Cameron Diaz was pretty sure the desk chair she'd picked up from a flea market was actually carved out of a tombstone.
It was hard, hurt her butt, and smelled distinctly of desperation.
She'd been parked in that miserable thing for three days straight, fueled by what felt like five liters of black coffee. The ashtray on her desk was overflowing with cigarette butts—a habit she'd never had before.
That jerk, Link.
One day, he was aggressively pressing her against the floor-to-ceiling window... the next, he was gone. Vanished.
When she called, his assistant, Martha, said, "Mr. Link is in New York handling some... urgent financial matters."
Urgent financial matters in New York?
That sounded just too good.
Was he, maybe, in New York visiting "Miss Beautiful Mind"?
Frustrated, she ran her hands through her hair, turning her usually neat blonde locks into something resembling a bird's nest.
She let out a long, heavy sigh, steadied herself, and picked up the phone, dialing the main line for the Creative Artists Agency (CAA).
A sugary sweet voice answered, "This is CAA. How may I help you?"
"Hi, this is Cameron Diaz, a producer at Pangu Pictures." She tried her best to sound professional and composed. "I need to speak with the agent representing Mr. Tom Hanks. We have a major project we'd like to discuss with him."
The person on the other end tapped a few keys.
"Pangu Pictures... Mr. Link company, right?"
"That's right."
"And the project name?"
"The Shawshank Redemption."
A brief silence followed, then the sound of low murmuring on the line.
"And your director is?"
"Frank Darabont."
"Uh... a new director? And the female lead?"
"...The film doesn't have a female lead."
"I'm sorry, Ms. Diaz," the sweet voice returned, now noticeably cooler. "Mr. Hanks's schedule is completely booked for the next two years. Thank you so much for your call."
"Wait, we haven't even—"
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP!
The line went dead.
The air in the office was silent, like a vacuum.
Cameron held the receiver, her face burning with embarrassment.
Refusing to give up, she immediately called the William Morris Agency (WMA), asking for Morgan Freeman's agent.
The result was almost identical.
"A prison drama? Oh, we'll definitely keep your interest on file."
In the past few days, she'd made over a dozen calls.
Every time she mentioned "Pangu Pictures" and "The Shawshank Redemption," the warmth on the other end of the line was immediately cut off, like a power outage.
Those repetitive BEEP—BEEP—BEEP tones were worse than any insult.
Night fell, and the lights of Los Angeles twinkled outside her window.
Cameron sat in her chair, clutching the phone that was still emitting a dial tone.
She finally understood that in Hollywood, her minor acting fame combined with the producer title Link had given her meant absolutely nothing. She was a nobody.
She muttered a curse under her breath, a wave of frustrated anger and hurt rushing over her.
Screw this! I quit!
She grabbed the heavy script off her desk and, with all her strength, hurled it at the corner of the wall.
The script hit the drywall, then flopped onto the floor, pages scattering like a bird with a broken wing.
The only sound in the office was her own ragged breathing.
She stared at the white mess on the floor, at the dense text covering the pages, and suddenly felt all the energy drain out of her.
She slid to the floor, burying her face in her knees.
Silence.
Dead silence.
After what felt like a lifetime, she slowly raised her head, her gaze resting on the scattered script.
She remembered the look in Link's eyes—deep and knowing—when he had first handed it to her.
He hadn't been kidding around.
He had genuinely entrusted her with something he clearly treasured.
He believed in her so much, and here she was, throwing his gift away like trash.
Cameron picked up the phone and dialed Link's overseas direct line.
It rang for a long time before finally being answered.
"What is it?" Link's voice sounded tired. In the background, she could hear car horns and wind; he sounded like he was outside on a street.
"I can't do it," Cameron choked out, her voice husky. "CAA, WMA... everyone rejected me. They don't even care to read the script."
Silence on the other end.
She waited, her heart sinking, bracing herself for disappointment, mockery, or the dreaded I told you so.
"You're using the front door," Link finally said.
"What?"
"In Hollywood, the front door is for two kinds of people," he stated flatly, as if explaining a simple fact. "One is a legend, like Spielberg or Cameron. The other is a capitalist walking in with a checkbook. You are neither."
"Then... what am I supposed to do?"
She could hear the wind on his end, followed by the soft click of his lighter igniting.
"Cameron," his voice suddenly softened. "Do you remember why I cast you for your very first audition?"
She hesitated. "Because... I looked good?"
"Because you couldn't act," Link said.
"Because you lacked the skill, you were forced to use the dumbest method: you tried over and over again until you found the right feeling."
He paused, his voice quiet but firm.
"It's the same now. Don't take the road the old-timers use. Go find the people who are still trying to find their own way, just like you."
"But—"
"Trust me," he said, then let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. "And trust yourself, too."
BEEP!!!
The line disconnected.
Cameron stared at the receiver, not moving for a long moment.
Then, she slowly looked up, her gaze fixed on the sea of lights outside the window.
Her expression became rock-solid, more determined than ever.
"Fine. If I can't get in through the front door, then I guess I'll just have to climb through the window."