunset Boulevard, Janet, her face flushed, leaned against the slightly open window for a breeze before turning to Simon beside her. "Little boy, are you planning to accept?"
Simon nodded. "Yeah, Orion's terms show real sincerity."
"But," Janet tilted her head, "they're only giving you a week for test shoots. Aren't you worried they'll deliberately kick you out?"
Simon had that concern too—he wasn't naive and knew Hollywood was rife with deceit. But to launch *Run Lola Run* soon, he had no better options. Plus, at the party, Brian De Palma had offered another layer of security.
"Didn't you hear? Brian said if Orion ultimately lets me direct, he'll executive produce."
Brian De Palma's name wasn't as influential as Spielberg's, and he'd hit a slump lately, but he was still a top Hollywood director. His name on a total newbie's film would draw plenty of attention.
Simon also had faith in his abilities. As long as Orion wasn't scheming to snatch the project from the start, he believed it'd turn out well.
But this way, the favors he owed were piling up.
And with Orion's $1 million budget, they wouldn't agree to Sandra, a complete unknown, as the lead—that was another issue.
Janet, in the passenger seat, noticed Simon's brow furrowing in thought. After a silence, she said, "If you hadn't donated that money, you could make this film without strings now, right?"
Simon glanced at her, seeing faint guilt in her expression. "This has nothing to do with you. If I'd wanted to keep it, no one could've taken it from me."
Janet blinked, her look turning dissatisfied as she insisted, "How could it not? It has to."
Simon smiled, saying no more, focusing on driving.
Janet twisted away like a sulky girl, seemingly mad at him.
The Ford wound along the curving Sunset Boulevard at the Santa Monica Mountains' base. Over ten minutes later, Janet spotted a neon sign. "Hey, keep going and you'll pass Palisades. Are you lost?"
Palisades was the westernmost hillside mansion area in the L.A. segment of the Santa Monica Mountains. Still in Santa Monica city, but farther on, at Sunset's end onto California Route 1, was Malibu.
They'd clearly passed Simon's Montana neighborhood.
Simon shook his head. "Nah, don't you live in Malibu? I'll drop you off."
Janet pouted disdainfully. "Coward, you really think I'd crash at your place?"
Simon chuckled. "You drank."
Janet paused, unconvinced. "You drank too?"
Simon had only sipped a mild cocktail early on, weaker than beer. Janet had ordered a strong vodka after his Medavoy talk—he couldn't let her drive like that.
Seeing her stare, Simon shrugged. "So? I'm a guy—if cops catch me, I'm the one going to jail."
At that, Janet's long lashes fluttered, her whole demeanor softening. She leaned sideways against the seat, eyes misty.
Simon sensed her sudden quiet, glanced over, and faked a shiver. "Don't look like that—people aren't tasty at all."
Janet blinked, then reached over, pinching his waist hard. "Jerk, you're such a little jerk."
Amid the fuss, the Ford unwittingly reached a mansion near Point Dume Park in Malibu.
Simon parked, eyeing Janet still sulking like a kid in the passenger seat. After a beat, he leaned over, kissing her cheek softly. "Okay, goodnight. Get some rest. And lend me the car—I'll return it tomorrow."
Janet realized she'd tilted her face up compliantly for the kiss, feeling uncompetitive. But at his words, she nodded, reluctantly getting out.
Watching the black sliding iron gate across the road open then close slowly, Simon turned the car around and headed back.
Inside the mansion, Janet felt her buzz might not have faded—it even seemed stronger.
She flipped on all the living room lights, flopping softly onto the sofa, feeling floaty. She rolled left, then right.
Then tumbled onto the carpet.
Rubbing her head—it hurt—she naturally blamed a certain guy.
Then recalled the evening's events.
After mulling it over, she decided.
Too lazy to stand, she slinked like a languid cat to the coffee table by the sofa, pulling the phone down into her arms, dialing slowly.
After a few beeps, it connected.
"Hey, Iceberg, miss me lately?"
Transatlantic call quality was poor—delays and static.
A moment later, a somewhat curt reply.
She didn't mind, giggling.
"Of course I need something—who'd call you otherwise? I'd freeze... Okay, okay. So, lend me a million? Dollars, yeah... No way I'd ask the old man. Tell him if he sends more random guys for blind dates, I'll publicly marry a woman... Please? If not, I'll sell stocks... Boo, you cold-blooded woman, eyeing my stocks? Are we even family? Careful, or I'll cut ties... How much then?... Fifty grand? No way you only have that... Fine, fine. It's daytime in Melbourne, right? Wire it now—I need it tomorrow... Bye. Ugh, talking to you, I'm half-frozen."
Next morning, she woke and made breakfast.
No dining table, so she ate slowly at the kitchen bar.
Fretting how to tell Sandra Bullock about last night. Sandra had poured energy into the film too—they'd planned to revisit all scouted locations today.
Medavoy said he'd consider seriously for days, but Simon didn't plan to delay.
Looked like compensation would come later.
With that, after breakfast, Simon was about to call Sandra when the doorbell rang.
Opening it, Janet appeared again, in casual clothes.
Simon scanned around. "How'd you get here?"
Janet disdainfully waved her limited-edition Hermès bag. "You think I only have one car?"
"Fair," Simon let her in. "So, what's up today?"
Janet wasted no words, pulling a check from her bag. "Here—you can make *Run Lola Run* your way. If it's short, I can get more next month."
Simon glanced—$680,000. Per his production assistant's budget, it was nearly enough.
But.
After hesitating, he said, "Jenny, I'm confident in my film. But you know movies are the riskiest investment— no one predicts success."
Janet rolled her eyes impatiently before he finished. "So naggy, little boy. Want it or not?"
"Want it," Simon nodded quickly, then added, "But if it flops, no crying—especially not like at the hospital."