Real Person // Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock // Hold On (One)
Title: Hold On (Part One)
Fandom: Real People
Characters: Keanu Reeves & Sandra Bullock
Prompt: 08. Plan
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,020
Summary: Sandra meets with Alex Bruk.
Author's Note: Ah, I don't know them. This is just how I think it should be.
Sandra recounts a life with Keanu for her biography.
The sun shines down on Sandra Bullock as she accepts her drink from the waiter at Flor Bonita, Dallas’ premiere outdoor restaurant. As she sips her iced tea, she glances about her at the landscaping that she is already so familiar with. White wrought iron tables and chairs that cheerfully chip and tip over easily. Pale blue tablecloths with laced edging; clear bowls of water, lined with smooth rocks and filled with blooming flowers, act as the center piece. The furniture is arranged on a yard of mismatched stones, different sizes and certainly different cultures, yet the confusion of types blends together to create something comfy and beautiful. Between the stones wild flowers have been carefully planted, fragile stems and tiny blossoms brushing against people’s legs as they maneuver towards their table. It is all surrounded by a seven foot high, three foot wide ivy bush. The perfect barrier between the celebrities who frequent here and the paparazzi.
Not that they have been very close to Sandra lately. As she drifted away from acting during the past few years and focuses more on producing, her own restaurant, and Jesse, there are less camera lens aimed in her direction. Sandra knows that, as a person who has always valued her privacy, she should be ecstatic that she is at last so normal (some might use the word boring) that the paparazzi have no reason to tail her anymore. Instead she feels a little sad. It’s as if a chapter of her life has closed though it is not yet completed.
I chose to walk away from that, and I’m glad, she reminds herself as she has been doing all too often these days. It is time to move on.
Squinting in the harsh late August sun, Sandra feels the wrinkles of a 52 year old woman crinkle around her eyes. She is getting older and it is starting to catch up with her. Sandra remembers when she used to jetset among California, Texas, and New York with ease. Now she only leaves Texas when it’s necessary for her work. She didn’t think it would ever come to this point, the stagnant lifestyle. But Sandra is done with working herself over. She wants to schedule more days with her friends and less with executives. She wants to taste food from her home kitchen and not a hotel‘s. But most of all, Sandra wants to live a life free of hushed speculation over face lifts, tummy tucks and Botox, the kind that has been growing ever since she hit that all important 50 birthday.
“Ms. Bullock?” Sandra looks up and smiles warmly at the young man standing over her.
“Alex. Good morning. How many times have I told you to call me Sandy?” she follows him with her eyes as he rounds the table and sits across from her. He is a young fellow, mid 30s with brown hair dyed lighter by the sun and crisp, laughing blue eyes. The waiter takes his order, confirms that Sandra is okay, and leaves them alone. “How are you?”
“I’m doing good. You?”
“Very well. How’s the book coming?”
“Can we have a little friendly talk before the business?” he asks, chuckling.
“Sorry.” Sandra smiles. “Old habits die hard, I guess. What’s new? How’s Aimee handling two kids at once?”
“Well she had quite a nightmare at the store the other day. You see, Hannah insists that she wears her cape everywhere, and …”
Sandra turns Alex’s voice down to white noise as she concentrates on smiling big and nodding. His kids are adorable, two girls. One, Hannah, a precocious three year old in love with all things fantasy and magical. Two, Izzy, a one year old whose personality is still indefinable. Sandra has met them once or twice and likes them as far as toddlers and babies go. But they, like most children, invoke in Sandra the need for her own. It is a selfish want merely on the basis that as she gets older, she worries that there will not be someone to care for her. The idea of a live-in nurse tending to her deteriorating body, possibly stealing valuables along the way, does not settle well. So although Sandra enjoys hearing the tales of Alex’s children, she harbors a private wish for her own stories of terrible times at the store and bits of wisdom that she could pass along once he finishes. Instead, she smiles and laughs at the appropriate times where Alex, ever the writer, pauses for reaction.
“How’s Jesse? Thank you,” he adds to the waiter who drops off his drink. Sandra nods.
“He’s good. The new extension in England is really picking up, and we may be going in the fall for a few months so he can survey the progress first hand and shoot a few commercials.”
“That’s exciting.” Alex’s hand slips into his pocket and produces the 4 inch tape recorder that Sandra is so used to seeing at their meetings.
For Alex Bruk is not just any writer. He has been hired by Sandra to write her biography. Sandra has always thought of biographies as being written while the person was either on their last breath or dead. Yet Alex, who she met through a producing friend, was eager to explain that anyone could write a biography as long as they had an exciting life. He cited the Clintons and Anderson Cooper as examples. Sandra didn’t believe that her life had been so exciting, but Alex saw potential. He thought that her early life in Germany plus the long but eventual transfer from actress to producer would make a great book.
She had agreed to talk about the project with him after reading a few of his books. He was a fiction writer by trade, which worried her, but his stories were always realistic, the characters true to life, and did not delve into any sort of fantasy. Caught up in his wonderful descriptions and detailed character backgrounds, Sandra felt confident that he would do her justice. Meeting him and the way he asked questions comfortably and without any pressure or expectations sealed the deal for her. Talking with Alex about her life was like recounting it to an old friend. She didn’t have to exaggerate events or try to make them funnier than they were. Alex’s writing was strong enough that her life stories became accessible to everyone.
Over the past year, they had already picked through Sandra’s childhood, the relationship between her and her family, and a good chunk of her movie career. They had skimmed through her high school and college years, only giving one chapter to accommodate both. Sandra had met some great people during that time, but as Alex pointed out, it did not really define her as a person. She knew that like everyone else her experience at high school and college had been trying to fit in while finding herself at the same time. The two agreed upon plucking out a few choice stories that involved her either acting or experiencing a critical moment, like when she discovered her boyfriend was cheating on her. That horrible event had helped Sandra later on as she honed her acting talent, and so it was included in the book.
In preparation for today’s meeting, Sandra has gone through old photos and various paraphernalia for her more well-known movies, trying to jog her memory. She has called up a few old costars, explaining the situation and sharing a few memories. In her purse is a small notebook chock full of gags, laughs, and set secrets.
“Are you ready to start now?” she asks as she pulls out said notebook, flipping to the first page. “I have a particularly funny story from While You Were Sleeping that I think we should start with.” she pauses when she notices that Alex is not doing his usual of flipping on the recorder and leaning back in his seat. “What’s wrong?”
“Ms. … Sandy. I was going over what we’ve done so far, and it’s great stuff.”
“But,” she injects, knowing that is the next word.
“But I was doing some research on you. And I’m really intrigued by your relationship with Keanu Reeves.”
“Friendship,” she corrects frostily, as she has been doing since the pair first started working together.
Alex gives a smile that indicates he does not believe her. “Right. Well, I was thinking it might be a good idea to devote a couple chapters to him. Or at least timeline your movie career against your ‘friendship’ with him and its progression.”
“I don’t want my book to be all about Keanu and I,” she says firmly. “We’re friends, and I’m happy to talk about us, but I don’t want it to be the main focus. I felt like I gave you enough when we talked about Speed. What more should I say? Can’t you just wait until we get to The Lake House?”
“Sandy, listen. I’m not going to sugar coat things for you. The book needs a focal point. It needs an exciting event, story, scandal, whatever that the publishers can work with when they’re promoting it.”
“I thought I was the focal point,” she retorts angrily. “The book is about my struggle to be recognized in Hollywood as a serious actress and the journey to becoming a respected producer.”
“That stuff is great, it really is. But, as a writer, I am very much intrigued by you and Keanu. When I was playing back the tape from Speed … man, you spent a half hour of it recounting how great it was to work with him, the little things he did for you, the jokes you shared, how your friendship developed so quickly. Listening to it, I knew this guy was special to you.” Alex quickly sees that isn’t helping the situation. “I’ll make you a deal,” he adds hastily. “You give me a few stories about you and Keanu, I’ll work it into the book, and you can see how you like it. If it sounds cut in or hurts the flow, I’ll take them out no problem. But I want you to know: Keanu sounds like he was an immense part of your life. And to reduce him to just another costar would be wrong. He’s his own subplot. I think you seriously need to consider giving him his dues.”
Sandra doesn’t speak for a few minutes. She weighs every argument Alex made. Instinctively, she knows he is right. Keanu, whether in the next trailer or across the world, always had an impact on her life. The letters he wrote her, the brief encounters they had between films, the films they made together, each one holds heavy significance. She thinks of the tied bundle of letters sitting in the hat box on a high shelf in her closet. The box she ignored when she was searching for movie stuff because it was too hard to look through. She can’t even brush off the inch of dust covering the lid because touching the box is enough to trigger memories that hurt her heart and make her lose balance. Is she willing to examine those memories, expose them not only to Alex but to the world at large, because they’d make a good subplot?
“I’ll think about it,” she finally decides, causing Alex to let out a sigh of relief.
“Good.”
“But we wouldn’t be talking about it here. Some of those stories are …” Sandra waves it away. “You would have to come to my house.”
“That’s fine.” Alex hides his smile behind his drink. When he can contain his glee, knowing he’s as good as in, he sets it down and turns on the recorder, leaning back in his chair. “So what’s this story?”
Sandra shakes off the image of a young Keanu, tracing the rim of a glass and glancing up at her with sad eyes. She smiles shakily at Alex, knowing full well that though she hasn’t completely agreed to talking about Keanu, she’s already opened Pandora’s Box.
Fandom: Real People
Characters: Keanu Reeves & Sandra Bullock
Prompt: 08. Plan
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,020
Summary: Sandra meets with Alex Bruk.
Author's Note: Ah, I don't know them. This is just how I think it should be.
Sandra recounts a life with Keanu for her biography.
The sun shines down on Sandra Bullock as she accepts her drink from the waiter at Flor Bonita, Dallas’ premiere outdoor restaurant. As she sips her iced tea, she glances about her at the landscaping that she is already so familiar with. White wrought iron tables and chairs that cheerfully chip and tip over easily. Pale blue tablecloths with laced edging; clear bowls of water, lined with smooth rocks and filled with blooming flowers, act as the center piece. The furniture is arranged on a yard of mismatched stones, different sizes and certainly different cultures, yet the confusion of types blends together to create something comfy and beautiful. Between the stones wild flowers have been carefully planted, fragile stems and tiny blossoms brushing against people’s legs as they maneuver towards their table. It is all surrounded by a seven foot high, three foot wide ivy bush. The perfect barrier between the celebrities who frequent here and the paparazzi.
Not that they have been very close to Sandra lately. As she drifted away from acting during the past few years and focuses more on producing, her own restaurant, and Jesse, there are less camera lens aimed in her direction. Sandra knows that, as a person who has always valued her privacy, she should be ecstatic that she is at last so normal (some might use the word boring) that the paparazzi have no reason to tail her anymore. Instead she feels a little sad. It’s as if a chapter of her life has closed though it is not yet completed.
I chose to walk away from that, and I’m glad, she reminds herself as she has been doing all too often these days. It is time to move on.
Squinting in the harsh late August sun, Sandra feels the wrinkles of a 52 year old woman crinkle around her eyes. She is getting older and it is starting to catch up with her. Sandra remembers when she used to jetset among California, Texas, and New York with ease. Now she only leaves Texas when it’s necessary for her work. She didn’t think it would ever come to this point, the stagnant lifestyle. But Sandra is done with working herself over. She wants to schedule more days with her friends and less with executives. She wants to taste food from her home kitchen and not a hotel‘s. But most of all, Sandra wants to live a life free of hushed speculation over face lifts, tummy tucks and Botox, the kind that has been growing ever since she hit that all important 50 birthday.
“Ms. Bullock?” Sandra looks up and smiles warmly at the young man standing over her.
“Alex. Good morning. How many times have I told you to call me Sandy?” she follows him with her eyes as he rounds the table and sits across from her. He is a young fellow, mid 30s with brown hair dyed lighter by the sun and crisp, laughing blue eyes. The waiter takes his order, confirms that Sandra is okay, and leaves them alone. “How are you?”
“I’m doing good. You?”
“Very well. How’s the book coming?”
“Can we have a little friendly talk before the business?” he asks, chuckling.
“Sorry.” Sandra smiles. “Old habits die hard, I guess. What’s new? How’s Aimee handling two kids at once?”
“Well she had quite a nightmare at the store the other day. You see, Hannah insists that she wears her cape everywhere, and …”
Sandra turns Alex’s voice down to white noise as she concentrates on smiling big and nodding. His kids are adorable, two girls. One, Hannah, a precocious three year old in love with all things fantasy and magical. Two, Izzy, a one year old whose personality is still indefinable. Sandra has met them once or twice and likes them as far as toddlers and babies go. But they, like most children, invoke in Sandra the need for her own. It is a selfish want merely on the basis that as she gets older, she worries that there will not be someone to care for her. The idea of a live-in nurse tending to her deteriorating body, possibly stealing valuables along the way, does not settle well. So although Sandra enjoys hearing the tales of Alex’s children, she harbors a private wish for her own stories of terrible times at the store and bits of wisdom that she could pass along once he finishes. Instead, she smiles and laughs at the appropriate times where Alex, ever the writer, pauses for reaction.
“How’s Jesse? Thank you,” he adds to the waiter who drops off his drink. Sandra nods.
“He’s good. The new extension in England is really picking up, and we may be going in the fall for a few months so he can survey the progress first hand and shoot a few commercials.”
“That’s exciting.” Alex’s hand slips into his pocket and produces the 4 inch tape recorder that Sandra is so used to seeing at their meetings.
For Alex Bruk is not just any writer. He has been hired by Sandra to write her biography. Sandra has always thought of biographies as being written while the person was either on their last breath or dead. Yet Alex, who she met through a producing friend, was eager to explain that anyone could write a biography as long as they had an exciting life. He cited the Clintons and Anderson Cooper as examples. Sandra didn’t believe that her life had been so exciting, but Alex saw potential. He thought that her early life in Germany plus the long but eventual transfer from actress to producer would make a great book.
She had agreed to talk about the project with him after reading a few of his books. He was a fiction writer by trade, which worried her, but his stories were always realistic, the characters true to life, and did not delve into any sort of fantasy. Caught up in his wonderful descriptions and detailed character backgrounds, Sandra felt confident that he would do her justice. Meeting him and the way he asked questions comfortably and without any pressure or expectations sealed the deal for her. Talking with Alex about her life was like recounting it to an old friend. She didn’t have to exaggerate events or try to make them funnier than they were. Alex’s writing was strong enough that her life stories became accessible to everyone.
Over the past year, they had already picked through Sandra’s childhood, the relationship between her and her family, and a good chunk of her movie career. They had skimmed through her high school and college years, only giving one chapter to accommodate both. Sandra had met some great people during that time, but as Alex pointed out, it did not really define her as a person. She knew that like everyone else her experience at high school and college had been trying to fit in while finding herself at the same time. The two agreed upon plucking out a few choice stories that involved her either acting or experiencing a critical moment, like when she discovered her boyfriend was cheating on her. That horrible event had helped Sandra later on as she honed her acting talent, and so it was included in the book.
In preparation for today’s meeting, Sandra has gone through old photos and various paraphernalia for her more well-known movies, trying to jog her memory. She has called up a few old costars, explaining the situation and sharing a few memories. In her purse is a small notebook chock full of gags, laughs, and set secrets.
“Are you ready to start now?” she asks as she pulls out said notebook, flipping to the first page. “I have a particularly funny story from While You Were Sleeping that I think we should start with.” she pauses when she notices that Alex is not doing his usual of flipping on the recorder and leaning back in his seat. “What’s wrong?”
“Ms. … Sandy. I was going over what we’ve done so far, and it’s great stuff.”
“But,” she injects, knowing that is the next word.
“But I was doing some research on you. And I’m really intrigued by your relationship with Keanu Reeves.”
“Friendship,” she corrects frostily, as she has been doing since the pair first started working together.
Alex gives a smile that indicates he does not believe her. “Right. Well, I was thinking it might be a good idea to devote a couple chapters to him. Or at least timeline your movie career against your ‘friendship’ with him and its progression.”
“I don’t want my book to be all about Keanu and I,” she says firmly. “We’re friends, and I’m happy to talk about us, but I don’t want it to be the main focus. I felt like I gave you enough when we talked about Speed. What more should I say? Can’t you just wait until we get to The Lake House?”
“Sandy, listen. I’m not going to sugar coat things for you. The book needs a focal point. It needs an exciting event, story, scandal, whatever that the publishers can work with when they’re promoting it.”
“I thought I was the focal point,” she retorts angrily. “The book is about my struggle to be recognized in Hollywood as a serious actress and the journey to becoming a respected producer.”
“That stuff is great, it really is. But, as a writer, I am very much intrigued by you and Keanu. When I was playing back the tape from Speed … man, you spent a half hour of it recounting how great it was to work with him, the little things he did for you, the jokes you shared, how your friendship developed so quickly. Listening to it, I knew this guy was special to you.” Alex quickly sees that isn’t helping the situation. “I’ll make you a deal,” he adds hastily. “You give me a few stories about you and Keanu, I’ll work it into the book, and you can see how you like it. If it sounds cut in or hurts the flow, I’ll take them out no problem. But I want you to know: Keanu sounds like he was an immense part of your life. And to reduce him to just another costar would be wrong. He’s his own subplot. I think you seriously need to consider giving him his dues.”
Sandra doesn’t speak for a few minutes. She weighs every argument Alex made. Instinctively, she knows he is right. Keanu, whether in the next trailer or across the world, always had an impact on her life. The letters he wrote her, the brief encounters they had between films, the films they made together, each one holds heavy significance. She thinks of the tied bundle of letters sitting in the hat box on a high shelf in her closet. The box she ignored when she was searching for movie stuff because it was too hard to look through. She can’t even brush off the inch of dust covering the lid because touching the box is enough to trigger memories that hurt her heart and make her lose balance. Is she willing to examine those memories, expose them not only to Alex but to the world at large, because they’d make a good subplot?
“I’ll think about it,” she finally decides, causing Alex to let out a sigh of relief.
“Good.”
“But we wouldn’t be talking about it here. Some of those stories are …” Sandra waves it away. “You would have to come to my house.”
“That’s fine.” Alex hides his smile behind his drink. When he can contain his glee, knowing he’s as good as in, he sets it down and turns on the recorder, leaning back in his chair. “So what’s this story?”
Sandra shakes off the image of a young Keanu, tracing the rim of a glass and glancing up at her with sad eyes. She smiles shakily at Alex, knowing full well that though she hasn’t completely agreed to talking about Keanu, she’s already opened Pandora’s Box.