Monday morning, Matthew sat at his computer early, refreshed his inbox—no new mail—then called Helen Herman. She still didn't have the numbers; she only told him to be at Angel Talent Agency around ten to sign the new contract.
Matthew and Helen Herman had talked it through. Both wanted to keep working together, and the remaining sticking points were minor; in the short term he couldn't find a better-suited Agent than Helen, so staying with Angel Agency was the smartest move. Besides, Helen had voluntarily cut her commission—eight percent was a sweetheart deal for an actor at his level.
This time they signed the longest contract allowed under industry rules: three years.
After hanging up, Matthew opened a browser. The o-site still hadn't posted fresh box-office data.
ice.Mojo, an Amazon-owned site that systematically tracks ticket sales, launched in 1998 and is now North America's best-known box-office tracker.
Still, in this era the internet wasn't as immediate as it would later become; updates were anything but instant.
Seeing no new numbers, Matthew refreshed his e-mail again—still nothing.
He gave up and opened IMDb, planning to check the user score. The film was holding at 6.0. Then he noticed his own name in the cast list had turned into a clickable link and hurriedly clicked it.
A pop-up brought him to his IMDb profile. On the far left was a headshot of him in a suit; to the right, a short bio listing his hometown and birth date. Below that, production stills and links to his films appeared in chronological order: , , , and . The earliest walk-on part in wasn't included.
Matthew had no idea how IMDb decided, but guessed the role had been too insignificant.
Yet, farther down, the "Did you know?" section mentioned it.
After skimming the page he realized the profile was another ripple effect of .
He logged into his personal blog and posted an entry recommending the IMDb page, complete with his reference number.
Traffic to the blog had spiked; he'd noticed the past two days averaging more than three thousand hits, with total followers now in five figures.
Most obvious was the surge of supportive comments.
An alert chimed; he closed the blog and switched to mail—an e-mail from Helen Herman had just arrived.
He opened it at once, drumming the mouse while the page loaded.
The first two days had been strong, so the opening weekend was bound to pop, but he still wanted a bigger figure—this was his first time carrying a film as lead actor.
The page finally loaded; seeing the number, Matthew broke into a grin.
Not the practiced smile—this one came straight from the heart.
In the North American market, Sunday receipts almost always drop from Saturday's once the work-week starts, usually around thirty-five percent. The film pulled $11.07 million on Sunday, lifting the three-day total to $40.37 million. It easily claimed first place and set a new April opening-weekend record.
A weekend gross that matches the production budget—Matthew knew what that meant: by any era's yardstick, it was a smash.
His mind was finally at ease; even if business tailed off, the big picture was safe.
Matthew stood, exhaled, felt the tension evaporate, then laughed as exhilaration swept through him.
Words can't capture the feeling—maybe this is what success tastes like. He'd made it.
He stepped forward and flopped onto the couch, too content to move, savoring the hard-won victory. From today on he was a bona-fide Hollywood Star.
Not the biggest name, but undeniably a star actor.
Sprawled on the sofa, Matthew felt more elated than if he'd wrestled Britney between the sheets.
A man needs triumphant work, and triumphant work ignites a man's fiercest passion.
At that moment he shoved everything else aside and simply drank in the joy of winning.
There was no one to share it with, but he could relish it alone.
He'd earned the right; luck and timing had been generous, but he'd worked like hell. Without the chops, none of this would exist.
"Aaaah—!"
Matthew whooped, punching the air in triumph.
This was his own home—no need to hide his feelings. If he was excited, he'd shout and scream if he wanted to.
To hell with Helen Herman, Angel Talent Agency, Universal Pictures, reporters, and the film's director. All of it could wait until he'd finished savoring this moment.
The road to success is long and winding; the moment to enjoy it is fleeting.
A few minutes later Matthew gradually calmed, drifting down from the rolling clouds onto solid ground. For him, the road ahead was still very long.
After steadying his mood and changing clothes, Matthew was ready to leave.
He stepped into the yard and reached the gate. The instant he pulled it open, flashing strobes blazed white. No handful of cameras could create that glare. Temporarily blinded, Matthew guessed at least a dozen reporters had swarmed over.
'Matthew Horner, have you seen the latest box-office numbers? What do you think?'
Before he could focus, a forest of microphones jammed in front of him—over a dozen reporters crowding in, shouting questions as if possessed.
'Now that you're famous overnight, what's the first thing you want to do?'
'We hear Universal is preparing a sequel—will you return as the lead actor?'
Unlike previous interviews, these reporters were feverish, their zeal tipping into chaos. Matthew was trapped right outside his own door.
Some asked questions, some snapped photos; one photographer even crouched for a low-angle shot.
Unfortunately for them, Matthew wasn't a woman and wore slim-cut trousers—there was nothing risqué to expose.
It wasn't only reporters; paparazzi were mixed in, shouting the wildest, most disorderly questions.
'Your lights were on all night—were you partying with women?'
'Someone saw three women enter your house—did you…'
Some questions were impossible to answer. Realizing the press wouldn't back off, Matthew stepped back, pulled the gate open again, and slipped inside.
Although the door stayed ajar, the reporters and paparazzi weren't stupid—they halted outside.
Spotting a lens aimed inside, Matthew slammed the gate shut.
Reporters and paparazzi had tailed him before, and they'd waited outside on premiere night, but never with this kind of frenzy.
The film had exploded in its first week, and he, the lead, had won the best notices—clearly he was famous. Still in release, blessed with good looks and locked in a spat with critics, he was the perfect hot topic.
Matthew sized up the situation in an instant.
He thought for a moment, then called Helen Herman. Without bodyguards or security, breaking through that press cordon looked impossible.
Half an hour later Helen Herman knocked. Matthew opened the door, let her in amid the strobes, and quickly shut it again.
'Did you bring the contract?' Matthew asked.
Helen Herman nodded and handed over a folder. 'Take a look. Once you sign, we'll file it with the Actors Guild after the reporters leave.'
Matthew took the folder, about to open it, but Helen warned, 'Let's go inside—this courtyard makes me uneasy.'
'Fine.' Matthew led the way across the yard. At the house door he noticed a shadow on the glass and spun around.
In a big roadside tree, a photographer with a camera had just climbed out onto a branch that gave a clear shot into the yard.
'These guys…' Matthew winced. 'Have they lost their minds?'
The arrival of a tall, striking woman like Helen Herman had clearly whipped the press into an even greater frenzy.
Helen glanced over. 'Normal. You're freshly famous—at peak heat. It'll cool in a few days.'
Matthew stepped inside first and motioned Helen to the sofa. Opening the folder, he said, 'I bet they're more interested that a beauty like you entered my house.'
'Makes no difference.' Helen's voice stayed calm. 'I'm your Agent; the media aren't stupid.'
'Mm.'
He grunted agreement and pulled out the contract. Lawyer Wilson had already reviewed it by phone.
After skimming it and finding no issues, Matthew took a pen and signed both copies. As a member of the Actors Guild, he still had to file the contract with the union.
He handed the papers to Helen Herman. She checked them, slipped them back into the folder, and said, 'Matthew, from this moment on you're a star-level actor—there are things we need to discuss.'