[TL/N: I'm so sorry for disappearing for almost a month. I couldn't help it, since our professor kept giving us difficult projects. The good thing is that I finally have time now. Alright, back to 3–5 chapters per day.]
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"'You look familiar, I guess it's because you're wearing clothes that I didn't recognize you.' Haha, Simon, how did you come up with that monologue? If I didn't know your age, I'd swear the person who wrote it was some seasoned playboy."
In a restaurant in Santa Monica.
Across the table, Madonna leaned slightly toward Simon, chattering away about the song he'd written for her last time.
Pulp Fiction was in its final sound editing phase, and Simon wasn't satisfied with the recording of a few lines from Sean Penn and Madonna's scenes. He'd called to see if they could spare time to re-dub, and the couple, who happened to be back on the West Coast, readily agreed.
They finished the dubbing that morning, and Simon wasn't stingy about treating them to lunch.
If Sean Penn weren't there, Simon wouldn't mind teasing back. For now, he just smiled and said, "Speaking of which, how many copies has You Can Dance sold?"
Madonna's eyes lit up at the question. "2.16 million in North America, about 3.35 million overseas—total 5.51 million. I thought 5 million would be great, but now, this could easily double. So, Simon, when are you giving me the next song?"
Simon replied, "Definitely for your next album. I can't just whip one up casually, right?"
"You could whip one up casually, as long as it's good enough—I could build a whole album around your song," Madonna said, looking like she'd tasted success and wanted more. "Also, Simon, got any small roles for me? No pay this time—one cameo for one song."
Simon said, "A campus thriller. Opens with a girl getting a call from a psycho killer, gets murdered soon after. Body's not just hung from a tree—it's gutted. You in?"
Madonna shook her head immediately. "No way. That could inspire some fanatic fans to copy it. I don't want to end up like John Lennon."
Simon shrugged. "Then nothing else."
Madonna hesitated. "Is there really a role like that?"
"There is, but after what you just said, I'm a bit worried too. So, better not," Simon shook his head, then turned to Sean Penn, smoothly shifting topics. "Sean, how's that Colors you did with Robert Duvall coming along?"
"The release is set for April 15th. I think the final cut is excellent, but Orion isn't too confident about it," Sean Penn said with a hint of regret, then added, "Simon, I heard you signed on for Rain Man, the one Ovitz has been pushing personally?"
Simon recalled the reactions in newspapers and from people around him lately, smiling. "Yeah, I'm the certified fat sheep now. You're not going to mock me too, are you?"
Sean Penn's expression turned hesitant.
But Madonna was blunt. "Sean wants to direct too. Simon, you're so rich now—invest in us a bit."
Simon nodded with a smile. "Let me see the script first. If it's good, and this fat sheep hasn't been devoured by then, no problem."
Madonna said enviously, "1.6 billion dollars—I could spend that in a lifetime."
Simon winked at Sean Penn. "Sean, looks like you'll have to work hard earning money. This woman's planning to blow 1.6 billion in one lifetime."
Sean Penn shrugged manfully. "A good beating would knock those ideas out."
Madonna punched his shoulder indignantly. "Maybe I'll earn that much myself."
After lunch, Simon saw the couple off and got into his car. Neil Bennett in the front said, "Mr. Westeros, Ms. Pascal just called. George Kirgo, chairman of the Writers Guild, wants to talk to you. He's already at the company."
Simon checked his watch. He'd planned to head to WMA headquarters that afternoon, but since Amy had called personally, this couldn't be brushed off. "Back to the company first, then."
Neil started the car. Simon picked up the car phone to let Jonathan Friedman know, chatted briefly, and soon the SUV pulled up outside Daenerys Films' headquarters.
Seeing Simon's car, Amy came out to meet him.
On the way back, Simon had already guessed George Kirgo's purpose, and Amy's explanation confirmed it.
The WGA had East and West Coast branches; technically, George Kirgo was chairman of the West branch. In his office, Simon met the man—a silver-haired, round-faced elder in his sixties, looking remarkably vigorous.
After a brief chat, George Kirgo got to the point. "Simon, you know we're negotiating with the Producers Alliance. As one of Hollywood's most promising young screenwriters, we'd love for you to join the WGA and lend your voice to the writers' community."
Simon looked troubled. "Mr. Kirgo, I own my own production company now. If I join the Writers Guild and the WGA strikes, I couldn't possibly follow the strike rules."
George Kirgo shook his head with a smile. "Simon, negotiations are ongoing—it might not come to a strike. And there are always exceptions. Even if it happens, you'd just need to pause scriptwriting and avoid new contracts with major studios for a while."
Hearing this, Simon realized Kirgo was an optimist too, unaware of how severe the upcoming strike would be.
A five-month strike—Daenerys Films' ongoing projects couldn't hire professional writers. If Simon bound himself to WGA rules too, the company would have to shut down.
He shook his head firmly. "George, I'm sorry—I really can't join the WGA right now."
George Kirgo didn't give up easily, lobbying for another ten minutes. Seeing Simon's resolve, he finally stood to leave.
Politely escorting George Kirgo out and watching his car leave the parking lot, Amy said to Simon, "The Writers Guild of America Awards nominations are out next week."
Simon didn't rush off to WMA and walked back into the building with Amy. "You want me to join the WGA?"
Amy nodded. "The Oscar screenplay awards voting is in WGA members' hands too. Screenplay is your best shot at an award this year. Rejecting George Kirgo means Run Lola Run has no chance."
Simon smiled wryly. "The WGA can do without me, right?"
Amy laughed. "Your three scripts last year—Run Lola Run, The Butterfly Effect, and Final Destination—all cracked the top ten box office. If a writer like that isn't a member, they'll lack credibility when they strike."
Simon felt a bit helpless; he understood Kirgo and Amy's thinking.
Neither thought the strike would be that bad—or even happen.
If Simon, a rising top screenwriter in Hollywood, joined the WGA now and voiced support in negotiations, it would benefit both sides.
At this key voting juncture in awards season, his stance could win favor with many voting writers.
Conversely.
If the WGA struck and Simon—this top writer with three top-ten hits—stayed out, free to create and sign deals, it would be a slap in the face, embarrassing the whole WGA.
After Run Lola Run last year, Simon had risen to fame in Hollywood and met WGA entry standards, but they'd never reached out—until now. It wasn't coincidental.
Everyone could read between the lines.
As Amy had just said.
The Writers Guild Awards nominations next week.
Clearly.
If Simon agreed to join now, he'd be a ' frontrunner' for nominations and awards.
But.
Knowing exactly how the next few months would unfold, Simon couldn't possibly accept the WGA's invitation.