“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.
Chapter 22
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, he went to the fridge, took out a bottle of beer and slumped down on the couch.
Jazz was transfixed. With supreme confidence, Harry flipped the lid off his drink and slowly drank half the bottle. He even belched, which got a snigger from the audience. Then he pushed his hand through his hair - a gesture that brought a confusing squirm to Jazz's stomach - and looked wistfully into the auditorium. She could have sworn he was looking right at her. She blushed in the dark.
He spoke in a Texan drawl, but his voice was the same. It had such depth, such quality. For two and a half hours, he spoke of his life, his desires, his sacrifices. Every little movement he made was entrancing. He could transform his entire audience's emotions with the smallest change of expression, make them laugh with the slightest shift of his eye. He had such control over them, such power. He turned them into one conscious being, instead of hundreds of separate people. When Harry cried, unmanly sobs that came from the pit of his stomach, Jazz thought her heart would break. He was intoxicating.
There was only one moment when she allowed her mind to meander from the play. It was when Harry took his shirt off. That beautiful smooth, olive-brown torso, those gently curved shoulders, the width of his forearms and the vulnerability of the back of his neck . . . His body was probably the most beautiful one she had ever seen and its natural grace made her think for the first time how nice it would have been to have walked into a party with him by her side. She had never looked at him properly before, and now that she was safely in the dark, she drank him in. And she was in awe. I could have had that, she found herself thinking in wonder. I could have been mistress of that. And she made herself smile and find it funny.
When the play finished, and Harry bowed fully and slowly, as if trying to take in each and every member of the audience, Jazz stayed in her seat, clapping. She wanted everyone else to disappear, she wanted it to be just him and her. She wanted to be up there on stage with him. She wished the spotlight would fall on her now, and reveal her sitting in the audience. She felt a sudden, intense jealousy of everyone whose eye Harry caught as he bowed. She wanted to own him. And, as she glanced quickly at the rapt faces of the audience - not taking her eyes off him for too long - she experienced, for the first time, a deep sense of gratitude for the attraction he'd once felt for her.
* * *
She had told Maddie beforehand that they were to leave before the curtain went down, but there was no way she'd do that now. She just sat there, soaking in the atmosphere. When had he found time to learn his lines, to rehearse, focus? And he'd done all this while keeping P&P going. She was staggered.
Eventually, the heavy curtain dropped to the floor and wasn't going to go up again. People reluctantly began to leave and she heard snippets of their conversations:
“This generation's Olivier” . . . “mesmeric” . . . “hypnotising” . . .
She and Maddie took ages to get through the crush. They seemed to get caught behind everyone and, of course, they both had to queue to use the Ladies. Maddie re-did her make-up, but when Jazz looked in the mirror and saw her puffy eyes and red nose, ravaged by forty minutes of intermittent crying, she knew she was past helping. It always took a day or two for her face to recover from sobbing. By the time they left the theatre, only a few people were still around.
When they finally got to the door, Jazz stopped and closed her eyes at the delicious night breeze on her hot and sticky body.
“Jasmin!” called a shocked voice.
She opened her eyes. To her horror, there stood Harry, dressed in a crisp white shirt and narrow-legged, flat-fronted dark trousers, his jacket slung over his shoulders, about to enter the foyer. It was only a fortnight since she had last seen him, but so much had happened since then that it felt like months ago.
At first they were both so astonished and uncomfortable, neither could think of anything to say. Jazz's awareness of their shared awkwardness kept overcoming her in waves. Why had she let Maddie force
her to come. What would Harry think of her? It was unbearable.
Harry wasn't coping too well with the situation either.
“Congratulations on your award,” he said eventually.
How did he know about that?
“Congratulations on your performance,” managed Jazz back. She was suddenly feeling so shy that she hardly noticed he was even more tongue-tied than her.
There was a painful pause.
“How are you?” asked Harry eventually.
“Fine, thanks. You?” replied Jazz.
“I — I didn't know you were coming,” he continued. “You could have had drinks in the interval backstage.”
“Oh,” said Jazz intelligently, forcing herself to look him in the eye, like an adult. She noticed for the first time that his upper lip was probably his nicest feature. And his cheekbones were amazing.
“How is George? And Mo?” he asked, as if he hadn't seen them for years.
Jazz couldn't find a suitable reply. George is catatonic? Mo is moronic? Her brain seemed to have stopped working.
Maddie interrupted. “Mr. Noble, my name is Maddie Allbrook. I'm Jazz's boss. We were very lucky to get tickets.”
Harry looked at Maddie and stunned Jazz by giving her a big smile and putting his hand out to shake hers.
“Any friend of Jasmin's is a friend of mine,” he said simply. “Did you enjoy the show?”
Maddie let out a very unfeminine noise that expressed yes. “You were — you were ay-mazing,” she finally managed to say.
Harry grinned at her warmly. “It's very kind of you to say so. Thank you very much, it means a lot.”
Then he looked back to Jazz, who was having considerable difficulty believing her eyes or ears. This was a completely different Harry from the one she knew. This must be his post-performance persona. It was the only possible explanation.
Suddenly she remembered that her nose would still be red and she said accusingly, “You made me cry.” She wished she could read the expression in his eyes.
But Harry made no comment. He turned to Maddie.
“You're from the press?” he asked her. “Oh dear - I hope you're not going to be too harsh on me?”
Maddie looked shocked and hurt. “Not all journalists are out to knock, you know.”
“I think your magazine is splendid,” Harry answered sincerely.
“Well,” said Maddie. “It was once.” She looked at Jazz. “Its staff are certainly splendid, it's just the readers who've gone downhill. Present company excluded, of course,” she gushed.
Harry assured her that no offence had been taken.
Then he suddenly remembered something and looked at them both.
“Will you come inside and meet my family?” he invited them.
Jazz didn't know what to say.
“They'd love to meet you,” he went on. “You already know my sister Carrie, Jasmin. They're inside. It'll only take a minute.”
All helpful information, yet Jazz still didn't know what to say.
Maddie answered for her. “How wonderful,” she breathed and took Jazz's arm, pushing her back into the foyer.
There stood Carrie and their parents. People were walking round them, transfixed, nodding and smiling as if they were royalty. Jazz was fascinated. From the impression she had always got from the press and indeed from Gilbert, she believed Harry's parents to be highly principled, yet cold people who had never given him any affection. So she was very surprised when Harry's father hugged him and the two of them stood like that for a while. His father didn't say anything - he couldn't, he was too close to tears. When Harry bent down to embrace his mother, her grin almost split her face and tears ran happily down her cheeks. Carrie gave him a big hug and then smiled a shy yet proud smile over at Jazz. Jazz smiled back, ashamed that she'd never given Carrie a moment's thought.
Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field Page 17