Robert De Niro wasn't the type to linger at parties either; he stayed only briefly before excusing himself and leave.
Simon continued mingling with the crowd until nearly ten o'clock, planning to leave as well, when Meg Ryan suddenly appeared from somewhere, blocking him by the buffet table. "Simon, we need to talk."
Simon looked at the woman before him, her figure swaying slightly, eyes hazy. He took the wine glass from her hand and set it on the table, then moved a bit toward a quieter spot nearby.
Meg Ryan followed step by step until she bumped into the man who had suddenly stopped.
Her body drifted back a bit. Meg Ryan gazed at the man in front of her, her tongue slurring. "Si-Simon, you don't like me, do you?"
Simon told the truth. "I had some expectations originally, but your condition disappoints me."
"But this is me; this is how I am," Meg Ryan pressed her chest, staring wide-eyed at him, her voice carrying a hint of grievance. "Mr. Westeros, since you don't like me, just let me go, okay? You're a big shot now—one word from you and I lose a role I had a good shot at. That's punishment enough, isn't it?"
Simon frowned, looking at the unsteady woman before him. "Miss Ryan, you haven't reached the point where I like or dislike you, because we're not familiar. So, I'm not in the mood to punish you. If you're satisfied with your current state, then from now on, you can do as you please."
With that, Simon turned to leave.
Meg Ryan clearly still had something to say, stubbornly reaching out, grabbing the hem of Simon's jacket. Then, with a sharp tug, she tumbled straight to the ground.
This is the second time she's faking it.
Simon stopped helplessly, helped Meg Ryan up from the ground, and sat her at a nearby table and chairs. Fortunately, it was grass underfoot; though disheveled, the woman wasn't hurt.
The commotion naturally drew others' attention.
However, seeing it was Simon Westeros tussling with a woman, everyone, though curious, restrained themselves from approaching. Some even pretended not to notice.
In Hollywood, such things were all too common.
Simon ignored the others' thoughts, waved for a waiter to bring some tissues, and handed them to the woman. Seeing her dazed and somewhat lost, he had to wipe her face himself, then asked the waiter who else had come with her tonight.
Robert Redford soon noticed the disturbance and came over. After inquiring, learning Meg Ryan had come alone, Simon simply called CAA to pick her up.
After all this fuss.
Meg Ryan gradually sobered up, awkwardly apologizing to Robert Redford, the host.
Half an hour later, Meg Ryan's agent, Josh Lieberman, arrived personally to fetch her.
Meg Ryan shrank into the car, looking at Simon and Robert standing outside. Now sober, the woman apologized again, and finally looked pitifully at Simon, whispering, "I'm really sorry, Mr. Westeros. I was out of line just now. Tomorrow—tomorrow, can I still go to Daenerys Films?"
Feeling several pairs of eyes on him, Simon could only nod helplessly.
After seeing Meg Ryan off, Neil Bennett had arrived to pick him up, so Simon bid farewell directly.
Leaving the hillside, back at Century Plaza Towers in Century City, the Chevrolet SUV stopped at the building. Simon got out, and Neil Bennett followed from the driver's seat.
Intending to enter the building directly, seeing the other follow, Simon paused and looked at the middle-aged man in his forties. "Neil, is there something?"
Neil Bennett gazed at the young man before him, recalling recent events.
Some time ago, assigned to protect the young miss and her boyfriend, Neil Bennett and Ken Dixon, though reluctant, obeyed and crossed the ocean to Los Angeles.
In the days that followed, they grew increasingly fond of Simon.
This young man had achieved fame early but wasn't arrogant, possessing maturity far beyond his years. He was not only very good to the young miss but also considerate to those around him like themselves.
Last month, Simon had offered to help relocate their families to Los Angeles, arranging jobs for their wives and schooling for their children. The orders from Melbourne were for them to stay with the young miss long-term. Both in their middle age, with families, they eagerly welcomed Simon's proposal.
Los Angeles offered far better conditions than Melbourne in every way.
After all the back-and-forth, not knowing how much was spent to settle everything, the couple they guarded inexplicably split up.
A certain old man, heartbroken over his daughter's future, had ranted for days about 'my daughter is finally getting married.' Simon's background from childhood had been thoroughly investigated and sent back to Melbourne.
Aside from being young and the mental issues concerning, there were no other dissatisfactions.
Simon didn't know that if not for Janet's repeated calls explaining and warning, a horde from Australia would have descended by now. In the words of a furious old man roaring over the phone: The Johnston family isn't to be bullied.
Now.
Like a divorce dividing assets, Neil Bennett became Simon's daily bodyguard and driver, while Ken Dixon handled Janet. Plus various directives from Australia, the two middle-aged men were exhausted.
Seeing Simon still waiting for an answer, Neil Bennett quickly snapped back. "Mr. Westeros, will you call the miss later?"
Simon smiled. "It's a bit late now; Jenny isn't one to stay up."
"Make the call; the miss is surely expecting it," Neil Bennett clumsily urged, then opened the car door. "Mr. Westeros, I'll be on time tomorrow."
Watching Neil drive off, Simon turned into the building, back to his 22nd-floor apartment.
Having moved several times in less than a year, Simon was too lazy to fuss this time. The spacious apartment was empty except for the study and bedroom; the living room had been simply converted into a private screening room with a projector, big screen, and row of sofas.
Without a woman to manage, the apartment looked somewhat messy. Not that Simon couldn't do housework— he'd been too busy lately and was uncomfortable with strangers entering his home, so he didn't call workers to clean.
Now, the living room sofa, floor, and coffee table were scattered with videotapes and various documents.
Slipping off his shoes, Simon stepped on the floor in socks, heading to the phone as usual.
No messages today, but the fax machine had a weekly box office summary from last week. The data had come out this morning; Simon, busy all day, hadn't seen it yet. He pulled it out, loaded a videotape into the projector, turned it on, and lounged comfortably on the sofa.
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