Sidney Sheldon - A Stranger in the Mirror

“Action! Nurse!”

Jill stood over the patient and put her hand on his pulse. If she did the scene wrong again, they would never give her another chance. She thought of Harriet and of her friends at the roominghouse and of what they would say.

The doctor entered and walked up to her. “How is he, Nurse?”

She would no longer be one of them. She would be a laughingstock. Hollywood was a small town. Word got around fast.

“Not very good, I’m afraid, Doctor.”

No other studio would touch her. It would be her last job. It would be the end of everything, her whole world.

The doctor said, “I want this man put in intensive care immediately.”

“Good!” the director called. “Cut and print.”

Jill was hardly aware of the people rushing past her, starting to dismantle the set to make room for the next one. She had done her first scene—and she had been thinking about something else. She could not believe it was over. She wondered whether she should find the director and thank him for the opportunity, but he was at the other end of the stage talking to a group of people. The second assistant director came up to her and squeezed her arm and said, “You did okay, kid. Only next time, learn your lines.”

There was film on her; she had her first credit.

From now on , Jill thought, I’ll be working all the time .

Jill’s next acting job was thirteen months later, when she did a bit part at MGM. In the meantime, she held a series of civilian jobs. She became the local Avon lady, she worked behind a soda fountain and—briefly—she drove a taxi.

With her money running low, Jill decided to share an apartment with Harriet Marcus. It was a two-bedroom apartment and Harriet kept her bedroom working overtime. Harriet worked at a downtown department store as a model. She was an attractive girl with short dark hair, black eyes, a model’s boyish figure and a sense of humor.

“When you come from Hoboken,” she told Jill, “you’d better have a sense of humor.”

In the beginning, Jill had been a bit daunted by Harriet’s cool self-sufficiency, but she soon learned that underneath that sophisticated facade, Harriet was a warm, frightened child. She was in love constantly. The first time Jill met her, Harriet said, “I want you to meet Ralph. We’re getting married next month.”

A week later, Ralph had left for parts unknown, taking with him Harriet’s car.

A few days after Ralph had departed, Harriet met Tony. He was in import-export and Harriet was head-over-heels in love with him.

“He’s very important,” Harriet confided to Jill. But someone obviously did not think so, because a month later, Tony was found floating in the Los Angeles River with an apple stuffed in his mouth.

Alex was Harriet’s next love.

“He’s the best-looking thing you’ve ever seen,” Harriet confided to Jill.

Alex was handsome. He dressed in expensive clothes, drove a flashy convertible and spent a lot of time at the racetracks. The romance lasted until Harriet started running out of money. It angered Jill that Harriet had so little sense about men.

“I can’t help it,” Harriet confessed. “I’m attracted to guys who are in trouble. I think it’s my mother instinct.” She grinned and added, “My mother was an idiot.”

Jill watched a procession of Harriet’s fiancés come and go. There was Nick and Bobby and John and Raymond, until finally Jill could no longer keep track of them.

A few months after they had moved in together, Harriet announced that she was pregnant.

“I think it’s Leonard,” she quipped, “but you know—they all look alike in the dark.”

“Where is Leonard?”

“He’s either in Omaha or Okinawa. I always was lousy at geography.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to have my baby.”

Because of her slight figure, Harriet’s pregnancy became obvious in a matter of weeks and she had to give up her modeling job. Jill found a job in a supermarket so that she could support the two of them.

One afternoon when Jill returned home from work, she found a note from Harriet. It read: “I’ve always wanted my baby to be born in Hoboken. Have gone back home to my folks. I’ll bet there’s a wonderful guy there, waiting for me. Thanks for everything.” It was signed: “Harriet, The Nun.”

The apartment had suddenly become a lonely place.

21

It was a heady time for Toby Temple. He was forty-two years old and owned the world. He joked with kings and golfed with Presidents, but his millions of beer-drinking fans did not mind because they knew Toby was one of them , their champion who milked all the sacred cows, ridiculed the high and the mighty, shattered the shibboleths of the Establishment. They loved Toby, just as they knew that Toby loved them.

He spoke about his mother in all his interviews, and each time she became more saintlike. It was the only way Toby could share his success with her.

Toby acquired a beautiful estate in Bel-Air. The house was Tudor, with eight bedrooms and an enormous staircase and hand-carved paneling from England. It had a movie theater, a game room, a wine cellar, and on the grounds were a large swimming pool, a housekeeper’s cottage and two guest cottages. He bought a lavish home in Palm Springs, a string of racehorses and a trio of stooges. Toby called them all “Mac” and they adored him. They ran errands, chauffeured him, got him girls at any hour of the day or night, took trips with him, gave him massages. Whatever the master desired, the three Macs were always there to give him. They were the jesters to the Nation’s Jester. Toby had four secretaries, two just to handle the enormous flow of fan mail. His private secretary was a pretty twenty-one-year-old honey-blonde named Sherry. Her body had been designed by a sex maniac, and Toby insisted that she wear short skirts with nothing under them. It saved them both a lot of time.

The premiere of Toby Temple’s first movie had gone remarkably well. Sam Winters and Clifton Lawrence were at the theater. Afterward they all went to Chasen’s to discuss the picture.

Toby had enjoyed his first meeting with Sam after the deal had been made. “It would have been cheaper if you had returned my phone calls,” Toby said, and he told Sam of how he had tried to reach him.

“My tough luck,” Sam said, ruefully.

Now, as they sat in Chasen’s, Sam turned to Clifton Lawrence. “If you don’t take an arm and a leg, I’d like to make a new three-picture deal for Toby.”

“Just an arm. I’ll give you a call in the morning,” the agent said to Sam. He looked at his watch. “I have to run along.”

“Where you going?” Toby asked.

“I’m meeting another client. I do have other clients, dear boy.”

Toby looked at him oddly, then said, “Sure.”

The reviews the next morning were raves. Every critic predicted that Toby Temple was going to be as big a star in movies as he was in television.

Toby read all the reviews, then got Clifton Lawrence on the phone.

“Congratulations, dear boy,” the agent said. “Did you see the Reporter and Variety? Those reviews were love letters.”

“Yeah. It’s a green-cheese world, and I’m a big fat rat. Can I have any more fun than that?”

“I told you you’d own the world one day, Toby, and now you do. It’s all yours.” There was a deep satisfaction in the agent’s voice.

“Cliff, I’d like to talk to you. Can you come over?”

“Certainly. I’ll be free at five o’clock and—”

“I meant now.”

There was a brief hesitation, then Clifton said, “I have appointments until—”

“Oh, if you’re too busy, forget it.” And Toby hung up.