The colored lights started to flicker—vibrant, pulsing hues that filled the room. The party was well into the night, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Julie stood off in a distant corner. She was remarkably good at concealing her more conventional sides, though she didn't care much when cameras were strictly forbidden and the dancing seemed to be all about unleashing a kind of freedom that fervently defied time itself.
–Another drink for a night that seems to have no purpose,– Billy said, lifting his sixth glass, savoring the way freedom—absolute and without responsibility—gave his mind a break from running at a thousand miles an hour. His thoughts spun like a library packed with thousands upon thousands of ideas: worlds, characters, concepts, circumstances, twists, talents, and layer upon layer of plots—some vivid and visual, others deep and philosophical.
–You're not a good drinker,– she said after sipping some wine and a cocktail. Her head throbbed with a sharp edge; her mind was still stuck on something unpleasant. Both of them moved, sweaty and light-hearted, enjoying the kind of dancing that could only be described as liberating. Everyone was lost in their moment.
–No one's good at drinking for the fun of it,– the boy replied, grabbing Monica's hands and leading a simple dance, something more traditional, occasionally fused with the misnamed Eurodance—a style that mostly meant shaking your body and flaunting yourself in front of everyone else.
–Hahaha, it's been a while since I've seen you so free. Seeing you without a tie feels strange—you know, they say success starts with how you dress. You look older, more refined in those tailored suits of yours, and of course, there's always that well-put-together air about you,– Monica replied, brushing her golden hair to the side. It gleamed under the red neon light as they shared a deep kiss, mouths and tongues seeking each other with careful affection.
The party had started early and showed no signs of slowing down, taking place in a spot where Parisian youth gathered to welcome the New Year, with even a few visitors from London.
Kate Moss arrived later, along with the stunning Laetitia Casta, Eva Ionesco, Mathieu Kassovitz, and other youthful, vibrant personalities. They greeted Julie and her more alternative, less jet-set crowd, each bringing their energy and charm. Among them were three individuals who naturally drew all the attention in the room. Just when it seemed like the night might be winding down, it rolled into another hour. By the time it ended, it wasn't quite morning, but deep into the night. Despite the hour, cameras suddenly came out, and when the flashes began, they turned into the unexpected highlight of the evening.
–You're Billy Carson. I've been curious to meet you for quite some time,– said Mathieu Kassovitz.
–To what do I owe the pleasure of your curiosity?– Billy asked, eyeing the production assistant who, while just starting his career in showbiz, was already quite well-known, at least in Paris.
–Well, I get it—things aren't always what they seem… but you're Billy Carson, the American legend of entertainment culture. From several perspectives, your companies are what we call the trend—pioneering tech that makes any competitor look outdated,– Mathieu replied.
–So it's the entertainment business you're fascinated with? That's a relief. I'd hate for it to be something else,– Billy said, shaking his hand firmly, well aware that this was the moment to start introducing himself into this scene, something like the Soho of wherever you might be.
–These stunning women are the best companions for any Paris fashion event. Laetitia Casta, Antonia, and Mirabella—each more beautiful than any Englishwoman,– Mathieu joked, making all three laugh. They stood out not just for their beauty, but for their energy. Antonia, with her curly black hair slicked back and a generous bust nearly bursting from her dress, wore a strikingly angled gown that clung provocatively to her figure.
Mirabella was slender but full of life, like a high-end model pulled straight from a runway. Laetitia, known as the jewel of Paris, possessed a sensuality that could stir even her gender on a good day.
–Ladies,– Billy said, drawing Monica close, placing a protective hand on her back. She leaned into him, her cheeks burning with warmth.
–He's a charm, my dear,– Antonia whispered to Monica, who had crossed paths with her before during some lucky Prada campaigns.
–He's invigorating when he lets go of work and lets that Latin side shine through. When he slips out of the rigid American mold rooted in the islands, he's just as captivating as anyone else, Monica replied, embracing him tightly.
–So…–
–No, dear, he's not. But maybe we can include you in a more private occasion,– Monica whispered, referring to their relationship. The other woman responded that she was rather conservative and would make a public scandal of even the most subtle attempt, oiscreetly, that neither of the men caught on.
–Last year, you surprised us with Star Wars—a film adored even from here. What's in store this year?– asked Mathieu.
–Oh, I've got some great ideas. It's just a shame they're all still in early development,– Billy said. –But they're sure to make waves in the entertainment world once they land. Maybe even go beyond a simple thank-you. It'll be fantastic. But enough about me. Tell me, Mathieu—what do you do?–
Billy watched Monica chatting with a few models, all of whom were eager to get what they called a "settled life." There were a few ways to do it: climb the fashion ladder, start a company, or the third—and most tempting—option: marry a rich man. Someone whose monthly income could equal what they'd earn in five, even ten years.
–Actor and director. I'm currently working on a project I plan to release mid-May. If you get a chance to see my work and hire a director, that'd be fantastic,– Mathieu said, handing him a card, not before scribbling the name of his film in English: The Assassins. Mathieu had recently won Best Director at the Cannes Film Festival in 1995. A good year to win.
–Congratulations, by the way,– Mathieu added.
–For what?–
–Right, I almost forgot. Two films—Toy Story and The Musician—are both nominated for Best Picture. The latter is also for Best Musical or Comedy. And you've got nominations for Best Actor for The English Patient and Best Supporting Actor for L.A. Confidential. That's a lot of awards,– Mathieu said.
–True. It's been a good year.–
Mathieu laughed. –Man, you're the devil of Hollywood. Three films where you played the lead—Jerry Maguire, The English Patient, and L.A. Confidential—all topping the charts.–
Billy nodded. Mathieu had forgotten A Time to Kill, but the only nomination there went to Samuel Jackson.
A striking dark-skinned woman entered, dressed like an Arabian dancer, her stomach bare. The music swelled. The shouting became part of the atmosphere—a perfect signal that the night was just beginning and would carry on straight through to sunrise.
...