April sunlight cut through the blinds of the West Hollywood apartment, casting sharp, geometric lines across the tangled sheets.
Aaron was already awake, tracing a lazy, familiar pattern on Nicole’s bare shoulder while mentally running through his call sheet for the week.
Nicole shifted beside him, dragging the heavy duvet with her.
Her red curls spilled across his chest as she rested her chin against his collarbone.
“You’re awake,” she murmured.
“I thought agents didn’t work weekends.”
“There are no weekends in April,” Aaron said, his voice a flat, morning rasp.
He shifted slightly, anchoring her against his side without breaking his train of thought.
“Cannes is at the end of the month,” he added.
“I need to be on the ground early.
Soderbergh is going.”
“His film is up for the Palme d’Or,” she noted, waking up a fraction more.
Aaron slid out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the mattress.
“Miramax is pushing it hard.
Clear your schedule—you’re coming with me.”
Nicole sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist.
“France?
Is this a vacation?”
“It’s an optics play,” Aaron stated, buckling his watch around his wrist.
“Dead Calm tops out at seven, maybe eight million domestically.
A solid return, but we have to keep your name in the press cycle.
A rising star on the Croisette draws cameras—it’s good for you, and it frames my meetings.”
She propped herself up on her elbow, catching the spin immediately.
“Do you think we pissed off the guy from Orion last night?”
“Orion is choking on debt,” Aaron said, heading toward the bathroom.
“Who cares if he’s pissed?
He can’t afford you anyway.”
He paused at the door.
“Worry about the Pretty Women audition.
Know the lines backward and forward by Tuesday.”
The LA sun was baking the pavement by noon.
They took a corner booth off Melrose, the blinds pulled halfway down against the glare.
Aaron had the Times financial page spread open across the table while Nicole skimmed the trade columns in Variety.
She let out a dry laugh.
“Look at this.
Half the crew on Total Recall is down with food poisoning in Mexico City.
Arnold’s the only one shooting because he’s flying his meals in from LA.”
“He’s getting eleven million for the picture,” Aaron said.
“For eleven million, you import your own water.”
“It’s insane,” Nicole said, tossing the magazine onto the table.
“He gets eleven, and the top actresses are fighting over two.”
“Arnold translates,” Aaron said, flipping the page.
“Arnold sells in Japan and Germany because bullets don’t need dubbing.
You want eleven million, you have to open a movie globally.
Right now you’re at a hundred grand.
We get you this part, you hit a million.”
He looked over the top of the paper.
“Parity is a luxury for movie stars.
Let’s get you there first.
Focus on the Swayze read.”
Aaron went back to the financial section.
The Plaza Accord was still rippling through the market.
Japanese capital was flooding in, and the rumors were solidifying: Sony was circling Columbia Pictures.
The buyout was imminent.
Hollywood was becoming a global portfolio, and he fully intended to be holding a percentage when the foreign cash cleared.
The next morning at CAA was freezing, as usual.
The marble halls hummed with ringing phones and assistant cross-talk.
Paula Wagner didn’t look up from her legal pad when Aaron took a seat in her office.
She didn’t do small talk; her time was too expensive.
“Walk me through the international play for Soderbergh,” she said.
“We sell it outright,” Aaron replied.
“Miramax has North America locked.
Harvey is going to bulldoze the press to build domestic prestige at the festival.
I’m going to draft off his PR wave and bundle theatrical, home video, and television for Japan and Europe.”
Paula finally looked up, studying him.
“Foreign buyers are eating up cheap slashers right now.
Arthouse doesn’t translate.
No commercial hook, and you’re holding dead paper.”
“It’s not arthouse if we position it as a cultural event,” Aaron said.
“Look at the macro.
The yen is historically strong.
Sony is about to absorb Columbia—Japanese buyers are flush with cash and desperate for American prestige.
We don’t sell a movie; we sell a Palme d’Or contender.
We price it at a premium, and they’ll pay it just to tell their board they own it.”
Paula tossed her pen onto the desk.
“It’s a heavy lift for a nineteen-year-old to package foreign rights solo.
You think you can drive the bidding?”
Aaron stood up.
“I’ll have the term sheets drafted by Friday.”
___________________________________________________________
Thank you so much for reading!
Peace out,
Lucent