The air is still muggy in New York City as the sun sets over Central Park. Sandra and Nathan wait on the curb, listening to the whir of traffic and the echo of confident voices calling out excitedly this Friday evening in August. In much of the downtown area, there's a pungent smell of warm garbage mixed with urine, but the glitter of lights in the big apple distract the senses. On the corner, a loud argument can be heard between a woman on her way to a ladies' night out and the misfortunate street vendor who thought tonight was the night he should catcall her. An old man in a shabby, striped oxford shirt and worn shoes sits on the bench, lighting his pipe before bursting out with colorful language to an invisible audience about his disdain for American burger joints, gesturing wildly to the air in front of him. Across the street toward Columbus Circle, a bellhop in black dress pants and a crisp red jacket holds the door open for residents entering and exiting the Deutsche Bank Center. Nathan takes a step into the street, one hand above his head, fingers from his other hand in his mouth. A shriek, whistling noise explodes from his lips. A yellow cab dotted with black, smoggy grease on the doors appears, waiting for them to enter.
The days in the city are hot but the nights are beginning to cool down ever so slightly. Not this night, though, Sandra notes, as tiny drops of sweat form on her forehead, upper lip, and down into her cleavage. She is wearing a black, haltered, cocktail dress with sequins around the neck. Nathan is in a tux, the required attire for Le Bernardin, where they had a reservation to celebrate their four-year anniversary. He braces his head against his fist, his elbow against the window, taking in the people crowding the sidewalks as they slowly inch through the congested streets. Sandra is in town to visit while he rehearses for his upcoming Broadway stint, having just arrived from LAX this morning. Her trip will serve as double duty, with stops to the Late Show to discuss Speed with David Letterman. Nathan's role in the musical is small, but "Broadway is Broadway", she reminds him whenever he speaks disparagingly of his gig or what has become a desert of offers elsewhere. The film he made in Montana had crashed and burned, with a dismal opening weekend preceding worse and worse nights to follow. Scripts are rarely finding their way to him through his agent. He hopes Broadway will spark more interest and get him back in the game.
The car pulls up in front of the restaurant, with its name in golden plates on the building and the entrance lined with decorative landscaping. Nathan hands the driver a twenty dollar bill before sliding out of the cab and standing to the side, waiting for Sandra. Twenty minutes later, their waiter is filling their wine glasses as they peruse their menus. Sandra's mind is elsewhere, though, as she stares into the fire in the corner of the restaurant. The red, gold, and orange flames flicker in front of her, announcing big changes to come. In a couple of weeks, it'll be September. The leaves will be changing, the air will grow crisp. In some places in the country, it might even snow, the way it did almost a year ago when she found herself in a ski chalet in a small, wealthy resort town in Colorado. The warm colors are flashing in her glossy eyes, but all she can see are bare feet next to her fuzzy slippers, his flannel pants next to hers. She has fallen so deep into this vision she doesn't notice the slip of white paper pushed in front of her in a not-so-discrete manner, by an older man, also wearing a tuxedo, who sat at a nearby table. His hand lingers on the note until she glances up to see him, salt and pepper at his temples, a wink in his eye. She smiles and utters a meek "thanks" so he'll lift his hand and leave. She turns her attention to Nathan, who is fixated on the note, a scowl on his face.
"Aren't you going to look at that, Sandy? It must be important for him to interrupt our dinner."
She frowns as she picks the paper up, unfolding it. The impeccable cursive writing reads: "You were incredible in Speed. I see a big future for you. I'd love to show you the city if you have time." Below that is a signature and a phone number, scrawled in blue ink. Sandra scrambles to close the note, folding it up into smaller and smaller squares.
"What's it say?" Nathan is dripping with irritation.
"What? Oh, nothing. Just a note from a fan. You know how it goes."
Nathan reaches across the table, peeling the paper from her hands, crumbling it after reading and throwing it back across the table onto her plate. "Real cool."
"Nathan, I can't control what other people say and do, you know that. It's just because the movie is still so recent is all. Far more people are interested in you than me, believe it."
Her compliment was met with a contemptuous snort, and she knew her attempt wasn't working. This had not been a good first day in New York. Earlier at Katz's deli, Sandra was mid-bite in her pastrami sandwich when flashes went off out of the corner of her eye. She looks to see a group of giggling seventh-grade girls, whispering and pointing in their direction. Nathan slung his arm on the back of the booth and grinned ear-to ear as the girls made their way to the table. They squeal as they ask for an autograph pushing a sharpie and a sheet of paper onto the table. Nathan reaches forward, winking at the leader of the group as he tells them he's happy to meet his fans.
"Oh, sorry, sir. We were asking her," she apologizes, pointing at Sandra. "You were in Speed with Keanu Reeves, right?" Another one gushes. "What's it like kissing him? Omigod, you're going to be so famous!"
Sandra looks to Nathan sympathetically, which seems to anger him even more. "Uh, yeah, sure. He's great. He's very sweet." She hastily scribbles her name on each sheet, thanking them for their kind words.
"Could you take our picture?" The leader of the group shoves a disposable camera at Nathan as they eagerly surround Sandra's side of the booth. His forehead wrinkles but he stuffs his ire deep inside, staring at the group with insecure eyes yet still taking the photograph for them. The girls move on, leaving them surrounded by an icy silence to start their meal. The majority of the four years they'd spent together, he was the one recognized, he was the one drowning in adoration, he was the one with offers of intimacy thrown at his feet everywhere he went. This change is driving him mad, and there is nothing she can say to soothe him.
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It's eighty-four degrees back in Los Angeles. Keanu returns from another hockey practice, tossing his bag into his closet. He hops into the shower to remove the stench. After toweling off, he pulls on some trunks, slides on some deck shoes, and grabs a script his agent had recently delivered to him, entitled Johnny Mnemonic. The director is eager to speak dollars with Keanu so his agent is eager for him to read the script. His offers have more than tripled since Speed's premiere a couple of months ago.
His shoes make a scuffing noise as he shuffles his way down a cement path lined with lush plants on either side. He turns the corner, past the small, stone fountain still covered with chipping paint and down a long, narrow staircase with a rusted, black wrought-iron railing. After his descent, he enters a tree-lined archway onto the brick patio of the secluded hotel pool. He grabs a signature, fluffy, white, hotel towel from the white brick built-in shelves against one wall and ambles over to the navy, padded lounge chairs, setting his script down on a small, round table. The scent of orange, coconut, and a hint of smog wafts through the air as the cool, ocean breeze tickles the hair on his legs, a reprieve from the humid warmth of this late, summer day. The trees and shrubs lining the pool deck serve to muffle the sounds of LA traffic, giving the impression of an escape to a deserted island. It's the perfect place to read and ponder the important decisions ahead. The Chateau Marmont, long a seedy hotel where secrets were safe, has entered a transitional phase since Keanu moved in a couple years prior. It is slowly upgrading where it can, aiming to attract a wealthier clientele.
Across the oval, turquoise pool, a woman takes a long drag from the cigarette perched in her cigarette holder, before setting it in the ashtray on the table next to her lounge chair. She watches as he reclines the back of his chair, completely unaware of her presence. He is tanned from the long, Southern California summer, with a fuzzy trail moving from his lower abdomen to the waist of his black trunks. His hair is now just long enough that it starts to fall down onto his forehead and he still possesses those strong, LA SWAT officer arms, which ripple as he shakes out his towel. He climbs onto the chair and stretches his legs, wiggling his toes before reaching for the script, his highlighter in hand. She reaches for the baby oil in her bag and pours a handful into her palm, rubbing her hands together before slowly painting her legs from her upper thigh down to her toes, watching as he continues to mark up his script. A waiter walks by with a tray carrying her piña colada, a bright orange cocktail umbrella penetrating the crushed, coconut-flavored ice. He places the hurricane glass onto her table, asking for her signature on the tab, then turns to walk away.
"Young man, would you mind getting my back?" She asks, stopping him in his tracks. She holds a bottle of oil in hand, eyebrows raised flirtatiously.
His eager eyes grow twice their size, and he stumbles while ambling to her side. She pulls the strings up from her neck and turns her back towards him, still fixated on Keanu as he continues to read. The waiter rubs the oil into her tanned skin, his hands brazenly creeping closer and closer beyond her rib cage, skimming the triangular fabric of her top, but she doesn't bat a lash. Keanu moves to the side of the pool, dangling his feet in the water, trying to acclimate to the cold temperature before sliding in. She feels the waiter pushing the limit and squirms out of his reach, glaring as she snatches the bottle back. "That's enough, thank you," comes her icy command for him to exit her presence.
She looks back to the side of the pool. Keanu is nowhere to be seen, until he explodes from underneath the water. He whips his head as he surfaces, leaving a spray of water in an arc around him and wiping the liquid away from his eyes. He faces the deck, perching his arms on the side and staring off into the distance. She rises from her lounge chair, long straps from her white, string bikini dangling off her hips, gold belly chain dipping down beneath her navel, blonde hair twisted into a neat bun and hazel eyes hiding behind a pair of large, opaque, black sunglasses. She carefully walks toward him, stopping a few inches in front of his face, her long, tanned thighs at eye level.
"Fancy running into you again, handsome. Small world." This was a lie, of course. The world is not so small. Paparazzi has recently discovered that the Chateau Marmont is where Keanu is laying his hat and, well, she is eager to see what else might lie around him.
Keanu's eyes trace a path up her thighs to the silky, white bikini, broken up by her taut stomach and fragile, gold decoration. He continues up to see Sharon Stone's shining smile and dark sunglasses. He smirks, knowing exactly how women like her work. "Well, hi there."
"Can I join you?" She asks, not waiting for an answer before stepping to the edge and climbing in.
He turns his face away, poorly disguising a laugh, knowing there is no use declining her. Confidence is one thing, but ego is something else and her ego blossomed in the wake of her hit film, Basic Instinct. She is used to getting what she wants, and anyone who sees her knows it. She dips her head under the water, smoothing her blonde locks back as she emerges. The water coats her upper body and her white bikini now shows hints of gold in the areas it clings strongly to her skin. She notes his visual attention and smiles, gliding within inches of his chest, his elbows now resting on the deck behind him. "I'm disappointed," she states to him, feigning a frown.
"Oh yeah, what about?"
"We'll it's not like we're strangers, now, but you've barely given me a proper greeting," her finger drags down his slick, wet chest as she continues to pout, finally tapping her cheek to illustrate her expectation.
He obliges, leaning toward her cheek, not terribly surprised when Sharon turns at the last second, her lips meeting Keanu's. "That's more like it," her voice drops an octave. Her hand is still on his chest as she pours her approval onto him.
An amused smile plays across his lips. He knows that to her, he's the hot, young piece of the moment. His blood is still warm, though, and there's no denying how gorgeous she is, or how enthusiastically she's approaching him. Contrasting this to Sandra hightailing it out of Planet Hollywood, he entertains this attention from the A-lister bombshell, neither of them able to hear the soft clicks from the bushes outside the pool fence where a paparazzo crouches with a long-range lens, practically counting the dollar signs.
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* Many magazines ran a story claiming to find them "frolicking" in the Chateau Marmont pool at this time.
** "Mash note" from a male fan and approach by young girl fans mentioned in an interview.