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.