Simon no longer needed to justify his intentions to others. In response to Marvin Josephson's question, he simply shook his head. "Marvin, I don't wish to waste time on this. You and Julia can consider it and give me an answer tomorrow morning. Any other questions?"
Courtney Cox waited anxiously in the lounge for less than ten minutes before Simon's office door opened again. After seeing Marvin Josephson and Julia Roberts out, Simon beckoned her in.
Settling behind his desk, Simon opened the budget file for Scream and addressed her. "Court, I've reviewed your audition tape. You're well suited for the lead in Scream. However, the film won't advance your career much—it will likely typecast you as a teen star, making future transitions difficult."
Courtney naturally interpreted this as rejection. Her eyes dimmed as she bit her lip. "Simon, you're still holding a grudge because I turned you down, aren't you?"
Simon paused, looked up at her, and shook his head. "Court, I've been through far too much for your refusal to leave any lasting resentment. I'm simply stating facts."
"Then can I have the lead in Scream?" Courtney fixed her gaze on him. "I don't care about the career impact, Simon. My path hasn't been as smooth as Sandra Bullock's anyway."
"Very well, Court—if you insist. But Scream is intended as a series. You'd need to commit to three films."
Courtney answered without hesitation. "No problem."
Simon set down the pencil he had just picked up and stood. "In that case, you can head out. I'll have someone contact Jonathan."
Courtney had not expected things to resolve so easily, yet she felt no joy—only a vague sense that she might have missed something greater. Seeing Simon extend his hand across the desk, she hesitated, then circled behind it and wrapped her arms around him.
Simon felt her press against him, patted her waist lightly, and said, "Court, you should go."
Courtney tightened her embrace. "Simon, I could come to your place tonight."
Simon gave a soft laugh and shook his head. "That's impossible—I'd rather not make tomorrow's gossip columns."
"Then," Courtney glanced around, lowering her voice, "here would work too."
Simon recalled Julia Roberts's nearly identical parting hint, caught Courtney's hand as it moved toward his belt, and repeated more firmly, "Court, you need to leave."
Courtney opened her mouth to protest, but a knock sounded at the door. Reluctantly, she stepped back to the other side of the desk, pulled a card from her bag, and handed it over. "Simon, call me anytime."
Simon knew only Amy or Jennifer would knock without Susan's announcement. He took the card, called out permission, and Jennifer entered with a folder. Seeing Courtney, she looked momentarily surprised but nodded politely before turning to Simon. "Boss, I can come back later."
"No need—Court's just leaving."
At that, Courtney had little choice but to say goodbye.
Simon watched her go, then sat again and looked at his assistant. "What is it?"
"Dad finalized the acquisition terms with the Toronto digital effects company and just sent the details," Jennifer said, handing over the folder. As Simon opened it, she paused briefly. "Susan wasn't outside. I heard your previous guests leave and assumed you were alone."
Simon caught the subtle glance and small expression on her face, smiled, and teased, "You ruined my plans. Shouldn't you make it up to me?"
"No way."
Simon turned to the file. "Then stop looking guilty."
Jennifer sensed something amiss. Women are acutely attuned to such things; she had noticed the charged atmosphere between Simon and Courtney the moment she entered.
Yet she truly had no reason to feel guilty—the guilty party was someone else. Gathering her courage, she accused, "You're the one who misbehaved. I'm telling Janet."
Simon appeared not to hear the empty threat, instead frowning at the document. "This can't be right. Why this company?"
Jennifer stepped closer, leaning over the desk to peer at the page. "Alias-Research. It's definitely them—how could it be wrong?"
As she leaned in, Simon suddenly hooked a finger under her delicate chin and kissed her without ceremony.
Jennifer froze the instant his fingers touched her, eyes wide as she passively returned the kiss. Only when he released her and sat back did she react—stepping away, cheeks flushed, and repeating the threat. "I'm telling Janet."
Simon ignored the harmless warning and smiled instead. "Jennifer, help me figure out how to get you home tonight without anyone noticing. Good idea gets a reward."
Jennifer suppressed the urge to flee. "I'm not going home with you."
"Then I'll come to yours?"
"My uncle would throw you out."
"Sigh. Suddenly I feel so pitiful."
"Heartless playboy."
After this light sparring, Simon focused on the documents.
Alias-Research was a Toronto-based digital effects software company founded in 1983, with a post-production tool already developed under the name Alias.
No longer pinning all hopes on acquiring Pixar, Simon had recently identified two firms through SGI introductions. Wavefront-Technologies was the other, and its acquisition was also complete.
Both ran on SGI workstations. Alias-Research's software focused on live-action post-production, while Wavefront's leaned toward 3D animation. Though crude by Simon's standards, their capabilities rivaled Pixar's current output—which was equally primitive.
He had chosen these two because he remembered their software—especially Alias—contributing to landmark nineties effects films like Terminator 2, Jurassic Park, and Independence Day.
In the late nineties, both companies were acquired, their tools merged, and eventually evolved into Maya—a ubiquitous 3D software for animation, VFX, and gaming.
With both firms now secured, Simon's next step was to accelerate Maya's development ahead of schedule.
Though contemporary hardware lagged far behind future standards, it was already sufficient for many blockbuster CG effects.
The primary barrier to digital effects growth in the nineties had been funding. Software and studios typically matured project by project. Simon lacked neither capital nor projects through Daenerys Films.
Thus, he could advance the field years early, guided by three decades of future knowledge to avoid detours.
Today was Friday, March 11. When Harry Met Sally officially began limited preview screenings in major North American cities.
Late afternoon on the West Coast meant dusk had fallen on the East.
Janet had spent the day overseeing apartment renovations. That evening she met Katherine; the two planned to catch a preview of the film together. Top Gun: Maverick-inspired Danger Zone was also in prep and would shoot in New York, so Katherine had come to Manhattan.
After dinner, it was past seven.
Arriving at a Midtown cinema screening the film, only five minutes remained before showtime. The two-hundred-plus-seat auditorium was nearly full; Janet and Katherine found seats on the aisle.
"I picked this script first, you know," Janet said, cradling popcorn and scanning the crowd with satisfaction. "Simon loved it too—he even helped with the music. Shame I couldn't see the finished print in L.A. Looks like a strong turnout."
Katherine watched the preshow trailers. "Previews always draw crowds—many here tonight are press and critics. The real test is the wide release in two weeks."
They chatted idly until the film began.
After studio logos and credits, the screen opened not on the leads but on an elderly couple reminiscing. The unexpected choice startled the audience; some wondered if they had the wrong theater or if the projectionist had loaded the wrong reel.
Even Janet and Katherine exchanged puzzled glances. Janet had read the script, but her version lacked these segments.
Confusion quickly settled.
The correct logos and titles confirmed no error. Many journalists and critics instinctively downgraded their expectations. Such an unconventional, subdued opening risked alienating audiences—especially younger ones over Easter weekend.
Then Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan appeared.
At the University of Chicago, Harry bids farewell to his girlfriend; Sally arrives to share the drive to New York. Their eighteen-hour journey reveals clashing personalities through witty, revealing dialogue.
Harry is a witty, cynical pessimist—casual and irreverent. Sally is a meticulous optimist who cherishes refinement.
Within ten minutes, accompanied by nostalgic jazz standards, the seemingly ordinary story drew the auditorium in. When another elderly couple appeared, the device no longer felt jarring.
Time passes—five years.
Harry is about to marry; Sally is deeply in love. A chance airport encounter remains prickly, yet both have mellowed, even denying past opinions.
Another five years slip by.
Both relationships have ended; Harry and Sally are single again.
Autumn in New York: golden leaves drift through Central Park in intoxicating beauty—an exuberant final blaze. On a sunlit afternoon amid that splendor, convinced they have moved on, the two decide to attempt a purely platonic friendship.
The friendship flourishes. To escape singledom, they try setting up their best friends—Jess and Marie.
Instead, Jess and Marie fall for each other and plan to wed.
Sincerely happy for their friends, Harry and Sally—while helping with wedding preparations—unexpectedly cross the line and sleep together. Unprepared emotionally, misunderstandings and distance follow.
After a period of parallel lives, New Year's Eve brings clarity to Harry.
"I love that you get cold when it's seventy-one degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love the little crinkle above your nose when you look at me like I'm nuts. I love that after a day with you I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want that life to start as soon as possible."
Confession.
Embrace.
On the interview sofa, elderly couples recount their own stories—weddings, inevitable squabbles.
Yet this is life. This is love.
As credits rose to the classic strains of "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off," most in the auditorium remained immersed in the lingering afterglow, as though emerging from a twelve-year dream only to find life continuing.
Glancing at half-remaining cola and popcorn, many smiled and shook their heads, realizing When Harry Met Sally was best savored on a quiet weekend evening—curled on the sofa with coffee and a loved one.
Janet felt exactly that.
The moment the film ended, she seized Katherine's hand and—slightly manic—rushed to the airport, returning to Los Angeles under West Coast night.