“No, I think we'll stick with it being by you,” Agatha argued with herself, “but we'd like a bit more of Josie in the column. Married life, the baby — are any more on the way? Her relationship with her mother, Martha.” Agatha laughed at a memory. “Martha's a wonderful character, by the way. Wonderful.” She continued with her list. Josie's lovely husband. What it's like to be her unmarried, slightly unhinged older sister. That kind of thing.”
Jazz smiled weakly at her boss.
Suddenly Agatha had an idea.
“Josie's Choice!” she yelled, her eyes sparkling. “That's what we'll call it! Perfect! We're always on about women not being able to have it all and here's one who has made her choice! Home-maker, wife, mother! I love it!” She smiled at Jazz, ignoring her horrified expression.
It had hardly been a choice, Jazz wanted to say. Michael had only been able to get two days' paternity leave, so Ben never got a chance to bond with him as a baby. So right from the start, Josie had been the only one who could stop him crying at night. She'd been getting two hours' stressful sleep a night at the same time as trying to prove herself a serious employee at the large international firm where she was a lowly auditor. After six months of hell, feeling she was doing neither job well, and wracked with guilt at leaving her new baby with an exhausted Martha or with extortionately paid young women who didn't seem to love Ben like she did, it finally all got too much for Josie. She had given up her job. The job for which she had spent more than three years training. The job she had won after revising non-stop for what seemed like years.
The job that meant she could buy her own clothes, her own holidays and her own food. The job she loved. Some choice, thought Jazz.
“The awards are next month,” continued Agatha, standing up and starting to pace with excitement. “So go out and buy your little black dress now! And make it a sexy one, because the awards are being televised. Well done, you deserve it. Oh, by the way, there is one tiny weeny stipulation.”
Oh dear. Agatha's tiny weeny stipulations included changing entire features minutes before going to press.
“Nothing serious,” she continued. “You'll have to do an itsy bitsy interview for the Herald. You know, Bright Young Thing on Her Way to the Top, that kind of thing. Just don't say anything stupid, dangerous or libellous, there's a good girl. Be careful - you know what journalists are like.”
Agatha looked at her watch, which meant Jazz was dismissed. Jazz thanked her boss and walked back to her desk, numbed.
“That's amazing!” said Maddie. “Well done, darling.” She hugged her. “Now all you have to do is that wretched feature I told you about - phone that woman whose sister tried to shoot her - and then you can celebrate.”
Jazz moaned. “What do I do if she's changed her mind about talking to us?” The last time she had spoken to the woman, she sounded petrified.
Maddie looked at her as if the answer was obvious.
“You tell her not to worry. And we'll send her the number of Victim Support, all the charities for depression and an update on the stalking laws. We're not hacks here,” she said snootily, before adding quietly, “Well, we weren't.”
It was the first time Maddie had ever openly betrayed her feelings about the new regime. She was fiercely loyal to her Editor, but Jazz had always known the new Hoorah! was as little Maddie as it was her.
Mark snorted very loudly, muttered something about the lunatics taking over the asylum and then left the room in disgust. Jazz knew better than to expect him to run over and congratulate her, but even she was a little hurt by him this time. She noticed that whenever Maddie praised her, he couldn't take it. Maddie chose to ignore him. Instead, she asked Jazz why she wasn't bouncing on her chair in delight.
“It wasn't meant to be about Josie, it was meant to be about me,” said Jazz in a small voice.
“Honeybun, if you win this, you'll be on the tabloids in no time and we can become drinking buddies instead of colleagues,” said Maddie kindly.
Jazz gave a small smile and wished that Mo would send her an e-mail.
* * *
“I'm the perfect woman?” snorted Josie. “Do they know I have piles?”
“I must have forgotten to mention it,” said Jazz.
Ben started wailing at the top of his lungs.
“I have to go and wipe my son's bottom,” said Josie. “Put that in your magazine.”
“It's not really our market,” said Jazz into an empty receiver.
* * *
Jazz dreaded going home now. She knew that even midweek, Mo would either be out at the gym or worse still in with Gilbert. She put the key in the lock and was pleased to find the door locked. She made herself a pasta dinner and was just about to sit down to watch Emmerdale when the door opened. Shit.
“Hiya!” bellowed Mo, as she rushed up the stairs.
“Friend or foe?” bellowed Jazz back.
“Ha ha, very funny,” said Mo, taking her coat off as she came into the lounge.
“Have you chucked Lizard Man?”
“Why would I chuck someone who makes me happy?” asked Mo angrily.
“For me?” said Jazz innocently.
Mo sighed and looked pointedly at Jazz. Jazz took the point.
“So are you home tonight then or are you off to spend the night at his place?”
“I'm home.”
Jazz felt happy like she hadn't in days.
“Can we have chocolate?” she asked like a child would ask its mother.
“I've got to go to the gym,” said Mo sadly. “I haven't been for ages. I've put on loads of weight.”
Jazz could only see the thinnest Mo she'd ever seen. She said nothing.
It worked. Mo grinned at her. “But sod that for a laugh,” she said and rushed to the fridge to get the Giant Galaxy bar.
They watched an evening of crappy TV together and ate chocolate till they felt sick. But somehow it wasn't special like it used to be. Jazz knew Mo's heart wasn't in it and yet at the same time, she noticed that Mo ate much more than usual.
“You know I dreamt of you last night,” said Jazz slowly. “I kept calling out your name but you couldn't hear me. It was horrid.”
Mo was very interested. “Did I look fat?”
Jazz stared at her old friend. “I'm not answering that, Mo.”
Mo took another bite of chocolate. Her very, very last.
When she was in bed, Jazz managed to pinpoint what it was that had spoilt an otherwise perfect evening. She had felt as though Gilbert was with them the whole time. Shit, she thought as she drifted off to sleep. Thank God she hadn't based her column on her best friend.
Chapter 15
Jazz had only changed her outfit four times, which was not bad going, considering. Would the Evening Herald like her Smart and Understated, Humble and Alluring or Intimidatingly Sophisticated? She had briefly considered Intimidatingly Humble before wearing her favourite chic, smart suit. She walked into the hotel foyer and stopped still. Now what?
“Ay saiy, hailo,” called a voice from her side. She turned to face an amazing body. Long muscular legs, a bust that strained at the tight halter-neck over it and strong round shoulders. It was the body of a strong, glossy colt. Unfortunately, on top of it was the face of one. Jazz took one quick up-and-down glance and knew instantly that she'd seen the type before. High heels, high cheekbones, high bustline, low morals. They always went far. “Candida Butterworth, Evening Herald, we spoke on the phone.” Candida stretched out a long arm and they shook hands.
Impossibly, Jazz felt she was shrinking.
“Hello,” she said quietly.
They perched on a sofa, ordered coffees and Candida got out her dictaphone. “Can't do shorthand, takes longer than my bloody longhand,” she said and laughed like a braying donkey. Her teeth were enormous. How did they all fit in her mouth? Didn't she have problems getting food in? Maybe that was why she was so skinny. And how did she breathe? Was that why her nostrils had to be so flared?
J
azz had been worried enough about what to say before meeting Candida. Now that she had met her in the flesh she was terrified. There was no way Jazz could take her seriously. The Evening Herald had a massive circulation and she knew that this interview could make or break her. Her career was in Candida's hands. And Candida's hands were now in Candida's Wonderbra, hoisting herself up to newer, even better, heights.
Jazz stayed calm. She was not going to be duped into thinking Candida was dumb just because she looked like a horse. She was as determined not to babble and make a fool of herself as she had been before she met her. She would make sure she understood any complex questions before answering them. She was not going to be frightened of pauses. She was not going to be fooled. This was going to be fine.
“Now,” said Candida, getting out sheets of questions, which were written in large round letters. “Where were you born?”
Oh shit.
Two hours later, Jazz had a headache from talking so much. She hadn't let Candida ask any more questions after her astounding, “Do you think lady journalists are as good as real journalists?” So she'd talked nonstop, without a pause, about herself. That was always dangerous, because usually when that happened Jazz's brain couldn't keep up with her tongue. This was no exception. Candida sat and nodded silently for two hours. Jazz hoped to God her dictaphone was bust and she'd have to re-interview.
It wasn't.
* * *
George and Jazz were nattering during a particularly boring part of the rehearsal. This part was meant to be the complicated dance scene between Darcy and Lizzy where he actually asks her to dance and she forces him to talk about his relationship with Wickham. As usual, Brian needed some extra attention and everything else was being put on hold while Harry fought to control his temper. The choreographer was eating a Mars Bar while reading the gloriously tacky women's magazine Would You Believe It! After an hour, Brian was finally mastering his imperious frown, but so fiercely that his face reminded Jazz of a bad Picasso painting.
“Jack wants to be a great actor more than anything,” whispered George to Jazz, as Brian knocked a chair over and Harry started making strange, choking noises.
“Well,” she smiled, “apart from settling down and having a family.”
Jazz grinned at her affectionately. God, she hoped George was right. She didn't know anyone who deserved to be happier.
“I hope Mum and Dad like him,” said George wistfully.
Jazz was brought out of her thoughts. “My God, George,” she said. “This sounds serious.”
George looked at her. “I know Jazz.” She half-smiled. “This is it.”
Matt Jenkins was making his way over to them both and they stopped happily to talk to their producer. By now, Matt was everybody's friend, from the junior props assistant to the great Harry Noble. When he wasn't on stage, twitching with terror, Matt was a supremely organised, efficient man, who had a wonderfully calming, balming effect on the entire proceedings.
As Matt asked the sisters how they were, Harry started bellowing insults at poor Brian so loudly they could no longer hear themselves talk.
Jazz turned to Matt, who, like most people in the room, was now watching Harry and Brian.
“Is there no end to Mr. Noble's professionalism?” she asked loudly, as for the first time, Brian was actually bellowing back.
Matt tried to smile and give Jazz his full attention. “He's under a hell of a lot of pressure,” he replied equally loudly. “He's all right when you get to know him.”
Jazz smiled ruefully. “And why would anyone want to do that then?” she asked.
She assumed Matt didn't hear her over the furious row now going on between Brian and Harry.
George was trying to avert her eyes from the embarrassing fight. “You've worked with him before, haven't you?” she asked, as Brian stumbled off the stage and Harry stood silently, in a world of his own.
Matt nodded briefly, his eyes back on Brian. “Years ago now. It was just a small production. We were both a lot younger. Harry doesn't let a lot of people get close to him.”
Tragic loss for mankind, thought Jazz as Matt quickly gave them both some rehearsal dates.
Just then a flushed Harry came over and loitered uncertainly near them, giving Matt a short, defensive glance.
Jazz looked up at Harry. “Nice to see you have the full vocal range,” she said, referring to the row. “You never know when that might come in handy.”
Harry almost grimaced and ruffled his hair distractedly.
Jazz decided to make the most of his unusual reticence.
“Are you sure you're allowed to come over and talk to the plebeians, Hazza?” she asked in a tone that was so rarely used on him that even Matt seemed a bit surprised.
“Meaning?” Harry answered shortly.
“Well,” said Jazz, “I'm so honoured that you've actually graced our humble company, instead of merely beckoning us to come to you, that I think I may have to lie down with the shock of it.”
Matt gave a warning smile. “I think you've met your match, Harry,” he said, before realising to his horror that Brian was slowly packing up his belongings.
Jazz turned to Matt with a big smile. “Do you know that Harry never so much as deigns to talk to us during any breaks? He only ever shouts at us and orders us about? It's fearsome.”
Harry was so determined to defend himself that he was distracted from what was happening behind him.
“It's the only way to get anything done around here,” he snapped. “And when we're not rehearsing, I don't mingle well. I leave that to other people who seem to have a knack for it.” The words "mingle" and "knack" were said like they were well beneath him.
Jazz looked him steadily in the eye. He held her intense gaze with a look of defiance that concealed how much he was enjoying the experience.
“I don't find it as easy as some to act, Mr. Noble, but I'm trying my hardest.” With a wide smile, she finished, “I see it as my limitation, not other people's.”
Harry simply nodded his head. “Well, perhaps you'd like to do some of that now,” he said. “We have work to do.”
Jazz turned to Matt. “Wish me luck,” and he smiled at her.
“I don't think you need any,” he said. Unlike himself, he thought sadly, as he wondered how on earth he was going to placate Brian.
Jazz got up slowly, just as the costume girl approached George with a nervous smile and a large sketch pad. The truth was, Jazz was bored by this. Brian was hopeless on stage. She was no actress, but even she could tell. But when she took her place for her scene with him she realised Brian was putting on his coat and picking up his bag. Was he going out for chocolate supplies?
“Where's Darcy going? Was it something I said?” she asked Harry.
Brian started to walk majestically to the door.
“We've - um, we've . . . come to an agreement,” said Harry, taking off his jumper and revealing for a moment a smooth, broad chest before his thin white cotton shirt fell back down again.
“What agreement?” asked Jazz, her attention caught for a split second by the sight of Harry's chest, so that she was completely unaware of Matt flat-footing it after Brian.
“He's leaving.” Harry was now rolling his arms around from the shoulders in odd circular movements while walking towards Jazz.
Jazz couldn't take it in. “He's not playing Darcy any more?”
“Well done, Ms. Field, your mental agility is most encouraging,” he said.
“So who's playing Darcy now?” said Jazz stupidly.
Harry coughed. “I will be playing the part of Darcy from now on,” he announced loudly, so that the entire cast could hear. “Brian has other commitments.”
At this, Matt stopped doing his rather feeble impression of someone running and turned round to Harry with a big, satisfied grin on his face. The door slammed and Brian was gone.
“Right,” said Harry decisively. “Where were we?”
As he walked towards a shocked J
azz, he glanced over to the side of the hall and did a sudden double-take. Jack was standing very close to George and, what was more, George was letting him. Worse than that, Jack's mouth was inches away from hers and her eyes were half-closed. Jazz watched Harry stare at them, frowning. Eventually he turned away from them and apologised to her. He seemed very preoccupied.
He came and stood by her side, facing the front of the stage. Then he stretched his arm out towards her, palm-up, as in a dance. The choreographer came over with her copy of the script and Harry, never taking his eyes off Jazz, said: “The dance has to be constrained, correct and elegant, yet at the same time full of chemistry. Darcy and Elizabeth have never touched before and he's already in too deep. She, of course, still thinks he's an arrogant prig.”
Jazz stared at him in astonishment. Was he really asking her to act with him? He eyed her and started flicking his hand up and down impatiently, as if to make her take it.
“You could just tell me what you want me to do, you know,” said Jazz, recovering. “Instead of performing your own rather poor version of the Birdie Song.”
Harry sighed. “We really don't have time for this, Ms. Field,” he said.
They locked eyes. She wouldn't touch him until he asked.
Harry sighed again. “Take my hand, please,” he said impatiently.
Reluctantly, Jazz did so.
* * *
Acting with Harry was an amazing experience. Jazz entirely forgot herself. Because he was so utterly convincing as Darcy, her reactions, which had been so tame with Brian, were now highly charged. The rest of the cast stopped talking and started silently watching what was going on. Whenever Harry gave Jazz an idea or suggested trying her delivery a different way, she knew instinctively what he was getting at and what he was trying to get out of her. And they were always both delighted with the result. She was buzzing with excitement. This was thrilling! Jazz loved the way Harry was making Lizzy stronger by the minute. And after a while, he even started accepting her ideas. She managed to convince him to make his Darcy more pained.
Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field Page 12