Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field

by Melissa Nathan

  She spent many dark moments over the next few days wondering why she had chosen to make Josie quite so famous. Was it really because it was what her Editor had told her to do? Had she sold her family for an Editor's brief for her own meaningless career?

  She didn't think so. She had truly believed in Josie. Her younger sister's lifestyle wasn't perfect, but at least Josie seemed to have made sense of the world. She'd made sacrifices but she had seemed happy.

  The one thing Jazz did know was that, much as she loved her career, she loved her family more. And she would just have to wait patiently until her career well, until it careered. And then she would be there for her family while the press hounded them.

  She wondered idly what else she'd do with her life. She'd always liked the idea of being a Firefighter.

  * * *

  That night, she phoned Mo and they arranged to meet at the flat. Things weren't looking good.

  “You do realise that if he goes to the tabloids, I won't be able to talk to you ever again?” said Jazz, her voice shaking with emotion. If only she'd been nicer about Gilbert, she thought desperately, she'd have held far more sway. But surely Mo would do this for her? And for her family, who had been Mo's surrogate family during her early twenties when her mother had died? They all went back such a long way. Far further than Mo and Gilbert.

  “I do,” replied Mo quietly. Her reply stung Jazz. “But I just don't think he has a choice.”

  Jazz exploded. “Of course he has a choice!”

  “He has his career to think of, Jazz. Surely you understand that.”

  “He doesn't have to have that kind of career,” said Jazz.

  “It's all he knows,” said Mo. “And we need the money now.”

  Jazz didn't answer.

  Mo was forced to add, “Now that we're getting married.”

  Jazz stared at her.

  “Who to?” she asked quietly, allowing herself a mad moment of hope.

  “To each other,” said Mo firmly.

  They looked at each other for what seemed like ages.

  “Aren't you going to wish me congratulations?” asked Mo sadly.

  “Congratulations,” said Jazz, and walked out of the kitchen before the tears came.

  She lay in the bath, her tears falling into the water. What a mess. Her career was on its last legs, she had constantly hurled abuse at a man for whom she now felt powerful emotion, she had caused her family to disintegrate around her ears, she had seen her beloved elder sister lose faith in love for the first time in her life, and now her best friend was marrying a man whose idea of a joke was pronouncing the word meringue "meringooey" . . .

  When the front door slammed she was rudely awoken out of her trance. She realised the bathwater was cold and her fingers were more furry than their fruit bowl.

  * * *

  Every morning Jazz waited for the proverbial shit to hit the fan. But for some reason, the papers were full of other people's scandals - footballers and politicians made better copy than actors, thank Christ. Every morning, she'd scan them all, her I breath bated, and every morning, she'd almost cry with relief that Gilbert's piece wasn't there. It was as if, leafing frantically through the papers, she was constantly facing her demons: her arrogance in her own judgements of others, her shallowness in getting her family involved to further her career, and her sheer professional ineptitude.

  To her amazement, life continued as normal. Her family spoke more often on the phone, but that was about the only change. Michael had moved out of the marital home and Jazz's parents were looking after Ben more than usual, but apart from that, life rolled on. Jazz's tube journey into work was still the low point of her day and work was still frustrating and exhilarating in equal portions.

  Agatha was playing it tough and wasn't allowing Jazz to work part-time. She wouldn't let her write for both the News and Hoorah! unless she stayed full-time at Hoorah! and did her columns at the weekends. Jazz's byline was now to have a mugshot next to it. Agatha was turning Jazz's personal success into a selling point for the magazine. Jazz had been so scared that she would very soon lose her column at the News, that she felt she had no choice but to stay on at Hoorah! Perhaps she'd be here for life - if Agatha would let her stay after the scandal broke. And of course, through everything, Jazz still had rehearsals to go to.

  But rehearsals were now completely different. And it wasn't just because she was ignoring Gilbert and not talking to Mo - who had moved out of the flat now, leaving Jazz living alone in her home - or because she was being pointedly ignored by William.

  It was partly because they had now moved to the theatre, which happened to be free for a whole week before the big night. This lent a new excitement and fear to the proceedings. Mrs. Bennet was telling even more anecdotes to anyone who would listen, Mr. Bennet was parading his splendid paunch around the auditorium while staring out into the audience wistfully and the rest of the cast were merely talking quicker and louder than they had in the musty church hall.

  But the main reason for the change of atmosphere was down to Harry, who was a man transformed. He chatted to everyone in the cast, was informal and accessible, spending the breaks talking to his actors and finding out how they were feeling about their parts. So now, surrounded by rich Victorian splendour, everyone was feeling far more relaxed than they had done while rehearsing in a dirty church hall.

  Harry's mood affected his direction. It was less harsh, the actors were much happier and every single performance was better. The only person who didn't seem to approve of Harry's new style was Sara Hayes, and Jazz rediscovered her talent for loathing, which came to the fore every time she saw Sara look meanly at whoever Harry was chatting to. To her shame though, Jazz was now aware that her loathing of Sara was due in no small part to an overwhelming fear that Sara might actually win Harry over one day. There was no doubting that the woman was beautiful - in a stick-insect sort of a way.

  And Harry didn't seem to mind when she needed yet another director's tip on her delivery. He was either extremely patient with her or enjoying her wily ways. Surely he must be able to see through her. Jazz trusted her observations weren't being clouded by her hopes.

  But her hopes couldn't hide from her the fact that she was the one person with whom Harry now no longer made an effort. She once or twice caught him looking at her, but the look had changed. It was a far more thoughtful look, almost nostalgic, and it dawned on her that he could well be thinking that he had had a lucky escape. And he always looked away as soon as she caught his eye.

  The scenes between the two of them had a new poignancy for her that she found almost unbearable. Harry seemed to be getting more calm the nearer they got to the big night, while Jazz was feeling more and more exposed — and utterly terrified. It was stupid, she knew, but when she stood on the stage she felt as if she was a hundred feet high and suffering from vertigo. She felt naked. The prospect of remembering her lines and moving all her limbs at the same time in front of a paying audience was looming over her like a big black cloud. And there was only a week to go.

  “No, no. You can do better than that. What is Lizzy thinking?” Harry asked her at the end of one of their last scenes. Jazz's lines had ground to a stumbling halt.

  “She's thinking that. . .” Jazz started to blush “. . . she loves him but he's out of her league.”

  Harry nodded. “Which, of course,” he said, “we all know is ridiculous. And what we also know and she doesn't is that he reciprocates her love. So there's a nice piece of dramatic irony there, isn't there?” Jazz nodded.

  “Unless, of course,” he continued patiently, “you're not concentrating. In which case, it's a waste of time. Isn't it?” Jazz nodded, humiliated. “As well as a waste of talent,” he continued. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the stage floor. It had lots of marks on it and bits of luminous sticky tape stuck to it to show the production team where to place various bits of scenery in the dark. The rest of the cast was silent, except for a loud, affected cough
from Sara that made Jazz want to throttle her.

  “Remember Jazz,” Harry said kindly, “this is the worst week. Next week will probably be the best week of your life. Believe me.”

  He tried not to look at her for too long. She'd really changed since that business with her sister and William Whitby. It was as if her central nervous system, which had until now been protected by a thick coating of brash one-liners, had been turned completely inside out, leaving each nerve-ending exposed to the wind. Every now and then he caught the fear in her eyes. Her family tragedy had had exactly the effect he had tried to get from her with his stupid Truth Games.

  He felt torn. Should he do all he could to help her overcome her fears? Or should he marvel as her acting suddenly found new depths?

  Tomorrow was the first run through of the whole play; the night after that, the technical rehearsal; and two nights after that, the dress rehearsal. Then there was one night off before the big night. Jazz could hardly believe it. She had a horrid feeling that Gilbert was going to publish his piece just before the play or even on the day of the production, which would make it much more newsworthy and would mean she'd have to face a double public humiliation in one day. It was too horrid to contemplate.

  After Harry had finished working through her scene, she sat down at the back of the auditorium and watched him direct a scene between Jack and George. Was it his strong, Roman nose that lent his face its power, or his granite-hewn cheekbones? She couldn't decide. Then she decided she didn't need to.

  She could just watch.

  Jack and George hardly needed any help any more, they'd done this scene so many times now. It was the scene in which the young lovers, Jane Bennet and Mr. Bingley, first meet. They were both sharing a joke and Jazz was astonished to see that Harry was joining in. She could tell from George's body language that she was much more relaxed with Jack than she had been since they had finished, and more importantly, she could tell that Jack could hardly stop himself from touching her — not the sort of touch that a confident lover gives, but the short, sharp touches that a man gives when he thinks it's all he's ever going to get.

  Had he changed his mind about George? Surely not? How the hell did that happen? How did she miss it? And how was Harry letting it happen?

  She decided to cadge a lift off George after the rehearsal - if she was going home, that was - and find out what was going on.

  Just then Carrie came over. She was carrying two beautiful dresses and looked beside herself with excitement.

  “I think you're going to love these,” she said to Jazz in her small, girlish voice.

  Jazz gasped as she took them from her hands and found tears coming to her eyes. Jesus, this was getting ridiculous, she was crying at anything these days.

  “Oh, Carrie, they're amazing,” she said in a wobbly voice. Carrie smiled contentedly. “They'll suit your colouring fantastically,” she promised.

  “What - red and blotchy?” smiled Jazz. “How perfect.” Carrie laughed and Jazz started touching the intricate bead work at the bust. She didn't notice Carrie's colour heighten as Matt walked over.

  “How's it going, ladies?” he asked.

  “Have you seen these beautiful dresses Carrie's made?” Jazz showed them to him.

  Matt looked at them and then at Carrie. “Nothing less than I've come to expect,” he said mildly, smiling a twitch-free smile at Carrie.

  Jazz nodded vehemently, while scooping up the layered skirts. Suddenly she hugged Carrie and started crying for the umpteenth time that week. She didn't even notice Harry watching her this time.

  * * *

  “We are just good friends,” said George with great control in the car. “I'm over him - honest, Jazz.”

  Jazz smiled her first proper smile for a while. “Yes, but he's most certainly not over you.” It was so nice not to be talking about sad things for once.

  “Yes, he is,” said George, with an impatience Jazz hadn't heard since they were children. “He's just being friendly.”

  Jazz turned away from her sister and watched the road.

  “Right you are,” she said happily.

  George was upset. “That's not good enough, Jazz. You have to believe me. I think he's a great guy, probably one of the nicest I'll ever meet and I really enjoy working with him. But nothing's going to happen. It was nice, but it's over. I'm happy being single for the first time in my life.”

  “Right you are,” repeated Jazz, just as smugly.

  George sighed and changed the subject.

  Chapter 25

  The run through of the whole play was a revelation to Jazz. Before, she'd only ever thought of the script as a compilation of separate scenes and had wondered how on earth she could possibly maintain the same level of concentration for two hours, but it proved easy. There was a new electricity running through everyone. It felt as if any of the cast members could electrocute each other simply by touch. It was so amazing it took Jazz's mind off her troubles.

  Afterwards, Harry sat everyone down and went through his copious notes on everyone's lines, delivery, speed and focus. He was big on focus. Jazz felt disappointed relief that he didn't have any constructive criticism for her and an hour later, when everyone went to the pub for a well-deserved nightcap, she tried not to dwell too much on the fact that he had disappeared on his own into the night. He'd stopped socialising with everyone, thought Jazz sadly. She and George quietly drowned their sorrows in the corner, while Jack chatted easily to everyone at the bar and William got slowly drunk and flirted happily with all the younger Bennet sisters.

  The technical rehearsal was the most boring, frustrating day of Jazz's life. She spent hours at a time standing on the stage reciting one line while the lighting crew got their act together. Purple Glasses, who had shown only glimmers of pomposity up until now, was finally in her element. This was her day to shine. She kept yelling, “Elizabeth Bennet is requested on stage IMMEDIATELY,” while standing next to Jazz, looking at her. It was only Jazz's determination to impress Harry with her maturity that stopped her from punching the woman in the mouth. Harry was in his old foul mood and seemed preoccupied all day. It was as if the acting was tedious now and he had far more important things to think about.

  Afterwards, everyone went to the pub again and Harry was once more conspicuous by his absence. So was Sara, and Jazz started to feel real fear in the pit of her stomach. Mo and Gilbert hadn't bothered to join the rest of the cast tonight either, even though it would be one of their last evenings together as a team. William was getting drunk again, although Jazz had to admit he did even that with a certain boyish charm. Everyone except Matt and Carrie seemed to find him highly amusing. Jazz couldn't concentrate on any of the inane cast gossip and didn't care. They could all go to hell.

  She had taken the week off work and used the two days before the play to write a couple more columns for the News. It kept her mind off everything. After intense pressure from her family, Jazz had agreed to continue writing her column from the angle of what it's like to see two people you love divorce each other. Martha had been fervent in her belief that readers should read about this sort of thing. And it was also a damage limitation exercise. If Jazz made all those involved sympathetic, it would help them when the scandal broke.

  To Jazz's surprise, Brigit had been only too happy to accept this new twist in the subject-matter. “Of course, I'm sorry for you,” she had said politely over the phone, “but as far as we're concerned, divorce is always a safe subject, especially if there's a toddler involved. To be honest, it was much more of a risk taking you on when you were talking about their successful marriage than a failed one. Especially as Josie's such a well-loved character. People will be desperate to know how she's coping.” Jazz hoped to God she was doing the right thing.

  Of course she wasn't going to write anything about the fling with William Whitby. The readers didn't need to know about it and she couldn't deal with the scandal encroaching into her work just yet. She was hoping against hope t
hat if she won herself a devoted readership at the News, they might just keep her on when that sordid detail became common knowledge. Although, deep down, she feared that Josie's Choice would be cut immediately. The News was a serious paper and didn't like being involved in scandal.

  So she just pretended it wasn't going to happen. She'd deal with the play first, then Gilbert's piece second. One trauma at a time. And she'd keep writing her columns until she was told to stop. For some reason, Gilbert was taking his time over publishing his story. Either he was in a price war with the papers - he had so many tabloid contacts he was probably auctioning it - or he was waiting until the morning after the play, so that the piece would be newsworthy. Either way, Jazz was living on borrowed time.

  She began to notice over the next few days that her writing style had changed. She was far less brash now. Her columns had a moving humility that she just couldn't shake. And she had to admit, it added resonance to her writing that had never really been there before. Within days, Jazz and Josie started getting fan mail from readers of the News.

  * * *

  The dress rehearsal was crap. Jazz was beginning to find everything about the play nightmarish. Everyone had made their own spaces in the changing rooms - narrow rooms with naked bulbs round the vast mirrors - and she had thought it would help if she went in the far corner with George. She couldn't have been more wrong. Everyone was hysterical with nerves and excitement, and she was stifled by it all. She felt suffocated. She could hardly dress herself, her hands were so cold. And the first time she looked at herself in the mirror in her costume, she hardly recognised herself. In the low-cut Empress-style dress she could actually see the palpitations of her heart.