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 invités distingués c’est un grand privilège de vous présente un homme dont l’oeuvre a donné plaisir et bonheur au monde entier. J’ai l’honneur de lui présenter cette medaille spéciale, un signe de notre affection et de notre appréciation.” 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.”
31
When they finally allowed Jill into Toby’s hospital room in Paris, she was shocked by his appearance. Overnight, Toby had become old and desiccated, as if all his vital fluids had drained out of him. He had lost partial use of both arms and legs, and though he was able to make grunting animal noises, he could not speak.
It was six weeks before the doctors would permit Toby to be moved. When Toby and Jill arrived back in California, they were mobbed at the airport by the press and television media and hundreds of well-wishers. Toby Temple’s illness had caused a major sensation. There were constant phone calls from friends inquiring about Toby’s health and progress. Television crews tried to get into the house to take pictures of him. There were messages from the President and senators, and thousands of letters and postcards from fans who loved Toby Temple and were praying for him.
But the invitations had stopped. No one was calling to find out how Jill felt, or whether she would like to attend a quiet dinner or take a drive or see a movie. Nobody in Hollywood cared a damn about Jill.