Sandra clung to Simon, kissing him for a while backstage before they finally emerged. At the entrance to the main hall, Simon paused and asked her once more, "Are you sure it's all wiped off?"
Sandra shot him a disgruntled glance. "Of course. You think I actually want Janet to scratch my face?"
Simon still sensed something mischievous in her eyes. He rubbed the corner of his mouth again before stepping out.
The ceremony was already more than halfway through; Best Original Score was being presented onstage.
When Simon sat back down, Janet turned to him with a bright smile, about to speak. Her eyes blinked, then a small hand slid over and pinched his waist without mercy.
Simon sucked in a sharp breath. Catching Sandra's gloating look on the other side, he mourned inwardly.
The most poisonous hearts belong to women.
He had been sabotaged after all.
Not satisfied with one pinch, Janet glared past him at Sandra before digging a tissue and compact mirror from her clutch and tossing them over.
Simon checked the mirror. A deliberate smudge of lipstick marked his jaw—small, but unmistakable to anyone sitting beside him.
He discreetly wiped it away. Sandra immediately leaned in again, all innocence. "Simon, Douglas just won Best Actor."
Onstage, last year's Best Actress winner, Marlee Matlin, stiffly read Michael Douglas's name. The scion of a Hollywood dynasty claimed the prize for his flawless portrayal of insider-trading tycoon Gordon Gekko in Wall Street.
Simon knew exactly why Sandra had pointed it out, but he feigned irritation with a soft "Hm?"
Sandra ignored his act, as if the lipstick incident had never happened, and continued earnestly, "Wall Street had only the one nomination—Douglas for Best Actor. Same as Run Lola Run."
Simon maintained his pretended sulk, nodding faintly. "Mm."
Seeing him persist, Sandra glanced around to confirm no live cameras were aimed their way, then leaned sideways toward him. Realizing she was about to kiss him right there in public, Simon startled and raised a hand. "Stop, or I'll switch seats with Janet."
At the threat, Sandra finally behaved.
Simon had only been bluffing. In the current situation, he did not dare trade places with Janet.
This was the Oscars, after all.
Given Janet's tendency to lose all restraint when riled…
If a fight broke out…
Well.
Still, noticing their interaction, Janet did not let him off easily. Her hand slipped over again and pinched his waist—lighter this time, thankfully.
Once both women settled, Simon turned his attention to the stage, Sandra's earlier words echoing in his mind. Michael Douglas's win owed as much to his impeccable performance as to the Douglas family's deep Hollywood connections.
As for Run Lola Run, Simon had stopped dwelling on it after the nominations were announced. Both Orion and Warner, disappointed by the single nod, had declined to spend further PR capital. Everyone assumed the Academy had issued a warning shot.
Lost in thought, he barely noticed the ceremony nearing its conclusion.
Whether by design or accident, Best Editing was scheduled after Best Director. Bernardo Bertolucci had just left the stage with his statuette for The Last Emperor when host Chevy Chase introduced the presenters for Best Editing: Kevin Costner and Daryl Hannah.
Feeling both Janet and Sandra tense beside him, Simon straightened slightly.
Onstage, bespectacled Kevin Costner traded a few jokes with Daryl Hannah before getting serious. "They are among the most creative and indispensable members of any crew. When principal photography ends, they must sift through tens of thousands of feet of film, selecting the right takes and, with a magician's touch, assembling them into a perfect movie."
"It's time they received their reward," Daryl Hannah continued. "The nominees for Best Film Editing are:"
"Gabriella Cristiani, The Last Emperor."
"Richard Marks, Broadcast News."
"Michael Kahn, Empire of the Sun."
"Peter E. Berger, Fatal Attraction."
"Simon Westeros, Run Lola Run."
After the roll call, platinum-blonde Daryl Hannah slowly tore open the envelope, pulled out the card, and glanced at it. Visible surprise crossed her face; she even looked directly toward Simon's section.
Catching her pause, a curious Kevin Costner peered at the result and showed similar astonishment.
The presenters' reactions, combined with Hannah's glance, told the entire hall what had happened. After a brief stunned silence, Costner and Hannah exchanged smiles and announced in unison, "The winner is Simon Westeros, Run Lola Run."
Many in the audience—who had assumed the young nominee was merely making up numbers—registered genuine shock. Only when applause swelled from all sides did the VIPs directly below the stage remember to clap.
Amid rising ovation, Simon stood. Janet and Sandra rose too, each embracing him.
After hugging Janet, he turned to Sandra, half-expecting another lipstick ambush. Instead she simply leaned close, whispered congratulations, and released him.
He strode quickly onstage, accepted the statuette from Kevin Costner, shook hands with both presenters, and stepped to the podium.
Placing the Oscar beside the microphone, Simon waited for the applause to fade, then tilted his head toward the golden figure with a smile. "It feels a little strange, but it truly is a surprise."
Even limiting discussion to film, Simon was far better known as a director, writer, composer, or producer than as an editor—yet here he stood accepting an Oscar for editing.
His lightly self-mocking remark drew chuckles and renewed applause.
He waited, then continued. "Looking back, the past year and more feels like a dream. Fortunately the outcome hasn't been too bad. So many people have helped me along the way. I want to thank Bob, Brian, and David, who took executive-producer credits on Run Lola Run; my agent Jonathan; my girlfriend Jenny; my good friend Sandy; and Catherine, Ron, Keanu, and so many others. Thank you all."
Unlike major categories such as Best Picture or Director, technical awards were allotted only thirty seconds for speeches. Simon knew no one would hurry him off—even ABC, broadcasting live, probably hoped he'd linger—but he kept it brief and soon left the stage.
Backstage, Janet and Sandra—who had slipped out of their seats—met him with fresh embraces. Then Pat Kingsley and Neil Bennett appeared, each holding a bulky mobile phone.
Pat indicated he should follow staff to have the statuette engraved while she spoke. "Simon, Mike Medavoy just called to congratulate you and hopes you'll join Orion's party at the Hilton. Terry Semel sent a similar invitation. Jonathan has already left home; he wants to know where you'll be so he can meet you."
As Pat stepped aside to answer another ringing phone, Neil quietly handed over his device. "Ms. Bigelow on the line."
Simon and Janet disliked the era's cumbersome mobiles, but they had equipped bodyguards Neil Bennett and Ken Dixon with one each. Neil had driven them tonight and remained backstage.
Simon took the phone and murmured, "Katherine?"
"Yes," came the quick reply. A pause, then, "I just saw you win on TV and wanted to congratulate you."
"Thank you." A smile curved his lips. "How have you been?"
"You know—prepping the film, overseeing the house renovation for you and Janet. Busy."
Her voice carried faint weariness. Katherine kept strict hours and early bedtimes; it was nearly midnight in New York. She would already be asleep if not waiting for his lone nomination's outcome.
Hearing the fatigue, Simon said, "Why don't you fly back to L.A. tomorrow?"
"No," she refused at once, a note of panic in her tone. After a moment she added, "In future… anyway… you must never do anything as reckless as that night again."
"I promise."
"Lying little devil," she murmured, clearly unconvinced, then said, "You must be swamped. I'll let you go. Goodbye."
"Good night. Sleep soon."
He handed the phone back to Neil, accepted the newly engraved Oscar from staff, and, surrounded by his group, moved to the media area.
After fielding press questions, the ceremony concluded upfront with The Last Emperor predictably taking Best Picture.
Though it was past midnight on the East Coast, it was only nine o'clock in Los Angeles—prime time for nightlife.
The Vanity Fair party had not yet become tradition; attendees typically migrated to studio-sponsored after-parties. Having already agreed, Simon and company headed to the Sunset Tower Hotel in Beverly Hills for Warner's event.
Twenty minutes later, as Simon stepped from the car in the hotel garage, Jonathan Friedman hurried over.
After warm congratulations and greetings to Janet and the others, Jonathan lowered his voice. "Perfect timing, Simon. Steve Ross is here tonight. He just mentioned wanting a word with you."
Steve Ross was Warner Bros.' chairman and CEO. Simon had long been fascinated by the man whose rumored mob connections colored his rise.
Ross had started in New York with funeral homes and parking lots—industries in major cities often infiltrated by organized crime, as anyone paying attention knew.
The funeral parlor run by Noodles and his friends in Once Upon a Time in America was no coincidence or veiled jab; it reflected reality. The IRS could hardly audit exactly how much profit a single funeral generated—claim a million instead of ten thousand, pay taxes on the million, and no one asked where the extra $990,000 originated. Parking lots worked the same way.
Film, of course, offered even greater flexibility.
Entering the Sunset Tower's grand ballroom, Simon was greeted by Warner Bros. Pictures CEO Terry Semel, with Mel Gibson—who had also attended the ceremony—at his side.
"Simon, congratulations," Semel said warmly. "Mr. Ross stepped away briefly but will return shortly; he's eager to speak with you. And this is Mel—time you two officially met."
Simon extended his hand. "Mr. Gibson."
"Call me Mel, Simon." Gibson shook hands, then lightly greeted Janet on Simon's arm. "You look stunning tonight, Miss Johnston."
"Thank you, Mel. Call me Jenny. I loved Mad Max."
"Then you should talk to George later—he's here. We're prepping the fourth installment."
Simon noted the easy rapport between Janet and Gibson and was not surprised. Both were Australian.
The Australian contingent in Hollywood had always been tight-knit. In the original timeline Mel Gibson's career would later implode amid scandals, but for now he was unequivocally the group's leader.