A Stranger in the Mirror

Jill Castle Temple was the most exciting thing to hit Hollywood since Cinemascope. In a company town where everyone played the game of admiring the emperor's clothes, Jill used her tongue like a scythe. In a city where flattery was the daily currency of conversation, Jill fearlessly spoke her mind. She had Toby beside her and she brandished his power like a club, attacking all the important studio executives. They had never experienced anything like it before. They did not dare offend Jill, because they did not want to offend Toby. He was Hollywood's most bankable star, and they wanted him, needed him.



Toby was bigger than ever. His television show was still number one in the Nielsen Ratings every week, his movies were enormous money makers, and when Toby played Las Vegas, the casinos doubled their profits. Toby was the hottest property in show business. They wanted him for guest shots, record albums, personal appearances, merchandising, benefits, movies, they wanted they wanted they wanted.



The most important people in town fell all over themselves to please Toby. They quickly learned that the way to please Toby was to please Jill. She began to schedule all of Toby's appointments herself and to organize his life so that there was room in it only for those of whom she approved. She put up an impenetrable barricade around him, and none but the rich and the famous and the powerful were allowed to go through it. She was the keeper of the flame. The little Polish girl from Odessa, Texas, entertained and was entertained by governors, ambassadors, world-renowned artists and the President of the United States. This town had done terrible things to her. But it would never do them again. Not as long as she had Toby Temple.



The people who were in real trouble were the ones on Jill's hate list.



She lay in bed with Toby and made sensuous love to him. When Toby was relaxed and spent, she snuggled in his arms and said, "Darling, did I ever tell you about the time I was looking for an agent and I went to this woman - what was her name? - oh, yes! Rose Dunning. She told me she had a part for me and she sat down on her bed to read with me."



Toby turned to look at her, his eyes narrowing. "What happened?"



Jill smiled. "Stupid innocent that I was, while I was reading, I felt her hand go up my thigh." Jill threw back her head and laughed. "I was frightened out of my wits. I've never run so fast in my life."



Ten days later, Rose Dunning's agency license was permanently revoked by the City Licensing Commission.



The following weekend, Toby and Jill were at their house in Palm Springs. Toby was lying on a massage table in the patio, a heavy Turkish towel under him, while Jill gave him a long, relaxing massage. Toby was on his back, cotton pads protecting his eyes against the strong rays of the sun. Jill was working on his feet, using a soft creamy lotion.



"You sure opened my eyes about Cliff," Toby said. "He was nothing but a parasite, milking me. I hear he's going around town trying to get himself a partnership deal. No one wants him. He can't get himself arrested without me."



Jill paused a moment and said, "I feel sorry for Cliff."



"That's the goddamned trouble with you, sweetheart. You think with your heart instead of your head. You've got to learn to be tougher."



Jill smiled quietly. "I can't help it. I'm the way. I am." She started to work on Toby's legs, moving her hands slowly up toward his thighs with light, sensuous movements. He began to have an erection.



"Oh, Jesus," he moaned.



Her hands were moving higher now, moving toward Toby's groin, and the hardness increased. She slid her hands between his legs, underneath him, and slipped a creamy finger inside him. His enormous penis was rock hard.



"Quick, baby," he said. "Get on top of me."



They were at the marina, on the Jill, the large motor-sailer Toby had bought for her. Toby's first television show of the new season was to tape the following day.



"This is the best vacation I've had in my whole life," Toby said. "I hate to go back to work."



"It's such a wonderful show," Jill said. "I had fun doing it. Everyone was so nice." She paused a moment, then added lightly, "Almost everyone."



"What do you mean?" Toby's voice was sharp. "Who wasn't nice to you?"



"No one, darling. I shouldn't have even mentioned it."



But she finally allowed Toby to worm it out of her, and the next day Eddie Berrigan, the casting director, was fired.



In the months that followed, Jill told Toby little fictions about other casting directors on her list, and one by one they disappeared. Everyone who had ever used her was going to pay. It was, she thought, like the rite of mating with the queen bee. They had all had their pleasure, and now they had to be destroyed.



She went after Sam Winters, the man who had told Toby she had no talent. She never said a word against him; on the contrary, she praised him to Toby. But she always praised other studio heads just a little bit more.... The other studios had properties better suited for Toby...directors who really understood him. Jill would add that she could not help thinking that Sam Winters did not really appreciate Toby's talent. Before long, Toby began feeling the same way. With Clifton Lawrence gone, Toby had no one to talk to, no one he could trust, except Jill. When Toby decided to make his movies at another studio, he believed that it was his own idea. But Jill made certain that Sam Winters knew the truth.



Retribution.



There were those around Toby who felt that Jill could not last, that she was simply a temporary intruder, a passing fancy. So they tolerated her or treated her with a thinly veiled contempt. It was their mistake. One by one, Jill eliminated them. She wanted no one around who had been important in Toby's life or who could influence him against her. She saw to it that Toby changed his lawyer and his public-relations firm and she hired people of her own choosing. She got rid of the three Macs and Toby's entourage of stooges. She replaced all the servants. It was her house now and she was the mistress of it.



A party at the Temples' had become the hottest ticket in town. Everyone who was anybody was there. Actors mingled with socialites and governors and heads of powerful corporations. The press was always there in full force, so that there was a bonus for the lucky guests. Not only did they go to the Temples' and have a wonderful time, but everyone knew that they had been to the Temples' and had had a wonderful time.



When the Temples were not hosts, they were guests. There was an avalanche of invitations. They were invited to premieres, charity dinners, political affairs, openings of restaurants and hotels.



Toby would have been content to stay at home alone with Jill, but she liked going out. On some evenings, they had three or four parties to attend, and she rushed Toby from one to the other.



"Jesus, you should have been a social director at Grossinger's," Toby laughed.



"I'm doing it for you, darling," Jill replied.



Toby was making a movie for MGM and had a grueling schedule. He came home late one night, exhausted, to find his evening clothes laid out for him. "We're not going out again, baby? We haven't been home one night the whole fucking year!"



"It's the Davises' anniversary party. They'd be terribly hurt if we didn't show up."



Toby sat down heavily on the bed. "I was looking forward to a nice hot bath and a quiet evening. Just the two of us."



But Toby went to the party. And because he always had to be "on," always had to be the center of attention, he drew on his enormous reservoir of energy until everyone was laughing and applauding and telling everyone else what a brilliantly funny man Toby Temple was. Late that night, lying in his bed, Toby was unable to sleep, his body drained, but his mind reliving the triumphs of the evening line by line, laugh by laugh. He was a very happy man. And all because of Jill.



How his mother would have adored her.



In March they received an invitation to the Cannes Film Festival.



"No way," Toby said, when Jill showed him the invitation. "The only Cannes I'm going to is the one in my bathroom. I'm tired, honey. I've been working my butt off."



Jerry Guttman, Toby's public-relations man, had told Jill that there was a good chance that Toby's movie would win the Best Picture Award and that it would help if Toby were there. He felt that it was important for Toby to go.



Lately, Toby had been complaining that he was tired all the time and was unable to sleep. At night he took sleeping pills, which left him groggy in the morning. Jill counteracted the feeling of tiredness by giving him benzedrine at breakfast so that Toby would have enough energy to get through the day. Now, the cycle of uppers and downers seemed to be taking its toll on him.



"I've already accepted the invitation," Jill told Toby, "but I'll cancel. No problem, darling."



"Let's go down to the Springs for a month and just lie around in the soap."



She looked at him. "What?"



He sat there, very still. "I meant sun. I don't know why it came out soap."



She laughed. "Because you're funny." Jill squeezed his hand. "Anyway, Palm Springs sounds wonderful. I love being alone with you."



"I don't know what's wrong with me," Toby sighed. "I just don't have the juice anymore. I guess I'm getting old."



"You'll never get old. You can wear me out."



He grinned. "Yeah? I guess my pecker will live long after I die." He rubbed the back of his head and said, "I think I'll take a little nap. To tell you the truth, I'm not feeling so hot. We don't have a date tonight, do we?"



"Nothing that I can't put off. I'll send the servants away and cook dinner for you myself tonight. Just us."



"Hey, that'll be great."



He watched her leave, and he thought, Jesus, I'm the luckiest guy who ever lived.



They were lying in bed late that night. Jill had given Toby a warm bath and a relaxing massage, kneading his tired muscles, soothing away his tensions.



"Ah, that feels wonderful," he murmured. "How did I ever get along without you?"



"I can't imagine." She nestled close to him. "Toby, tell me about the Cannes Film Festival. What's it like? I've never been to one."



"It's just a mob of hustlers who come from all over the world to sell their lousy movies to one another. It's the biggest con game in the world."



"You make it sound exciting," Jill said.



"Yeah? Well, I guess it is kind of exciting. The place is filled with characters." He studied her for a moment. "Do you really want to go to that stupid film festival?"



She shook her head quickly. "No. We'll go to Palm Springs."



"Hell, we can go to Palm Springs anytime."



"Really, Toby, it's not important."



He smiled. "Do you know why I'm so crazy about you? Any other woman in the world would have been pestering me to take her to the festival. You're dying to go, but do you say anything? No. You want to go to the Springs with me. Have you canceled that acceptance?"



"Not yet, but - "



"Don't. We're going to India." A puzzled look came over his face. "Did I say India? I meant - Cannes."



When their plane landed at Orly, Toby was handed a cablegram. His father had died in the nursing home. It was too late for Toby to go back for the funeral. He arranged to have a new wing added to the rest home, named after his parents.



The whole world was at Cannes.



It was Hollywood and London and Rome, all mixed together in a glorious, many-tongued cacophony of sound and fury, in Technicolor and Panavision. From all over the globe, picture makers flocked to the French Riviera, carrying cans of dreams under their arms, rolls of celluloid made in English and French and Japanese and Hungarian and Polish, that were going to make them rich and famous overnight. The croisette was packed with professionals and amateurs, veterans and tyros, comers and has-beens, all competing for the prestigious prizes. Being awarded a prize at the Cannes Film Festival meant money in the bank, if the winner had no distribution deal, he could get one, and if he already had one, he could better it.



Every hotel in Cannes was filled, and the overflow had spilled up and down the coast to Antibes, Beaulieu, Saint-Tropez and Menton. The residents of the small villages gaped in awe at the famous faces that filled their streets and restaurants and bars.



Every room had been reserved for months ahead, but Toby Temple had no difficulty getting a large suite at the Carlton. Toby and Jill were feted everywhere they went. News photographers' cameras clicked incessantly, and their images were sent around the world. The Golden Couple, the King and Queen of Hollywood. The reporters interviewed Jill and asked for her opinions on everything from French wines to African politics. It was a far cry from Josephine Czinski of Odessa, Texas.



Toby's picture did not win the award, but two nights before the festival was to end, the Judges Committee announced that they were presenting a special award to Toby Temple for his contribution to the field of entertainment.



It was a black-tie affair, and the large banquet hall at the Carlton Hotel overflowed with guests. Jill was seated on the dais next to Toby. She noticed that he was not eating. "What's the matter, darling?" she asked.



Toby shook his head. "Probably had too much sun today. I feel a little woozy."



"Tomorrow I'm going to see that you rest." Jill had scheduled interviews for Toby with Paris Match and the London Times in the morning, luncheon with a group of television reporters, followed by a cocktail party. She decided she would cancel the least important.



At the conclusion of dinner, the mayor of Cannes rose to his feet and introduced Toby. "Mesdames, messieurs, et invites distingues c'est un grand privilege de vous presente un homme dont l'oeuvre a donne plaisir et bonheur au monde entier. J'ai l'honneur de lui presenter cette medaille speciale, un signe de notre affection et de notre appreciation." He held up a gold medal and ribbon and bowed to Toby. "Monsieur Toby Temple!" There was an enthusiastic burst of applause from the audience, as everyone in the great banquet hall rose to his feet in a standing ovation. Toby was seated in his chair, not moving.



"Get up," Jill whispered.



Slowly, Toby rose, pale and unsteady. He stood there a moment, smiled, then started toward the microphone. Halfway there, he stumbled and fell to the floor, unconscious.



Toby Temple was flown to Paris in a French air force transport jet and rushed to the American Hospital, where he was put in the intensive-care ward. The finest specialists in France were summoned, while Jill sat in a private room at the hospital, waiting. For thirty-six hours she refused to eat or drink or take any of the phone calls that were flooding into the hospital from all over the world.



She sat alone, staring at the walls, neither seeing nor hearing the stir of activity around her. Her mind was focused on only one thing: Toby had to get well. Toby was her sun, and if the sun went out, the shadow would die. She could not allow that to happen.



It was five o'clock in the morning when Doctor Duclos, the chief of staff, entered the private room Jill had taken so she could be near Toby.



"Mrs. Temple - I am afraid there is no point in trying to soften the blow. Your husband has suffered a massive stroke. In all probability, he will never be able to walk or speak again."