Harry was almost sunbathing in the warmth of everyone's stare. Then without eyeing any of his new cast, he delivered a speech that Jazz thought he must have had written for him by some out-of-work ham playwright - a speech called "Director Drivel". He hardly bothered to move his body as he spoke, and his voice was so cold and quiet that people were leaning forward to catch every little gem. Jazz was transfixed, amazed that someone with such screen presence could be such an atmosphere vacuum in real life. It was as if he only gave of himself when he thought it was worth it, and he certainly didn't rate his present audience.
“Some of you have never acted before,” he droned on. “Some of you may think you have. But all of you will discover new meanings of the word if you listen to me.” He now looked deliberately at them; some of the women blushed under his steady gaze. “And trust in me. Let me be your guide.” Jazz gazed round at his audience. They would let him drill their molars if he so desired. They were eating out of the palm of his hand.
Incredible. She'd never seen anything like it before. Slowly, she tore her eyes away from his entranced followers and looked back at him. She was more than surprised to find that he was looking straight at her. She became aware that everyone else was now looking at her and realised that he had just asked her a question.
She smiled half-heartedly. “Sorry, I - I... wasn't listening.”
He tilted his sculpted face at her with an expression she couldn't yet read.
“An excellent start, Miss Field,” he said calmly, hardly moving his perfect lips.
There was a slight laugh from the audience.
Jazz felt her cheeks warm.
“I just asked our starring lady, our Elizabeth Bennet (crescendo) to stand up and introduce herself.”
Jesus Christ.
She stood up.
“Hi,” (cough), “my name is Jasmin Field. I'm a journalist. So don't piss me off. Ha ha. And um - well, I can't really act. Ha ha.” No one laughed.
She didn't know what else to say. Harry's almost inaudible voice cut the atmosphere like an ice-pick.
“I don't work with people who can't act, Miss Field.”
Oh pur-lease, she thought. Get out of your bottom, it's dark in there.
“Good job this is voluntary then,” she smiled sweetly.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“Money has nothing to do with an excellent performance, Miss Field.” He smiled wrily at the rest of the cast. “Although I don't expect a journalist to understand that.” They broke into relieved laughter, grateful that he had shared a joke with them. Out of the corner of her eye, Jazz could see Gilbert attempting the look of an offended genius.
Harry started looking around the room for his next victim.
“Oh, you'd be surprised,” Jazz said a bit too loudly. “We journalists understand lots of things. Particularly,” she pretended to pluck words out of the air, and finished softly with “pomp and affectation.”
The room held its breath, but Harry merely looked back at her. “Oh dear,” he said in an infuriatingly measured tone. “Miss Field, we might as well sort this out once and for all. For the short period of your life that you leave behind the tacky world of women's magazines and work with me, I will turn you into a good actress. However painful that experience may be for both of us.”
Jazz bristled. “I never leave behind my "tacky world", as you put it, Mr Noble - it follows me, I'm afraid. Much in the same way that a bit-part in a "tacky" American sitcom would follow a classic actor.”
A couple of people coughed nervously.
“Well, there you're very much mistaken, Miss Field,” said Harry, leaning forward and allowing his voice more inflection. “I don't allow anything to follow anyone when they act with me. I want you, Miss Field, completely and utterly naked.” A fractional smile. “I'm speaking emotionally, of course.” Jazz grimaced. “And that's your first lesson.” He threw her a hard smile that landed, with a dull thud, in her gut. “Learning the difference between pomp and affectation and substance and integrity we'll have to leave to another day.”
And with that he turned swiftly to his next victim. Somehow Jazz found her seat again without falling flat on her bottom. The fact that everyone had now stopped watching her did nothing to lessen her sense of embarrassment. She hated him. In fact, she was so shaken by the public humiliation that it was several moments before she began to look forward to describing it in her column.
It was Mr Darcy's turn next. Jazz had at first been delighted to discover that Harry had succumbed to Matt's advice and given the part of the greatest romantic hero to the acerbic critic, Brian Peters. But within moments, her delight turned to serious concern. Poison Pen Peters' prose, albeit cruel, was always elegant, well-honed and majestic. His "voice" was an aesthetic joy, something every reader was in awe of due to its obvious natural superiority, whether or not they agreed with its content. As a writer, he would have made a perfect Mr Darcy. As an actor, however, he would have made a perfect ferret. It appeared to Jazz, as she studied Brian Peters for the first time, that testosterone had passed him by. His shoulders were narrower than hers, his voice higher, and his long, slim head made him look as if he was still recovering from a forceps delivery. How could such magnificent prose come from such an unimpressive person?
By now, everyone else knew the sort of interrogation they would receive from their director and had time to think of something half-witty to say for their own introductions. They were all suitably banal and benign. Sara Hayes had won the part of Miss Bingley - Mr Bingley's sister and doomed admirer of Mr Darcy - which almost managed to cheer Jazz up. How wonderfully typecast, she thought, with glee, watching the woman preen herself. Better still, Sara's friend Maxine was Mrs Hurst - her sister — and the man chosen to play Mrs Hurst's husband was Maxine's own porcine husband. Charles Caruthers-Brown's look of utter indifference to the proceedings suited his new role down to the ground.
The tall fair man who was still impersonating a stunned rabbit whenever he looked at George turned out to be called Jack - he was playing Mr Bingley, troubled suitor to George's Jane. Would life imitate art here also? wondered Jazz to herself. Is the Pope Catholic? she answered herself happily. She was even quite excited to see that Gilbert had won the part of Mr Collins, the insufferable, social-climbing curate. Despite herself, Jazz began to feel some respect for Harry Noble's casting ability.
The part of Lizzy's mother, Mrs Bennet, had gone to a large woman with heavy-lidded warm eyes, cropped black hair and beautifully smooth skin. Mr Bennet was to be played by a character actor Jazz had seen in many period productions on the television. He had always had minor roles and she had never given him more than a cursory glance. She had certainly never attributed any great meaning to anything he'd said, yet now she saw him in the flesh, with his tired, ruddy skin, his desperately grave expression and deep, mellow voice, she realised that while she had been ogling handsome lead actors, she had been wantonly ignoring many actors' lifetimes' achievements just because they had less pleasing features. She felt profound sympathy for the man who was doomed to always have the smaller, instantly forgettable parts just because his nose was too bulbous, his eyes too close together and his mouth too far over to the left. Her sympathy for him didn't last long though. She watched him for a while. He was unexpectedly self-obsessed and so blusteringly affected that she started to admire his lifetime's work of modest, humble characters afresh. He was obviously a far better performer than she had ever given him credit for.
Lizzy's three younger sisters were to be played by young fairly well-known personalities - one a novelist whose debut novel Monarchy, My Arse had had rave reviews, another a young photographer who had exhibited twice to rapturous reviews, and the other almost an "It" girl - cable TV presenter, party-goer. Even they were quite obviously flustered in the company of Harry Noble. So Jazz had been right. The second day of auditions had just been a publicity stunt. There was no one here who was a complete unknown. Apart, perhaps, from Mo and from Ma
xine's other half, Charles.
Just looking round the room at all the hopeful, determined faces was enough to convince Jazz that she had made the right decision never to try acting as a profession. She'd toyed with the idea for a week or two at the age of eighteen, but realised that she'd rather scrutinise the world than emotionally strip in front of it.
She was relieved to find out that her new friend Wills didn't think less of her after her tete a tete with Mr. Noble. In fact, it was rather the opposite.
As soon as Harry and Jazz had finished their spar, Wills had turned round to her. “May I be the first to congratulate you,” he murmured. “You have answered back the great Harry Noble.”
“Is he always this pretentious?” she asked.
Wills tried not to laugh out loud. “Believe me, you'll get used to the bastard.”
Jazz snorted. “What, like I got used to PMT?”
At this he did laugh out loud. A great, manly bellow of a laugh. Jazz couldn't help but join in. She was hooked. Nothing was as attractive to her as a man laughing at one of her jokes. Except a crowd of men laughing at a string of her jokes.
“Probably,” he said finally. “Perhaps that's why women seem to get on better with him than men.”
“Most women,” reminded Jazz, “only want one thing.”
She looked over at Jack and George, already deep in conversation. When she glanced back at Wills, she actually blushed to find he had stopped laughing and was studying her.
Chapter 7
The first rehearsal had been just a read-through of the play. Jazz thoroughly enjoyed it. The adaptation had been very cleverly done - there was even a hint at a final snog with Darcy and Elizabeth, which didn't feel too anachronistic. However, every time Jazz looked at her Darcy, she felt seriously concerned. She certainly wouldn't be resorting to method acting with Brian Peters.
As soon as she and Mo were back in the flat, Jazz made a tape-recording of her part with long pauses for the other parts. Harry wanted everyone to be off scripts within a fortnight. She vowed to play the tape at every single opportunity. It took her three exhausting hours to make it.
Afterwards she and Mo met up in the lounge for their usual late-night tipple. Thank goodness Mo hadn't yet realised that her diet might be affected by alcohol. They were discussing George.
“There goes Action Man out the window,” sighed Jazz, feeling almost nostalgic.
“Oh? Why?”
“Haven't you been watching George at rehearsals? Talking to the blond guy with next stamped on his forehead. The bloke called Jack who's playing — wait for it — her lover.”
“Really? I didn't think she liked him.”
“Oh come on, she was practically salivating all over him.”
“Actually, I thought she wanted me to come over and save her at one point,” said Mo. “Good thing I couldn't be bothered.”
“Are you mad? She all but sketched him her favourite wedding dress design.”
Mo frowned heavily. “The tall guy with the pink cheeks?”
“Yes, the one whose lap she had to be hoovered off at the end of the rehearsal.”
“Nope. Can't see it myself,” said Mo and finished off her Baileys.
“Has your diet stopped blood getting to your brain?” asked Jazz in wonder. “George was giving signals so big she was practically using semaphore.”
“Bollocks!” scoffed Mo. “You may be able to understand George's body language, but to the rest of us, she's as unreadable as a - a - Thomas Hardy novel.”
Jazz stared at Mo in disbelief. Mo continued, determined to put this subject to rest for the evening: “Look. I'm very fond of your sister - you know I am, but . . .”
Jazz didn't want to hear any more. Didn't Mo know the rules? Only Jazz could criticise George.
“. . . But between you and me, I haven't got a clue what's going on inside her pretty little head. As for her flirting with anyone,” Mo snorted, “I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”
“Well, that's because you haven't been feeding your brain for the past month,” scoffed Jazz. “Your brain cells are slipping out of your ears, I can see them. I keep treading on them in the bathroom.”
“You're just jealous.”
“Jealous of what?”
“My new sleek body.”
Jazz was shocked. “Are you calling me fat?”
“Yes, Big Bum.”
“Well, I'd rather have a big bum than a white tracksuit any day.”
“You'd look crap in a white tracksuit.”
“Of course I would. Everyone would. Everyone does.”
“You're just chicken.”
“Chicken of what? Looking like Littlewoods Man?”
“No, of coming to the gym.”
“I am not. I could beat you at step-a-crap anyday.”
“Bet you couldn't.”
“Bet I could.”
“Done!” yelled Mo, delighted.
Shit. How the hell did that happen?
“Are there any steps that go down?” Jazz asked feebly. “Into a cafe?”
The next day she got a phone call in the office. It was Josie, her younger sister, she of the perfect marriage. Could Jazz babysit on Thursday evening please, because she and Michael needed to go out somewhere. Of course, Jazz would be delighted. The rest of the day was spent writing about her sister, she of the perfect marriage, who still went out with her husband, on their own, mid-week, six years after they'd met, three years after their wedding and two years after their firstborn had entered the world. It takes dedication, hard work, tolerance and a sense of humour, but marriages can still remain romantic, long after the glorious honeymoon is over, typed Jazz, and Jazz Judges . . . was over for another week. The Harry Noble character assassination could wait till next week, she had bigger fish to fry.
That evening Jazz arrived home to a depressing flat. Things just weren't the same since Mo had gone fit on her. She had joined the rest of the mad world and had stopped looking outward on life and was instead looking only at herself. As Jazz stared at the empty lounge, she mused that as far as Mo was now concerned, anything further than her nose was now out of focus and everything nearer than her nose i.e. the rest of her body, was blown up a size too big. She'd lost all sense of proportion.
Since Mo's changed life, Jazz had started looking more critically at her own body. Perhaps she could be less curvy. But then, she would be less her. No. She was damned if she was ever going to be at war with her body. She loved her body. It kept her alive. She used her strong legs and nimble feet to walk into the kitchen. She used her dextrous hands to put the kettle on. She used her graceful arms to open a cupboard and her agile fingers to niftily open a chocolate bar. She used her sensuous mouth to taste her favourite food. She used her joyous taste buds to experience pleasure and her contented mind to think of something that made her laugh while she was eating.
How could she hate her body? It was magnificent. It was a miracle. It was her.
Chapter 8
The room was dark and warm. The only sound was of everyone's breathing and Harry Noble's deep, mellow voice, which seemed to float through the heavy air. Jazz was aware that he could bring out different depths of his voice for different words. It was a language in itself.
“You're feeling sleepier and sleepier and sleepier,” he lulled. “Your limbs are like lead and your head is floating on a cloud. You're in a garden. Somewhere in the distance you can hear a dog barking. You are sitting in your favourite part of the garden, enjoying the feel of the sun on your face.”
Despite herself, Jazz was relaxing - on a floral hammock wearing a matching summer dress.
“Now I'm going to go round asking you nice, simple questions that you must answer without a pause. Any pause and it will be ruined.”
Lying on the floor, Jazz started drifting off. Her Doc Martens made her feet so blissfully heavy, Harry's voice seemed to be inside her head.
“What's your first memory, Jasmin?”
W
hy did he always start with her?
She spoke quietly so as not to wake herself too much out of her trance. “I'm not sure whether this is from my memory or from a snapshot I once saw,” she told him, keeping her breaths deep and slow. “I'm in the garden shed in my pram and I'm crying because I want to come in.”
“You must have been very young.” Harry's voice was inside her head.
She half-smiled. “About fifteen.”
Drowsy laughter went round the room.
There was a big sigh from Harry and then a very different voice. “Ha Ha, Ms. Field.”
“Yes, I must have been very young,” said Jazz quickly, realising she had spoilt the whole ambience.
His voice was now coming from her level. It was as if there were only the two of them in the room.
“What scares you most about dying?”
Bizarrely, Jazz felt a quick welling up of emotion.
“Not being able to talk about it afterwards.”
“Who to?”
Slight pause.
“You paused,” said Harry impatiently.
“I have to think. These are big questions.”
Harry hid a smile.
“Mo. George. Dad. Mum.”
“Did you have a happy childhood?”
Tiny pause.
“Most of the time.”
“What made you unhappy?”
How was this going to make her acting better?
“Is this really necess—”
“Yes,” said Harry wearily. “If you can't be honest now, how can you be honest on stage?”
“I'm hardly being honest on stage — I'm reading a script. I hate to be the one to break it to you but I think the audience knows that.” It was so much easier arguing with him with her eyes shut.
Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field Page 6