“Jill Castle,” Toby was saying, “remember her? The kid who was on the show?”
“Ah, yes, a very attractive girl. What’s the problem?”
“I’ll be goddamned if I know,” Toby admitted. “It’s like she’s got something against me. Every time I ask her for a date, I get a turn-down. It makes me feel like some kind of shit-kicker from Iowa.”
Clifton took a chance. “Why don’t you stop asking her?”
“That’s the crazy part, pal. I can’t. Between you and me and my cock, I’ve never wanted a broad so much in my life. It’s getting so I can’t think about anything else.” He smiled self-consciously and said, “I told you it was crazy. You’ve been around the track a few times, Cliff. What do I do?”
For one reckless moment, Clifton was tempted to tell Toby the truth. But he couldn’t tell him that his dream girl was sleeping around town with every assistant casting director who could give her a day’s work. Not if he wanted to keep Toby as a client. “I have an idea,” Clifton suggested. “Is she serious about her acting?”
“Yes. She’s ambitious.”
“All right. Then, give her an invitation she has to accept.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have a party at your house.”
“I just told you, she won’t—”
“Let me finish. Invite studio heads, producers, directors—people who could do her some good. If she’s really interested in being an actress, she’ll be dying to meet them.”
Toby dialed her number. “Hello, Jill.”
“Who is this?” she asked.
Everyone in the country recognized his voice, and she was asking who it was!
“Toby. Toby Temple.”
“Oh.” It was a sound that could have meant anything.
“Listen, Jill, I’m giving a little dinner party at my home next Wednesday night and I”—he heard her start to refuse and hurried on—“I’m having Sam Winters, head of Pan-Pacific, and a few other studio heads there, and some producers and directors. I thought it might be good for you to meet them. Are you free?”
There was the briefest of pauses, and Jill Castle said, “Wednesday night. Yes, I’m free. Thank you, Toby.”
And neither of them knew that it was an appointment in Samarra.
On the terrace, an orchestra played, while liveried waiters passed trays of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne.
When Jill arrived, forty-five minutes late, Toby nervously hurried to the door to greet her. She was wearing a simple white silk dress, and her black hair fell softly against her shoulders. She looked ravishing. Toby could not take his eyes off her. Jill was aware that she looked beautiful. She had washed and styled her hair very carefully and had taken a long time with her makeup.
“There are a lot of people here I want you to meet.” Toby took Jill’s hand and led her across the large reception hall into the formal drawing room. Jill stopped at the entrance, staring at the guests. Almost every face in the room was familiar to her. She had seen them on the cover of Time and Life and Newsweek and Paris Match and OGGI or on the screen. This was the real Hollywood. These were the picture makers. Jill had imagined this moment a thousand times, being with these people, talking with them. Now that the reality was here, it was difficult for her to realize that it was actually happening.
Toby was handing her a glass of champagne. He took her arm and led her to a man surrounded by a group of people. “Sam, I want you to meet Jill Castle.”
Sam turned. “Hello, Jill Castle,” he said pleasantly.
“Jill, this is Sam Winters, chief Indian of Pan-Pacific Studios.”
“I know who Mr. Winters is,” Jill said.
“Jill’s an actress, Sam, a damned clever actress. You could use her. Give your joint a little class.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sam said politely.
Toby took Jill’s hand, holding it firmly. “Come on, honey,” he said. “I want everybody to meet you.”
Before the evening was over, Jill had met three studio heads, half a dozen important producers, three directors, a few writers, several newspaper and television columnists and a dozen stars. At dinner, Jill sat at Toby’s right. She listened to the various conversations, savoring the feeling of being on the Inside for the first time.
“…the trouble with these epics is that if one of them flops, it can wipe out the whole studio. Fox is hanging on by its teeth, waiting to see what Cleopatra does.”
“…have you seen the new Billy Wilder picture yet? Sensational!”
“Yeah? I liked him better when he was working with Brackett. Brackett has class.”
“Billy has talent.”
“…so, I sent Peck a mystery script last week, and he’s crazy about it. He said he’d give me a definite answer in a day or two.”
“…I received this invitation to meet the new guru, Krishi Pramananada. Well, my dear, it turned out I’d already met him; I attended his bar mitzvah.”
“…the problem with budgeting a picture at two is that by the time you have an answer print, the cost of inflation plus the goddamned unions has pushed it up to three or four.”
Millions, Jill thought excitedly. Three or four millions. She remembered the endless penny-ante conversations at Schwab’s where the hangers-on, the Survivors, avidly fed each other crumbs of information about what the studios were doing. Well, the people at this table tonight were the real survivors, the ones who made everything in Hollywood happen.