Janette -
She had always been a free spirit.
Like a cat.
She could be elegant, playful, and coquettish in a crowd; alone, she still thrived, free and unbound.
She'd assumed it would stay that way forever.
Until one day, one night, maybe the instant that guy grabbed her wrist.
She was suddenly tamed.
He was strong enough, gifted enough, mysterious enough, and still indulged her little whims, her small rebellions, her tiny evils.
The perfect lover, basically.
So she latched on at once.
Hmph, hmph, hmph.
She didn't stop him running off to Arizona; inwardly she recalled her prank, wondering if Kate, teased by her so often, could resist his temptation.
Only…
With him gone the place felt empty, and she couldn't stand it.
So she simply moved into his house, padding quietly through the rooms like a cat whose owner has left.
At night she slept in his bedroom.
She wasn't sure when, but a phone started ringing.
She hated answering calls, especially ones that shattered the small hours. Hate, hate, hate.
Didn't the caller know nobody was home?
She yanked a pillow over her head; the call soon flipped to voicemail.
Groggy, she heard a girl's voice.
Chattering and giggling to herself.
She strained an ear, oh, Sandra Bullock.
Calling at this hour.
Hmph, hmph, hmph.
Maybe she should snatch up the receiver and make her squirm.
She decided against it.
Listening to the girl rave about packed screenings of 'Run Lola Run' pleased her, though she herself loathed cinemas, preferring private screening rooms.
Sandra also griped about the film's rating.
She was annoyed too.
With Simon away she'd been the production's liaison with Orion all week, so she knew every detail.
Clearly The Big Seven were stirring trouble.
'Run Lola Run' should have sailed to PG-13; instead it landed an R. With the release schedule jammed there'd been no time to appeal, only to rush the R-rated prints into theatres.
By the time Sandra hung up she was fuming, all drowsiness gone.
Hmm.
Perfect excuse, little boy, you'd better comfort me right now or I'll never sleep.
She scooted to the bedside, about to grab the phone, then remembered he'd said the crew was shooting nights till two; he'd still be on set, not in his hotel.
She gave up.
She buried her face in his pillow, linens freshly washed, yet she swore she still caught his scent.
And just like that she wasn't angry anymore.
Sleep.
When she woke again it was broad daylight.
After breakfast she slipped into a wine-red business suit, slid behind the wheel of her matching Ford and headed for Orion.
Orion Pictures' current priority was Oliver Stone's 'Platoon'.
The politically charged Vietnam reflection had already scooped Best Picture and Best Director at last month's Golden Globes, and nabbed multiple Oscar nominations—this season's front-runner.
Its box-office was equally stellar: made for six million, it had soared past forty.
Still, Orion hadn't relaxed its push for 'Run Lola Run', even setting up a dedicated office.
Janette reached the lot and, with a handful of staff, spent the morning collating yesterday's feedback—press reviews and audience surveys.
Box-office tallies, though, wouldn't arrive until Monday's first-weekend figures landed.
The early returns beat every expectation: critics raved, survey cards glowed.
Some exhibitors called asking to expand bookings next week.
Noon approached before Janette faxed the dossier to Arizona—where the crew wrapped at two a.m. yet rarely slept before three or four; a few crew had even quit from exhaustion. Simon, in fine shape, felt little strain.
'Run Lola Run' premiered yesterday, but Simon couldn't attend.
Though Arizona borders California, only Phoenix had any screens; stuck in little Coolidge, the team had no chance to watch.
This first film of his return to this era, confident as he was in what he had created, he still felt a knot of anxiety.
He'd crashed into bed at three; by nine he was awake.
He itched to phone L.A. but remembered the one-hour lag, still too early. Instead he drove the fifty-plus miles to Phoenix and scooped up every morning paper he could find.
Back in Coolidge it was already past eleven.
Crew members were up, drifting toward the caterer. Simon parked just as Kathryn stepped laughing from the motel with a few others.
She spotted him, greeted him brightly: "Simon, how's 'Run Lola Run# doing? We're headed to lunch, join us and fill us in".
He nodded, clutching the papers, and said hello to Jenny Wright and Adrian Pasdar beside her.
Jenny was hanging on the arm of a handsome guy, her boyfriend who was visiting the set, Nicolas Cage, to Simon's amazement.
Small town, smaller industry.
Everyone already knew his movie had opened yesterday.
In the restaurant they eyed the stack of papers.
He passed them around.
Jenny, sweet faced, with a wild streak, a real rock addict, snagged the Arizona Daily Star, flipped fast and crowed: "Here: 'Run Lola Run'. I walked in convinced no eighteen-year-old could deliver a film to match up to the hype, then sat stunned by a dazzling feast of sound and vision. Brilliant camerawork, score, editing, and rarest, an electrifying cinematic idea. 'Run Lola Run' earns a place in film history, and Simon Westeros is clearly among Hollywood's new greats".
"Wow, Simon, guess I'd better see this thing. And hey, cast me in your next one!"
The table, hooked by her reading of the review, dove for the other papers, devouring them in twos and threes.
In the end every single one, save a lone sceptic questioning whether Simon had really directed the film, was glowing.
Jenny teased that he must have chucked the bad ones out the car window.
It was Saturday; they quickly voted to hit Phoenix that night and finally watch 'Run Lola Run' together.
After lunch the official fax from Orion arrived, and Simon's last worries about the film's box-office melted away.