“Yes, sweetheart. That’s the absolute truth. I was away, working.”
“But you’ll never be away that long again, will you?”
“Never.”
She extended her tiny hand. “Deal?” she asked.
I grinned. “Since when did you start working in Hollywood?”
She ignored the wisecrack and extended the hand further.
“Deal, Daddy?”
I took her hand and shook it.
“Deal.”
The weekend passed in a delightful blur. And then we were back in front of Lucy’s house at six p.m., Sunday. When the door opened, Caitlin ran to hug her mother, then turned back to me and gave me a big wet kiss on the cheek and said, “See you in two weeks, Daddy.” Then she charged inside, clutching the assorted Barbies and other useless plastic objects I’d bought her over the weekend. Lucy and I suddenly found ourselves alone on the doorstep, facing into another awkward silence.
“Good time?” Lucy asked me.
“Wonderful.”
“I’m glad.”
Silence.
“Well then . . .,” I said, backing off.
“Okay,” Lucy said. “Bye, now.”
“See you in two weeks.”
“Fine.”
Then I nodded and turned to leave.
“David,” she said, making me turn around.
“Yeah?”
“I just wanted to say . . . I’m glad things seem to have worked out for you, professionally speaking.”
“Thank you.”
“It must have been awful.”
“It was.”
Silence. Then she said, “I also want you to know something. My lawyer told me that, when everything went wrong, you lost all your money . . .”
“That’s true. I kind of got wiped out for a while.”
“But you still managed to meet our maintenance every month.”
“Had to be done.”
“But you were broke.”
“Had to be done.”
Silence.
“I was impressed, David.”
“Thanks,” I said. Then, once again, we fell into constrained silence. So I said good night and walked back to my car and drove to the airport, and took the flight back to Los Angeles, and got up the next morning, and went to work, and made lots of “creative decisions,” and took lots of phone calls, and had lunch with Brad, and found three hours in the afternoon to stare into a computer screen, and manipulated my characters into something approaching life, and actually ended up working on until eight, and closed up the empty office myself, and picked up some takeout sushi on the way home, and ate the sushi and drank a beer while watching the last two quarters of a Lakers game, and got into bed with the new Walter Mosley novel, and slept a reasonably sound seven hours, and got up, and began the entire process all over again.
Somewhere in the middle of all that routine, the reflection did dawn: Everything you wanted restored has been restored. But with that knowledge came another realization:
You’re alone now.
Yes, there were the collegial pleasures of work. And yes, there were the two weekends a month that I was granted access to my daughter. But beyond that . . .
What? There was no family expecting me at home come night. Another man was already playing day-to-day Daddy for my daughter. And though my professional standing had been resurrected, I now knew that success only carried you as far as the next success. Which, in turn, only transported you to . . .
Where exactly? What was the ultimate destination? That was the most puzzling thing about all this. You could spend years struggling to get somewhere. But when you finally did—when everything fell into your lap and you procured what you’d so craved—you were suddenly confronted with a strange truth: had you really arrived anywhere? Or were you simply at a way station, en route to an illusory destination? A place that vanished from view the moment you were no longer considered touched by success.
How can you ever reach a terminus that doesn’t exist?
And if there was a scrap of insight I had picked up along the way, it was this: what we’re all pursuing is some sort of desperate self-validation. But that’s only found through those who’ve been dumb enough to love you . . . or whom you’ve managed to love.
Like Martha.
For the first month, I left her a phone message every other day. I tried a daily e-mail. Eventually I took the hint and dropped all further attempts at contact. Even though I thought about her constantly—like a dull, but persistent ache that simply wouldn’t go away.
Until, one Friday, around two months after our last meeting, a small package arrived in the mail. When I opened it, I found a rectangular object, wrapped in gift paper. There was also a letter-size envelope. I opened it. I read:
Dearest David,
Of course I should have answered all your calls, and all your e-mails. But . . . I’m here, in Chicago, with Philip. I’m here with him because, in the first instance, he did as I asked—and, from what I’ve read in the papers, your career seems more than somewhat back together again. And I’m here because, as I think you know, I’m now producing the movie you wrote. But I’m also here because, quite simply, he begged me to stay. I’m certain that sounds absurd: Philip Fleck—Mr. $20 Billion—begging anyone for anything. But it’s true. He pleaded with me to give him another chance. He said he couldn’t bear the idea of losing me and his child. And he uttered that time-honored entreaty: “I’ll change.”
Why did he do this? I’m not sure. Has he changed? Well, at least we’re talking again and sharing a bed . . . which is an improvement. And he seems reasonably excited about the prospect of fatherhood . . . though the movie is naturally in the forefront of his mind right now. Anyway, for the moment, we’re in a relatively decent place. I can’t predict if this will last or if he’ll revert to his introverted ways, and I’ll finally reach the point of no return.
What I do know is this: you have taken up residence inside my head and won’t go away. Which is wonderful and sad . . . but there you go. Then again, I am a desperate romantic . . . married to a desperate unromantic. But say I had run off with you? A desperate romantic involved with an even more desperate romantic? No way. Especially since desperate romantics always pine for what they don’t have. But once they have it . . . ?
And maybe that’s why I couldn’t call you back, couldn’t answer your letters. Because it would have been such high drama. But when the high drama ended . . . then what? Would we have stared at each other (as you said you sometimes stared at Sally) and wondered: what was the point? Or, perhaps, we would have lived happily ever after. That’s the gamble—and we’re always itching to take it . . . because we need the crisis, the drama, the sense of danger. Just as we always fear the crisis, the drama, the sense of danger. I think it’s called never knowing what we want.
So there’s a part of me that wants you. Just as there’s a part of me that fears you. And meanwhile, I’ve made my decision: I’m staying put with Mr. Fleck, and hoping for the best. Because the bump in my belly is now quite a significant one, and I don’t want to be on my own in the world when he-or-she arrives, and because I did/maybe still do love his-or-her very strange father, and I wish this was your child, but it isn’t, and life is all about timing, and ours didn’t work out, and . . .
Well, you get my rambling point.
Here’s a little ditty by our favorite poet, on the same topic (only in a far more succinct style than yours truly):
This is the Hour of Lead
Remembered, if outlived,
As freezing persons, recollect the snow
First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go—
I hope you’re letting go, David.
And as soon as you’ve finished reading this letter, do me a favor. Don’t brood about it. Don’t imagine what could have been. Just go back to work.
With love,
Martha
I didn’t immediately follow her last directive. Because f
irst I opened the wrapped present—and found myself staring down at an 1891 First Edition of Poems of Emily Dickinson, published by the Robert Brothers of Boston. I held the book in my hands, marveling at its compact elegance, its venerable heft, its aura of permanence—even though, like everything, it too would eventually crumble. Then I glanced upward and caught sight of myself in the flat black screen of my laptop: a middle-aged man who, unlike the book he was now holding, would definitely not be here in one hundred and eleven years’ time.
And then something else crossed my mind—a request made to me by Caitlin when I was visiting her last week. As I tucked her into bed in our hotel room, she asked me for a bedtime story. Specifically, The Three Little Pigs. But with a proviso:
“Daddy,” she asked, “can you tell the story without the Big Bad Wolf?”
I considered this for a moment, wondering how I could make it work:
“Let’s see now . . . there’s a house made of straw. There’s a house made of sticks. There’s a house made of bricks. What happens next? Do they form a residents’ association? Sorry, sweetheart, the story doesn’t really work without the Big Bad Wolf.”
Why doesn’t it work? Because all stories are about crisis. Yours. Mine. The guy sitting opposite you on the train as you read this. Everything’s narrative, after all. And all narrative—all storytelling—confronts a basic truth. We need crisis: the anguish, the longing, the sense of possibility, the fear of failure, the pining for the life we imagine ourselves wanting, the despair for the life we have. Crisis somehow lets us believe that we are important; that everything isn’t just of the moment; that, somehow, we can transcend insignificance. More than that, crisis makes us realize that, like it or not, we are always shadowed by the Big Bad Wolf. The danger that lurks behind everything. The danger we do to ourselves.
But who, ultimately, is the mastermind of our crisis? Who is the controlling hand? To some, it’s God. To others, the state. Then again, it might be the person you want to blame for all your griefs: your husband, your mother, your boss. Or maybe—just maybe—it’s yourself.
That’s what I still couldn’t figure out about everything that had recently happened to me. Yes, there was a bad guy in the story—someone who set me up, smashed me down, and then put me all back together again. And yes, I knew the name of this man. But . . . and it’s a big but . . . might he have been me?
I glanced again at the blackened screen. Within it, the outline of my face was framed against the inky darkness. What a phantom-like silhouette. What a spectral portrait. And it struck me that, from the moment man could see his own reflected image, he was wracked with all the usual cavernous ruminations that creep up on us daily: Who am I in all this . . . and does it even matter?
And then, as now, he could find no answers. Except perhaps the one I was currently telling myself:
Forget about pondering all such impossible questions. Forget about the futility of everything. And don’t imagine what might have been. Just get on with it. Because what else can you do? There is only one remedy. Go back to work.
INTRODUCTION
After eleven years of failure, would-be screenwriter David Armitage lands a big break: his script is bought for television production. The show is a runaway hit and he is an instant success. In a whirlwind of events he finds himself at the top of the Hollywood heap, being lauded as the creator of the hit series Selling You. This newfound success brings about major lifestyle changes; David walks out on his wife and daughter for a young producer who worships only at the altar of ambition, yet he believes that nothing could ruin such a successful time in his life.
Enter Philip Fleck, billionaire film buff. Fleck whisks David away to his private island and makes him a bizarre offer to transform one of David’s original movie scripts into a Caligula-like remake that highlights the power of control. David balks at the proposition but, with some goading, changes his mind and agrees.
Upon David’s return to Los Angeles, his life takes a bizarre turn. Accused of plagiarism by a Hollywood gossip reporter, David quickly finds himself with no job, money, or girlfriend. Even worse, his ex-wife deprives him of the ability to see his daughter. David finds an unlikely ally, however, in Fleck’s wife, Martha, and begins to climb back out of the hole that his temptation dug for him.
QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION
1. David’s first words to the reader are: “I always wanted to be rich. I know that probably sounds crass, but it’s the truth. A true confession.” What were your initial impressions of David after reading this statement? Does this confession make him a shallow person? How did he change throughout the course of the book? Does “new” David still want to be rich?
2. David and Lucy make amends after their big fight, but David comments that “once things are said, they are said.” Do you think David could have salvaged his marriage with Lucy, or were they destined to split? Why does David long for Lucy once bad times befall him?
3. Lucy confronts David about his infidelities and David realizes that it is the perfect way out so he can be with Sally. Yet, he comments, “I was getting exactly what I wanted . . . and it scared the hell out of me.” Why do you think he was so scared? What other troubles does David’s newfound success bring?
4. Alison Ellroy establishes herself as David Armitage’s voice of reason. Can we count her as a “true” friend to David? Why or why not? Do you think she sticks with him during his tough times for financial sake or because she cares for him?
5. David finds himself stuck in the same day-to-day ennui with Sally that plagued his time with Lucy. Is David destined to live his romantic life like this? Do you think this is why Martha Fleck chose not to pursue a permanent romance with him?
6. Sally comments that Bobby Barra is a “people collector.” What do you think she means by this? Who else in Temptation is a “people collector”?
7. David comments that Bobby “filled the time with his own turbocharged ambitions and worries, in an attempt to believe that, somehow, what we do during that momentary spasm called life actually counts for something.” Discuss this quote in relation to David, Alison, Sally, and Martha. What do they do that counts for something?
8. David refuses the initial offer to fly to Saffron Island but is persuaded by Bobby, Alison, and Sally. Do they believe this could advance David’s career or are they just seeing dollar signs? What would you have told David to do?
9. Bobby Barra “didn’t mind letting the world see how—when it came to his obsessions—he was positively naked in his stupidity.” What does the author mean by this? Who else is naked in their stupidity?
10. Temptation focuses on the highs and lows that success brings. Discuss this in the context of the following quotes: “there’s something deeply skewed about having everything you want” and “Success is supposed to simplify your life. Inevitably, it complicates it further.”
11. Discuss Philip Fleck. What does his love for Salo say about his character? Is he someone who desires total control at all times? Will he always have control over David?
12. Does David have a meaningful relationship with anyone or are his relationships all based on his success?
13. David concludes that Philip Fleck is using him to do the ultimate creative act: play God. Why do you think Philip chose David? How has Fleck’s success been his ultimate downfall?
14. Were you surprised to learn that Martha Fleck had an ulterior motive for helping David? What was her motivation? Did her plan work? How does David feel about the end result?
15. Philip Fleck tells David “you simply became a victim of your own choices.” Do you agree with Philip? What choices could David have made differently throughout Temptation? Would he have found himself in such tough times if Philip Fleck had never entered his life?
ENHANCE YOUR BOOK CLUB
1. Each character in Temptation has a talent: David’s is writing, Bobby’s is finance, etc. Do you have a unique talent or skill? Share with your book club.
2. Philip Fleck
is a film buff. What is your favorite classic movie? Invite your book club over for a screening.
3. David creates the hit TV series Selling You. Did you ever have a great idea for a TV show? Draw up a script, cast the characters, and share with your book club.
A CONVERSATION WITH DOUGLAS KENNEDY
What was the inspiration for Temptation?
In 1996 I wrote a novel called The Big Picture, which received a huge publishing advance, phenomenal prepublication hype, and was the subject of great commercial expectations. The novel got wonderful reviews, received a W. H. Smith Prize in the United Kingdom, and was translated into over twenty-two languages, selling over three million copies since its first publication. It’s also been turned into a superb French film that will be seen in the US in 2011. Despite all this accumulative success, when the novel was first published, the sales figures, though good, were not anything near to the mega-hit hope for the novel. And when my subsequent novel, The Job, was a lesser commercial success, I found myself shut out of New York publishing for over a decade . . . until Atria happily decided to relaunch me in my own country. During those ten years I went on to have great success in Europe and the rest of the world. But the fact that I had been once celebrated as the hot new American writer, and then quickly discarded like a faulty tire, was, shall we say, an interesting lesson in the transient nature of success. And so I decided to write Temptation: a dark, funny riff on the fragility of writerly fame.
Alison Ellroy advises David that “if you want to scratch a living writing . . . remember that you have to write generic.” Do you find that authors need to do the same? Can they only meet with success if they “write generic” for the masses?
I have just published my tenth novel. And—hand on heart—I have never written anything with the marketplace in mind. Having said that, I am that strange duck—a serious popular writer (or a writer of popular serious fiction), which means I rather like the reader to turn the page. Yet I also believe in talking up to the reader at the same time. So I suppose what I am saying here is that, if a novelist thinks simply about the marketplace, he is selling himself short. But he also needs to remember that he has an obligation to engage his readers in his narrative. Or, to put it another way, you can be popular and intelligent and nongeneric simultaneously.
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