Pride, Prejudice and Jasmin Field (21 page)

She phoned her mother straight away. ‘Have you read the Daily Echo?’ she asked. ‘Yes,’ said Martha.

‘When did you speak to them, Mum?’

‘I hadn’t realised I had, dear,’ answered Martha, mildly flustered. ‘Someone phoned me to ask how I felt about you winning the award and how I felt about having three famous daughters. They said they were the award organisers and this was for their internal journal. Anyway,’ she scoffed, ‘I didn’t say I was “over the moon”. I never talk in such ridiculous cliches. Perish the thought.’

Jazz was furious. She had half a mind to phone Sharon Westfield and complain. But what was the point? It was much more important for her to phone Brigit Kennedy and explain that it was all a horrible mistake and then apologise to Agatha before she was sacked.

Brigit Kennedy was surprisingly phlegmatic about it. She knew Sharon Westfield of old - ‘She was my Deputy at Smile! she told Jazz. ‘Morals of a dog on heat. Knows her stuff though. Don’t give it a moment’s thought.’

Brigit gave Jazz her first commission there and then. If anything, Jazz felt it had worked in her favour.

Then it was off to Agatha’s office. The door was open and Jazz could see Agatha at her desk, reading the Daily Echo. Smiling out at her was Jazz’s entire family. She knocked feebly on the door. Agatha looked up at her. She said nothing. ‘I can explain,’ said Jazz. Agatha crossed her arms and waited. ‘I’m not going to write for them. They asked me to and I hadn’t even sent them my provisional fax yet. It’s a horrible mistake.’

Agatha started to look slightly more human again.

‘That’s all right then,’ she said. ‘Otherwise I’d have had to fire you.’ And she turned the page over and ignored Jazz.

Jazz didn’t think it was the right time to mention the News.

She started her first column for them at midnight when she couldn’t sleep. It was full of bile. At 1:30 am she e-mailed it and made herself a Horlicks. She slept very peacefully until 6.30 am.

The next morning she got a call from Brigit.

‘Thanks for the column. Really nice. Loved the nostalgic bit about you and Josie arguing about Euro ‘96. You telling her that football had nothing to do with reality and her pointing out that it had become political because even John Major had told Gareth Southgate he had nothing to be ashamed of when he missed

the penalty.’

Jazz smiled over the phone. This was a good start. But Brigit went on. ‘And then you saying that Gareth Southgate had never returned the compliment,’ she finished, as though Jazz didn’t remember the cadence and rhythm of every single one of her beloved jokes. The Commissioning Editor laughed loudly. ‘Politics, humour and sport. Keep it coming, gal.’

Brigit told her it would go in as soon as possible, and gave her her direct line. That meant Jazz had to pluck up the courage to tell Agatha very soon. She tried not to think of Sharon Westfield.

It was a Saturday night and Jazz, Josie and George turned up to the latest cast party together, just like when they were teenagers, hundreds of years ago. Jazz was on a high for the first time in a very long fortnight. George circulated easily among the crowd. Jazz saw that Jack was staying put in the kitchen, nursing a beer and a forced smile and William was flitting. Of course William was at the party, thought Jazz. He could be safe tonight because he knew that Harry would be on stage most of the evening.

Jazz introduced Josie to all and waited patiently for William to flit round to them. She was going to test him.

She didn’t have to wait long.

‘Hello,’ he grinned, eyeing Josie up. Josie had George’s vibrant colouring, and even though a few years

of exhaustion had faded it somewhat, Jazz knew her sister still looked good.

At first Jazz tried hard not to notice those crinkly lines at the corner of William’s eyes nor his warming smile. But then she realised that looking at them didn’t hurt her like she thought it would. She introduced him to Josie, and William seemed delighted to discover there was another Field sister. She wished she’d warned Josie about William, but she supposed there would always be time. Jazz told him that she had managed to get tickets for Harry’s play and waited for his reaction. William looked surprised. After a pause he edged nearer to her.

‘I suppose knowing the truth about him, you’re doubly intrigued to see the difference between a false act and a genuine one?’ he said lightly.

Jazz couldn’t help but smile at his words. It helped the hurt a bit.

‘Oh, I’ve got to know him a bit better since we last spoke,’ she said. ‘And I find Harry’s manner - with some people — easier to swallow now.’

Jazz got a sense of deep satisfaction watching the different reactions that fought for control over

William’s pleasing features.

‘You mean,’ he began, when he could trust his voice to be indifferent, ‘that you’ve grown used to his manner? Or has he turned into a lovely warm chap who will surprise us all at the next rehearsal?’

‘Oh no,’ replied Jazz, enjoying the conversation even more than she thought she would. This was probably the only good thing that would come out of the e-mail. ‘He’s still the same old Harry Noble. I just mean that when you get to know more about the man’s past — and the past of those he loves - it’s easier to understand the reasons behind his actions.’

To her delight, William actually coloured.

‘I’m surprised to see that Carrie isn’t here,’ she said, looking round.

There was now no doubt that they both knew what Jazz was talking about.

‘Harry’s sister?’ he asked evenly, though it was obvious to Jazz he wished he were no longer talking to her. ‘She rarely comes to parties.’

Jazz nodded slowly. ‘Maybe she doesn’t like what drink does to some people,’ she said quietly and then with one last look at him, she turned and walked away, leaving him, not without some regret, to talk to Josie. The fact that he looked annoyed instead of embarrassed put a final end to her crush on him.

She was stopped on her way towards the kitchen by Mo. ‘Be nice,’ Mo said urgently, before Gilbert approached. Jazz realised pretty quickly that he was very drunk.

‘Jazzy Jazzy Jazzy,’ he slurred and then slumped untidily against the wall. Jazz took advantage of the situation and started talking to Mo as if he wasn’t there.

‘You’ll never guess,’ she said. ‘I’m going to see Harry in his play tomorrow.’

‘What?’ said Gilbert, his eyes glazed over. ‘Famous Harry Famous Noble’s famous play? If you see his bitch of an aunt there — can’t miss her, face Like a baboon’s arse — would you kindly spit in her eye

for me?’ He took a swig from a bottle of red wine. Jazz looked at Mo.

‘She’s stopped sponsoring his magazine. She found out he was in the play with Harry and completely went over the top. Didn’t just fire him, she pulled all her money out of the whole magazine,’ said Mo.

They both looked dismayed at Gilbert. Gilbert belched. They all knew that without his specialist mag - which was respected by those in the business, even if it was seen as pretentious — Gilbert was as good

as on the scrapheap. Without his regular contact with the theatre world, his part-time career would grind to a halt, too. There were always others only too happy to sell sordid little secrets to the tabloids. Respected theatre journalism was notoriously difficult to get into and on the nationals - which would be

all Gilbert would be able to tolerate moving to - they were heavily over-subscribed with clever, experienced writers who were far more arrogant than Gilbert could ever aspire to be. Gilbert’s only

choice would be to end up on some provincial paper, which would lower his profile, ego and reputation beyond repair. A future of bitterness beckoned.

‘In fact, you can tell her from me that her acting stinks,’ Gilbert was slurring. ‘Just like her nephew’s.’

When she realised that Mo wasn’t going to leave Gilbert’s side all evening, Jazz eventually extricated herself from them and watched from a safe distance as Mo tried to pull the bottle out of her boyfriend’s weakening grip.

She noticed that Sara Hayes was absent from the party. Of course, she thought. Why would she waste her evening with the likes of us if Harry Noble wasn’t going to be there? And then she checked herself glumly. Maybe Sara had a hospital appointment or something, who was she to know? She wasn’t always right.

As for the cast, the only people she could be bothered to talk to were Matt, -who was always lovely, and Jack, who was now out of bounds. She suddenly found the rest of the cast oppressively wearisome. And even though she had just won a prestigious award, achieved her professional goal and had got tickets for Harry’s show that no one else there had managed to get, she was vaguely aware that there was something lacking in the evening’s entertainment. Her bubble had silently burst. With growing horror, she realised why. The truth was she’d become very used to being watched by a certain Harry Noble. Hell, damnation and buggery bollocks.

She managed to make dull social chitchat until midnight, when she decided to call it a day. She couldn’t find Josie anywhere. Maybe she was already back at the flat, she thought. She’d given her a spare key. When Jazz finally got home, the flat was silent but she assumed that Josie was in Mo’s room and went straight to bed.

The next morning, she found Josie dressed and up in the kitchen.

‘Nice evening?’ she asked, pouring herself a coffee.

Josie grinned sheepishly. ‘Fabulous. You didn’t tell me what a dish William Whitby was.’

‘There’s a good reason for that,’ said Jazz. ‘He’s a shit. Of the highest order.’

Josie’s face fell. Then she looked sheepish again. ‘Who cares?’ she said, and was off home.

Jazz was very, very happy. Her first column had appeared in the News, lots of her friends and family

had phoned to tell her they loved it and there had been no come-back from Agatha since Maddie had convinced their boss that it would help their circulation having the News’s top columnist as their exclusive celebrity interviewer. Maddie had decided, since her interview with Jazz, that Jazz should still work for them on a freelance basis.

When her phone went for the umpteenth time, she picked it up happily. ‘Hello, Hoorah!’

‘I thought we had a deal!’ barked a terrifying voice at the other end of the phone.

‘S-sorry?’

‘What the fuck do you mean giving the News your column when I was there first?’ It was Sharon Westfield and she was spitting blood.

Although taken aback, Jazz was firm. She knew she hadn’t promised them anything.

‘I’m sorry Sharon, but—’

‘sorry? I’ll show you sorry, young lady. Think you can do the dirty on me, do you? After we ran a

spread on your cosy family picture—’

Jazz didn’t think now was the time to mention that her family hadn’t enjoyed being duped and misquoted.

‘Who do you think you are?’ the woman ranted on. ‘You wouldn’t have got that stupid award if I hadn’t tipped the wink. Believe me, young lady, if there’s dirt to be had on you, I’ll find it. Consider yourself dropped.’ And she hung up.

Jazz was mind-blown. She had done nothing wrong. She could go to whatever paper she wanted. Sharon Westfield was quite obviously barking mad.

And she was now Jazz’s enemy.

When she told Maddie about her call, Maddie was philosophical. A friend of hers worked with Sharon

so she knew all there was to know about her.

‘Forget it,’ she said simply. ‘Sharon won’t remember your name next week. Apparently she’s going through a really difficult divorce at the moment - it was just bad timing. Anyway, you’re not allowed to

be worried tonight, we’re going to see Harry Noble act. So cheer up and that’s an order.’

By the time Maddie and Jazz walked into the foyer of the Pemberton Theatre that evening, Jazz was in

a bad way. There were so many knots in her stomach, she could have joined a Boy Scout group. The theatre was packed with beautiful, famous people. Jazz didn’t know where to look first. She and Maddie squeezed their way through the crowd and up the staircase to their seats in the front row of the dress circle. Jazz knew this theatre well and it looked as stunning as ever. But never before had she felt so in awe of the stage. It was enormous, and Jazz suddenly felt terrified for Harry. How could he put himself on the line like this? Regularly?

All these people waiting for him to make their evening go with a bang. All these people expecting him to give them their money’s worth. If he fluffed even one line, hundreds of people would be disappointed. For the first time, Jazz grew numb with terror at the prospect of acting. In only one month’s time, she would be doing the same thing as Harry, albeit in a smaller, less grandiose theatre.

She looked up at the ornate plasterwork and painting on the ceiling above her. The workmanship was breathtaking: it must have taken years to complete — decades even. But no one would be looking at that tonight. She stared hard at the red velvet curtain on the stage. What would Harry be doing now? She knew that he would have no problem focusing himself; unlike her, who was always so easily distracted. God, he must have been frustrated by her in rehearsals. She forced herself to think of something else before the familiar depression took hold.

Maddie was beside herself with excitement. ‘Ohmygod, there’s whatsisname,’ she squeaked. Jazz followed the direction of Maddie’s indiscreetly pointed finger with her eyes. So it was. The place was

full of actors and directors, critics and celebs. She spotted Brian Peters who, to her enormous surprise, gave her a big smile from his circle seat. And a hush came over all of them when the Noble family

entered their box. Jazz saw that Harry had his mother’s colouring and his father’s strong features. They smiled at everyone regally.

Then the lights dimmed, and Jazz was overwhelmed by excitement, terror and an incongruous sense of empathy with Harry.

The set was the interior of a 1950s house, complete with kitchenette and plastic covers on the couch.

The detail was amazing. She could see the gold lettering on the book spine by the drinks cabinet. A door slammed in the distance and in walked Harry. Or rather, in slouched Harry. At first Jazz didn’t recognise him and wondered if there was some mistake. He was wearing the unflattering trousers of the day, which belted high in the waist, making his legs look shorter and his stomach look larger. His shoulders were rounded with fatigue, his neck was tense and his head hung as if bowed by misery. His hair was Brylcreemed into an unattractive, slick style. He called out a woman’s name and when he got no reply,