The lunch with Cat and Tom Bridger could not have gone more perfectly. She’d been gracious and lovely. Engaging. Bridger had taken to her immediately, just as Michael had wanted. The two of them had blabbed on and on about art and film, and even though Michael had been bored to tears, he let them talk. Association was a wonderful, mysterious thing. Bridger had connected with Cat, whom Michael had discovered, sponsored, and befriended, creating good feelings inside Bridger for this Big Hollywood Producer he’d so sorely misjudged. After Cat had unknowingly primed Bridger, Michael gave his pitch: the big budget historical meant to make audiences weep and Oscar voters cream their pants. After Michael had paid the check and they stood up, Bridger had been the first to extend his hand. “I told myself I wouldn’t let you convince me,” the indie director had said, “but you have. I’m in.” “Excellent news.” Michael gripped Bridger’s hand and gave him a hearty slap on the opposite shoulder.
