She could almost feel him frowning at her, without having to see him. Isn't this emotionally naked enough, she thought? Lying with my eyes shut being watched by you while you ask me stupid questions?
There was a long pause. What was he doing?
She opened her eyes and fixed him with a questioning gaze. He was sitting next to her, elbow on knee, hand in hair, frowning intently at her face. She rested herself on her elbows and frowned intently back.
“Would it save time if I just sent you my autobiography?” she asked.
“I didn't know you'd written one,” he said.
“I haven't yet.” She lay down again.
She thought he'd gone and so started a slow, secret smile.
“Why are you so scared to let go?” he almost whispered from next to her. Then he jumped up and walked quickly to the other side of the room.
Wazzock, thought Jazz.
The truth was that no sooner had Harry told everyone that he had given himself his biggest challenge yet in casting an unattractive Lizzy Bennet than he began to realise that he had in fact made life very easy for himself. When he'd first set eyes on Jasmin Field, he had marvelled that her sister could have all the lucky genes while she had none. Then during her impressive audition piece he had realised that while Jasmin didn't have her sister's easy prettiness, she could be beautiful. Then at that first rehearsal, when she had proved to be such a concentrated pain in the backside, he had begun to notice just how well cast she was. Her face was indeed rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. If eyes are the window of the soul, Harry found Jazz's soul compelling.
But she was such a bloody challenge. She was so emotionally retentive - what was she scared of? If only he could tap into her depths, he was sure she could be a fine actress. And he was determined to, both for his reputation, and for his own growing interest in her. She could be a stunning Elizabeth Bennet. Yep, the more he looked at Jasmin Field - and he found himself looking longer and longer - the more he was struck by his uncanny knack for casting. Was there no end to his talents?
He walked slowly to the other end of the hall.
“What makes you unhappy?” He was walking round, looking for a likely candidate. “Sara?”
Sara's voice was ever so husky at that angle.
“Poverty. People dying alone unloved. Homeless people make me weep. War. Famine—”
“Jasmin?”
Oh, not again. Was this punishment for snorting?
“Um. Finishing a bar of chocolate.”
Because her eyes were shut, she couldn't see how a full smile warmed Harry's chiselled features. “You see, Sara,” he said, “there's no point in playing this if you're not going to be honest. At least when Jasmin gives up, she does it honestly.”
Oh good, thought Jazz. I need an enemy.
The "game" continued for forty minutes. People were saying staggeringly honest things about themselves, most of which Jazz had no desire to know. The whole thing, she was convinced, was to feed Harry's need to feel in control. Yet couldn't he see that most of the cast were only saying things to impress him? On the other hand though, it had been fascinating to discover that Mo wished she had been able to cry about her mother's death, but was unable to — except in her dreams. Jazz thought she knew everything about Mo.
She had noticed that Wills got particularly short shrift from Harry. In fact, Harry never asked him one question and Wills didn't seem surprised by it at all. He seemed happy enough to be ignored. But why should Harry ignore him? Jealous probably, she answered herself confidently, vaguely aware that that didn't make much sense.
One hour later, Lizzy, Jane, Kitty, Lydia, Mary and Mr and Mrs Bennet were reading through Scene One.
For the first half an hour, the mood was so buoyant that no joke was too small for a hearty laugh from all. Mrs Bennet in particular was very hyped. She kept telling awful anecdotes that began with, “That reminds me,” and ended with punchlines so weak that Jazz had to stop herself from saying, “So what happened next?” and were filled with such total irrelevance to what had preceeded their telling that Jazz wondered whether the woman was in fact deaf. It wasn't long before she found it wearing to be with so many over-excited adults in one room.
“You know, that reminds me,” chuckled Mrs Bennet, a propos of nothing, “of a very amusing story.” And with that, she interrupted herself by starting to laugh silently and shake her head, as though she didn't trust herself to tell the said tale.
Harry interrupted. “Right people, let's try again from "While Mary is adjusting her ideas . . .", shall we?” Mrs Bennet didn't seem to mind at all, chuckling happily to herself and shaking her head as if it was just as well she'd been stopped. It seemed Jazz was the only one who even noticed Harry's rudeness.
Three hours later they were still doing the opening scene. It was approaching midnight. Jazz was tired, hungry and utterly bored. As she sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by the others, waiting for Harry to stop reading the script and tell the actress playing the part of Kitty what to do next, Jazz's stomach growled so loudly it actually frightened her. There was an embarrassed silence.
“I am officially starving,” said Jazz solemnly. “Please call Comic Relief.”
The others laughed and added meaningful little quips like "me too". Harry didn't seem to hear any of this, he was too absorbed by the script.
“What do you mean by those words, Kitty?” he asked instead.
Kitty looked at the script as though if she looked hard enough the words would appear. She was so terrified of saying the wrong thing that she said nothing at all.
“Does anyone know?” said Harry painfully.
Jazz knew she might as well answer before he asked her anyway. “She means "It's nearly midnight, you'd better let us go home now if you want us to ever come to another rehearsal".”
Harry looked at his watch.
“Jesus! Yes, of course,” he said quietly, as if only addressing himself. It apparently didn't matter to him that other people might find it late, only that it was late for him. He rubbed his eyes. “Right then,” he clapped his hands. “See you all Wednesday. Good work.” And he picked up his coat and walked out. He didn't even notice Purple Glasses who had been waiting for them all to leave so she could lock up.
Jazz and George dawdled getting on their coats and chatted outside the church door.
“That was absolutely knackering,” yawned Jazz.
“I know, he's brilliant.”
“Is he? Wills doesn't think so.”
“Wills?”
“William Whitby. He's playing Wickham.”
“Oh him. Well, he's not an Oscar-winner, is he?”
“No, but he's got a very nice arse.”
“Oh, and Harry hasn't, I suppose?”
“No, Harry has. There's no denying that. It's just one of my principles not to get involved with a man who talks out of it.”
“Want a lift home?”
“No, I need the fresh air, I'm completely shagged.”
“Well, phone me when you get home then.”
“Yes, Mum.”
* * *
The night air was deliciously fresh. Jazz loved being up when most people weren't - it was the closest she felt to nature, especially in West Hampstead.
“Want a lift?”
She looked over to the car at the end of the road. It was a clapped-out old MG with its roof down and Harry sitting in it. Despite the appealing picture, Jazz felt no urge to go any nearer. How long had he been sitting there? Had he heard anything they'd said? Did he think she needed a pep-talk already?
“No, thanks. I need the air.”
“You never know what's out there,” he said gravely. “Could be dangerous.”
“No less dangerous than getting into the car of a strange man, I shouldn't wonder.”
“You think I'm strange to you, Ms. Field?”
Jazz mulled this over. “Well, put it this way,” she said. “I'm sti
ll making you out, Mr Noble.”
“Well, have a lift,” he said with a touch of impatience, leaning across to the passenger door and opening it wide, “and you'll get some extra material for your work.”
She managed a smile. “I think I've done enough work for today, don't you?”
Instead of answering the question, Harry simply said, rather dramatically Jazz thought, “I won't bite, Ms. Field,” as he started to put his key in the ignition.
Jazz walked up to him slowly.
“Look, since you like honesty without any pauses, here goes. I would prefer to walk through the midnight streets of West Hampstead on my own than have a lift in your car.” She shut the car door and smiled at him. “Thanks all the same.”
And she strolled into the sweet night air.
Chapter 9
Sara had arranged to meet her brother for lunch in an exquisitely smart, bijou Hampstead restaurant that was sufficiently off the beaten track to be exclusive. Jack never said no to meeting her - he hated her guilt-trips - and she had overheard that he and Harry had planned to get together that afternoon. She knew that Jack would turn up with Harry, which was why she'd chosen this restaurant. Anywhere else and the afternoon would have been spoilt by people stopping to ask Harry for his autograph. They did it everywhere, even in Hampstead, where they really should know better. But in this restaurant, the waiters were even more condescending than their many visiting celebrities, and no one would ever lower themselves to ask for autographs. Even from Harry Noble. Naturally Maxine had been invited as well and Charles would, of course, be paying.
“And how fares our Ugly Sister?” asked Sara, as they were all being given their menus.
Harry scanned the hors d'oeuvres.
She tried again. “Are you enjoying your biggest challenge since RADA or is it proving too much, even for you?”
Eventually Harry put down the menu.
“On the contrary, I hope I have enough humility to admit when I was wrong.”
Sara could hardly contain her relief and excitement.
“What are you going to do? Where are you going to get another Lizzy Bennet at this late hour? How will you break it to the poor girl?”
“No, I don't mean that at all,” said Harry stiffly. “I mean exactly the opposite. She was the perfect choice. I couldn't have cast a more ideal Lizzy Bennet.”
“Nor a more gorgeous Jane Bennet,” beamed Jack, putting his menu down and rubbing his hands together. “I'm going to have the steak, I think.”
“Ah yes, but Jane Bennet was never in doubt,” said Harry to Jack.
Sara tried to pull the conversation back on track.
“In what way is the Ugly Sister your perfect choice? Do tell, I'm fascinated,” she said, a careful lightness to her tone.
Harry thought about it for a while.
“Everything about her,” he said simply. “Her temperament, her acting, her figure, her face, her eyes. She's perfect.”
Sara found herself staring at the menu without taking any of it in. She discovered she'd lost her appetite. Damnation. She loved their foie gras.
After the waiter took their orders, Jack started waxing lyrical about George. A thought crossed Harry's mind.
“I do hope you're not going to do your old trick of falling in love with your leading lady and then breaking it all off the day before opening night.”
Jack laughed, but said nothing.
“I won't stand for any of that, you know. Not in my production,” said Harry, sipping red wine. “I'll never forget when your Beatrice tried to punch your lights out in the final scene of Much Ado. We could have renamed that production Much Ado About Quite A Lot, Actually.”
Jack smiled at the memory. He couldn't even remember the name of the actress now.
“There's nothing worse than getting involved with an actress while you're in the same play as her,” lectured Harry. “Ruins your focus.”
Jack looked uncomfortable. “Life's about more than focus, old chap.”
“Not if you want to be great,” clipped Harry. “Relationships with actresses are doomed. Biggest mistake an actor can make. Drains him of energy. He'll either be unhappy or unsuccessful.” He gulped down his wine. “Unless of course, she's merely an advert actress. Though why anyone would want one of them is beyond me. Better not to let women in your life at all. Unfocuses you,” he repeated himself grumpily. “Present company excluded, of course,” he said as an afterthought.
Sara wondered desperately if that included marriage. Jack picked at his bread and looked around the restaurant.
“Wine's splendid,” said Charles, belching loudly.
* * *
The honeymoon period was well and truly over and Jazz now knew who in the cast she hated, who she found amusing, who she thought ridiculous, and who she liked. Purple Glasses fitted into all the first three categories. Even Jazz was surprised at how much Purple Glasses managed to irritate her. In the beginning, Jazz had maintained a cool but polite distance. But there was always some pretext Purple Glasses found for bossing Jazz around, and pretty soon Jazz could hardly look her in the eye without either laughing in her face or being downright rude. The ruder she became, the more Purple Glasses seemed to seek her out.
“You left your fan on the wrong chair again,” said Purple Glasses after a particularly long and difficult rehearsal, a note of triumph in her voice.
“How will I ever live with myself?” answered Jazz, in as bitter a tone as she could muster.
Purple Glasses ignored her and studied her notes. “You're meant to leave it on the chair Upstage Right, not Downstage Left. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Since you ask, you've told me quite enough times, thanks.”
“Well, it doesn't seem to make any difference, does it?” said Purple Glasses as if she was telling a small child to stop picking its nose in public.
“Not in the great scheme of things, Fiona, no. It doesn't make any difference at all where I leave a poxy fan.”
Purple Glasses stared at her and then stalked off.
Jazz also didn't like Sara Hayes, but she couldn't quite put her finger on exactly what annoyed her so much about the woman. There was of course, her obvious insincerity; that was entertaining, but it was more than that. From the first moment of seeing her in the audition room, it had been obvious to Jazz that Sara's one aim in life was to catch Harry Noble. Everyone else was happy merely to catch a glimpse of the man, Sara was determined to catch the man himself. Jazz didn't know women like her still existed. Jazz was used to women going out and getting their man, but Sara wanted to turn Harry into a man who would want to go out and get her. It was like watching living socio-history at work. What made it more entertaining to watch was that Harry was oblivious to Sara's charms. It made wonderful viewing. Jazz supposed that was why Sara hated her so much; because she was playing Lizzy Bennet she was taking up most of Harry's time. If only Sara knew, thought Jazz with a smile, how little she thought of the great man. The friction between Sara and herself was beginning to add a certain piquancy to the rehearsals that Jazz was almost enjoying.
“I do like your method of acting,” Sara whispered to her, while they were watching Bingley and Darcy rehearse one afternoon. “It's so refreshing.”
Jazz smiled graciously, and did a very good impression of a genuine thank you, pretending not to understand. It was worth the effort, as she saw Sara's eyes shrink in annoyance. She then watched Sara in awe as Harry slowly paced across the room to Sara's right, and Sara, sensing his presence there, moved her head away from Jazz towards him with such concentrated grace that it fell so as to accentuate her beautiful jawline just as he turned to face them. Amazing, thought Jazz. Her timing was so precise it looked as if the two of them were in a choreographed dance. But then, to her great amusement, Jazz saw Harry look straight through Sara to focus, in familiar frustration, on her.
That was it! thought Jazz. The thing that had been annoying her since she'd first met Sara - it had sudde
nly clicked! It was that every movement - however minuscule - was completely controlled. Did this woman ever do anything spontaneous? Not a flutter of her eyelashes, not a fractional glint in her eye or a twitch of her perfect mouth was natural. No wonder her acting always seemed so stilted — how could she act natural when she didn't know what natural was? Jazz started wondering if Sara only ever farted in her sleep.
To hide her smirk at that thought, she looked away from Harry to Brian. And there her smirk froze on her lips. The more she watched Brian the more obvious it became to her that casting him as Darcy had been a complete mental aberration on Harry's part. It didn't matter how many first-night jitters this would save Harry in the future, the man acted like a stick. Harry was having terrible trouble getting Brian to even frown properly, let alone deliver his lines with conviction. What Harry didn't realise was that Brian, the critic feared by all, was absolutely terrified of him and the more Harry shouted, the more constipated Brian looked. It would have been amusing if it wasn't so worrying.
Jazz had never before even considered that every tiny movement on stage had to be choreographed by the director. And now that she had seen Brian on stage, she marvelled that in most plays, the actors didn't regularly collide with each other.
At one point while rehearsing a scene with her on the tiny stage at the end of the church hall, Brian had stood at her side, staring into the audience (which consisted of Harry and a few of the other actors who would be needed later in the scene), and addressed a whole speech to her, without looking at her once. Jazz had started a slow frown at Brian, then turned to look at Harry, pointed at Brian, then herself, and mouthed very slowly, “Is he talking to me?” while Brian spoke. There were various titters from the audience but Harry wasn't amused. Instead he interrupted poor Brian mid-speech with a scornful,
“What are you doing, Brian?”
Brian froze. “I - I -”
“Lizzy is standing next to you,” said Harry as if to a retarded chimpanzee. Brian turned and looked at Jazz blankly. She grinned at him and did a little wave. Brian didn't wave back. God, everyone was in such a bad mood, she thought. Wasn't this supposed to be fun?
Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field Page 7