This year's Cannes Film Festival opened on May 11.
On May 9, Simon's group left Los Angeles aboard the newly delivered Gulfstream IV, flying first to New York and then straight to Cannes.
As Gulfstream's newest long-range business jet, the Gulfstream IV has a range of 7,800 kilometres, more than enough for the 6,000-kilometer trans-Atlantic hop.
Yet the 20-seat gulfstream IV actually carries only 12 passenger seats.
Simon, Janette, and Jennifer took three of them. Orion Pictures president Mike Medavoy was along for the trip, as were Robert De Niro, John Travolta, Nicole Kidman, Samuel L. Jackson, Madonna, and Sean Penn. Once everyone boarded, the cabin was packed, even with Simon's two bodyguards, Neil Bennett and Ken Dixon, up front in the cockpit. The rest of the entourage had to fly commercial.
France is nine hours ahead of the U.S. West Coast. Leaving Los Angeles at 10 a.m., they endured an eleven-hour flight and touched down in Cannes a little after 6 a.m. local time on May 10.
Cannes–Mandelieu Airport.
As they stepped off the plane, the pecking order was obvious. De Niro and Travolta, long-established A-listers, were staying at friends' villas. Madonna and her husband had rented an apartment. Everyone else followed Mike Medavoy to the hotel Orion had booked.
Simon, of course, wasn't relegated to a hotel.
They arranged to meet that evening, then Simon's party headed for Le Cannet in the hills northeast of Cannes. After half an hour of winding, tree-lined mountain roads, the car swept through a wrought-iron gate at the summit.
Simon stepped out onto the southern edge of the terrace, took in the sweeping view of Cannes and the bay beyond, and nodded. "I like it".
Janette joined him. "It's a lot like our place in Palisades, only bigger. One and a half hectares, more than triple the size".
As they talked, a brown-haired woman in a light-grey business suit approached with a stack of folders, smiling as she introduced herself in flawless English. "Mr. Westeros, Miss Johnston, Sophia Fessey. Would you like me to show you around?"
The purchase had been finalized before they left L.A., and Simon knew every detail, yet he still nodded. "Sure".
"This way", Sophia said, gesturing toward the entrance. "The annex houses security and staff. The previous owner, Mr. Brent, was very considerate, so the annex is beautifully appointed. Let's head to the main villa: 18,000 square feet, three floors, sixty-nine rooms, sixteen bedrooms, twenty-two bathrooms, three kitchens. Library, gym, screening Room and a very large basement that was originally a wine cellar".
After eleven hours in the air, Simon and Janette were exhausted. They let Sophia finish her spiel and sent her on her way.
From half a world away you can buy a hilltop estate, but you can't kit it out the way you would in L.A. Simon had simply asked Sophia to replace all the linens and sofa covers and restock the kitchen; everything else stayed as-is for now.
They found a nearby restaurant's number in the file Sophia left, ordered breakfast, then sent Neil, Ken, and Jennifer off to do their own thing while Simon and Janette headed for the third-floor master bedroom.
After a shower, Simon stepped out in a robe, saw the brightening sun on the wide terrace, and suddenly wasn't sleepy anymore. He walked outside.
Leaning on the balustrade, he looked down: classic Spanish architecture, red tile roofs, white walls, colonnades, arches, fountains. He didn't even like the style, yet the moment he'd seen the listing he'd decided to buy.
The location was simply unbeatable; only dire necessity would force the previous owner to sell an asset certain to appreciate.
The asking price, 35 million francs, came to just over $5 million thanks to Europe's sliding currencies. Simon agreed to pay cash, the seller rounded down, and they closed at an even five.
Even by Cannes standards of the day, three times the land, a castle-sized villa, and a commanding hilltop view made $5 million a bargain.
Janette stepped out behind him, slipped her arms around his waist, and asked, "What's on your mind?"
Simon slid a hand along her waist. "Just pictured bodyguards in shades with submachine guns, exactly like every drug-lord movie. I'd be the kingpin".
"Drug-running's exhausting and not as profitable as my man". She rubbed her cheek against his. "But you'd need a couple of pretty ornaments in that scene. Should I call Kidman over? You've wanted her since you cast her".
Simon shook his head. "No".
Janette wasn't buying it; she scrunched her nose. "Hmph".
Chuckling, Simon scooped her up and carried her toward the bedroom. "Fine, whatever interest I had, it's gone".
"Why's that?" she asked, puzzled.
He laid her on the big bed and drew the curtains. "I did some math for Ron McMillan, and suddenly women didn't interest me much anymore".
Rolling over, she propped herself up seductively. "What kind of math?"
He sat on the edge of the bed. "Better not tell you, you'd say I'm objectifying women".
She batted her lashes, slid closer. "Feminism? I'm no feminist".
He slipped an arm around her. "So you're a masculinist?"
"Why not? I'm a masculinist".
Simon slid a hand under Janette's filmy nightgown, groping until the woman narrowed her eyes like a contented kitten. Only then did he chuckle, "Confirmed, you can't possibly be a male chauvinist".
Janette pressed his retreating hand back in place and murmured, "Who says a male chauvinist has to be a man?"
Simon recalled plenty of men who called themselves feminists and nodded. "Seems you're right".
Janette's eyes fluttered open again. "You almost sidetracked me, what math problem?"
"Still don't want to tell you".
"Fine", She dropped it, only to add, "But you made Nicole Kidman a star; if you don't want her, someone else will snap her up".
Simon tweaked her nose with a grin. "Are you sure this isn't just an excuse to bite me?"
Janette flashed her little white teeth and nipped his shoulder. "I never need an excuse to bite you".
Simon knew exactly why she'd bitten him the night after last month's Oscars; call it female intuition, she'd sensed Sandra might be a threat and lashed out.
Clearly, though, Janette didn't see Kathryn or Jennifer as any danger to her position.
The more he thought, the more that rang true.
Age made Kathryn an unlikely match for Simon; as for Jennifer, a Female Assistant had zero combat value in Janette's eyes.
With those thoughts in mind he merely patted her waist. "Sleep. We've got plans tonight".
They napped until dusk, roused by Jennifer knocking; only then did they wake.
The opening ceremony was tomorrow, but Simon's work started today, there was a Hollywood gathering tonight and they'd agreed to attend.
After a quick wash-up they headed for a downtown hotel.
The party was moments from starting as they stepped into the ballroom; nearby, Robert Redford excused himself and came over.
Redford's role in Pulp Fiction was little more than a cameo; by his stature he could have skipped the festival, and indeed he hadn't come for the film but for his own directing effort, 'The Milagro Beanfield War'.
It was only his second film behind the camera.
Eight years earlier his debut 'Ordinary People' had been both a critical and popular smash; this adaptation, about a New Mexico farmer battling developers over water rights, had drawn only lukewarm notices.
Universal had released it in mid-March, and after nearly two months the gross was barely $8 million, against a twenty-two million budget, North America alone guaranteed a loss.
To recoup, Universal shipped it to Cannes for showcase screenings, and Redford dutifully led the cast and crew over.
After decades in Hollywood Redford had seen every up and down; unfazed by the poor box-office, he greeted them warmly. "Perfect timing, Simon, let me introduce you".
He steered them toward the man he'd been talking to. "William, this is Simon. Simon, William Goldman".
Simon smiled and shook hands. "Mr Goldman, pleasure".
William Goldman, silver-haired in his sixties and wearing a pale-checked shirt, looked stern but sounded warm and chatty. "Good to meet you, Simon. Bob's mentioned you more than once; when we're back in L.A. we'll have to get together".
"Absolutely", Simon said, adding, "This is my girlfriend, Janette".
Goldman greeted Janette as well, and the four traded light Hollywood gossip, barely touching on Cannes itself.
Yet Simon knew he'd just chalked up another favour owed to Redford.
William Goldman was a top-tier screenwriter whose breakout credit, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, had made Redford a star, and he'd stayed A-list ever since.
If that were all, the intro would be useful but not crucial.
But Goldman had a second hat: he was one of the ten jurors at this year's Cannes. Compared with the Oscars, personal taste dominates here, and outcomes can swing wildly.
Year after year the verdicts diverge sharply from critics' polls; films lavished with praise leave empty-handed, while critical whipping-boys steal prizes.
To believe no outside factors play a part would be naïve.
In the original timeline Pulp Fiction beat Kieslowski's 'Three Colours: Red' and Zhang Yimou's 'To Live' among others for the Palme d'Or largely because Clint Eastwood headed the jury.
So even confident of the picture's merit, Simon wasn't about to sit back and wait for the trophy, only a fool banks on purity here.
He'd already screened the twenty-one entries: overall a mediocre slate. Apart from his own 'Pulp Fiction' he could recall no standouts, giving it an even bigger edge than in the 1994 strong-field year.
Still, campaigning was essential.
After politely chatting with Goldman he soon spotted another target across the Room.
George Miller.
They'd met at last month's Oscars, and shortly afterward Cannes announced its jury list, Miller's name was on it.
Simon and Miller were hardly friends.
But, Miller was Australian.
Thanks to Janette, Simon came with built-in Aussie credentials.