But later, when she read his e-mail on the tube, she was surprised to find that its tone seemed less harsh and she was not insensitive to the occasional compliment that came her way. Later still, when she read it in the flat while waiting for the kettle to boil, she found she was beginning to experience very unpleasant twinges of panic at the possibility of it being true about William. She thought back to his lovely open face, his large, warm eyes. Then she remembered how he'd told her that he and Harry had been in a play before and that Harry had hated him after that. That would fit in with Harry's story. She wracked her brains to remember Harry's sister. She was dimly aware of a quiet presence who had been going round everyone asking them for their dress sizes. Eventually, she confessed to herself that she had been somewhat biased in Wills's favour because she had fancied him so much. Was she really that superficial?
Now she came to think of it, Jazz remembered how Wills had professed himself to not give a damn about the 'likes of ' Harry Noble the day of the party and yet he'd given it a miss. It also dawned on her that it was a bit unfair of Wills to badmouth Harry to her when Harry had given him this chance to play against type. But then, Wills had received every sign that she would be only too eager to join him in badmouthing his enemy. God, he must have seen her coming. Finally she realised she knew nothing about William Whitby that he hadn't told her himself and yet she'd believed every single word of it because of his big brown eyes, winning smile and ability to act the part of a kind priest. Her fondness for him was quickly being overtaken by anger.
She was thoroughly ashamed of herself. The more she thought about it, the more obvious it became. Her opinion of William Whitby had been based on her own physical attraction to him, nothing more, nothing less. He was far more like wicked Wickham and far less like Father Simon than Jazz had ever imagined. At first she thought she would take up Harry's suggestion and ask Matt Jenkins the truth about his past. But by the fourth reading of the letter, she realised there was no way this story could be a lie. And somehow, from the manner in which Matt Jenkins had always talked about Harry, she now realised that he loved him in a way that could only have come from seeing him suffer.
She imagined a drunk William beating up a woman. She felt sick that she had spent so much time with him, had shared jokes with him – had even shared Hobnobs with him. The man was utterly repulsive – more so because he appeared to be so appealing.
And then she became mortified for another reason. Jazz Judges – now to become Josie's Choice – a popular column in a national magazine, based on how sharply perceptive and discerning its writer was, was actually based on a lie. It was written by someone who thought they could read everyone like a book, but actually got it wrong. She wished, not for the first time in her life, that she was more like her big sister, more generous of spirit, more forgiving. There was nowhere to run, she'd always been so ready to trip others up over their foolish mistakes and here she was, well and truly tripped up by her own. And unlike everyone else, she had always believed herself untrip-upable. She felt bitterly ashamed. Every time she pictured either Harry or William, she had the strangest sensation of a cement-mixer being switched on inside her stomach.
It took longer for her to forgive Harry for his description of George. How dare he call her sister a slut! And how dare he insinuate that George and Jack were a one-minute wonder! It just showed what Harry knew about relationships. But after the sixth reading, when she had finally taken the leap of imagination to realise that she wasn't always right about everyone, Jazz remembered a telling conversation she'd had with Mo. 'Harder to read than a Thomas Hardy novel', was how Mo described George. Maybe – just maybe – George was a bit cautious about showing her true feelings. Begrudgingly, she began to see Harry's point. She admitted that she had had nearly thirty years' head start when it came to reading George right.
When she re-read the letter in the bath, her feelings towards its writer were totally different from those she had experienced on first reading it. She found herself agreeing with him about some of her work colleagues – and wincing when she remembered how she had self-righteously ridiculed actors in front of a whole room of them.
Now that her confidence in her own opinion was so utterly shattered – a feeling wholly new to her – she was far more sensitive to the compliments Harry had thrown into the e-mail. And for some reason, she got a not-unpleasant thrill when she re-read his allusion to copying the character of Darcy. Did he see her, then, as his Lizzy?
She found herself reflecting that these compliments, written by Harry in haste after their ridiculous row, probably wouldn't trip so lightly off his tongue now, in the light of day. For some reason, that thought didn't satisfy her like it should have.
As she lay in bed staring up at the ceiling and seeing nothing, she remembered she'd forgotten to make a vital phone call to some B-list actor's agent for an important interview. Drifting off into a fitful sleep, she realised she hadn't been able to think of anything all day apart from her e-mail.
18
Work had become impossible. It had never occurred to Jazz before how important self-belief was. It helped you get up in the morning and helped you do your job well. Without it, the smallest task seemed enormous. Why was this stupid e-mail upsetting her so much? After about a week, Jazz had worked out the answer. It wasn't just the fact that she had got Harry and William so wrong: it was also the fact that she had behaved as if she was infallible. She had always acted as if no one else's opinion or perception was ever as sharp and accurate as hers. If Mo disagreed with her about George's behaviour, that had to mean that Mo was thick – not that George was unreadable. She had detested her fellow cast members for being biased in favour of Harry despite his behaviour, yet she had been prejudiced against him for little more. Yes, she had overheard him say unpleasant things about her . . . but how often had she said horrid things about people in the past? She dreaded to think what Simon might have thought of her if he had ever overheard her belittle him to George, the way she always had. She had said far worse things about him than Harry had said about her. And who knew? Perhaps Harry had been trying to impress Sara? Jazz knew she said stupid things when she was with someone who was easy to impress.
What a know-all she'd been! She was just as arrogant as the great Harry Noble, just as guilty in that department. Yet she had no Oscar, no public adoration, no extraordinary beauty to give her any reason to be so full of herself. Oh God! She had utterly humiliated herself in front of the great Harry Noble, and that's what hurt.
It was only at work that Jazz was able to take her mind off the wretched e-mail. It really didn't help, of course, when her interviewees turned out to have brains made of blancmange. Today she was trying to get a decent article out of a woman who had finally given birth to a baby girl after ten boys. They'd been on the phone for one and a half hours so far and Jazz's neck was killing her. She only had three good quotes.
'How did you feel when you held her in your arms for the first time?' Jazz asked.
There was a long pause.
'Nice.'
Jazz started scribbling as she wrote.
'Gosh, you must have felt wonderful. Ecstatic? Elated? Over the moon? Did you come over all tearful? Were you just relieved? Did you feel special? Like your dream had finally come true?'
There was a longer pause.
'Very very nice, yes.'
Jazz rubbed her neck and stretched her back in the chair.
'Who does Tiffany Kylie-Danii take after most?' she asked, trying to inject the question with as much affection as she possibly could.
There was a big pause.
'Her father's a wonderfully gentle man. And so is she.'
Jazz thought she was going to start weeping.
'And how is she different from all your boys?'
'Well,' said the woman, 'she goes through clothes like they're going out of fashion.'
Sheer fatigue made Jazz start giggling.
'I'll have to go now,' said the woman. 'She'll
be wanting another feed. Can you phone me back the same time tomorrow?'
If my brain hasn't melted by then, thought Jazz. She put the phone down and let out a heartfelt scream and dropped her head onto her desk.
Mark looked up. 'What do you get if you cross a woman's magazine and a cat's arse?' he asked through his bacon buttie.
Jazz shrugged without moving her head. She was utterly exhausted.
'Fucking expensive cat litter,' he grinned.
Jazz looked up and frowned at him. 'Mark,' she managed, 'have you ever thought of becoming an after-dinner speaker?'
He beamed.
The phone went. Jazz hated answering the phone at work.
'Hello, Hoorah!' she said as gravely as she possibly could.
'Jasmin Field please,' said a highly efficient voice.
'Speaking.'
'Oh hello, this is Sharon Westfield at the Daily Echo,' said a person for whom this information was most impressive. 'We're looking for a new columnist for our woman's page and read the piece about you in the Evening Herald. I'll be completely honest with you – always am. Loved your attitude. Loved your sister Josie. How different she is from you – married, a young mum with a good sex-life, happy family.'
Jazz mumbled a sort of yes sound. She'd always detested the Daily Echo; it was a shabby tabloid full of horror stories and scantily clad 'girls' who wore 'panties'. But there was no denying that it had the second largest circulation of all the daily papers, and once you've written for the Daily Echo, all sorts of doors start opening for you. Weirdly though, Jazz didn't feel as impressed today as she might have done a week earlier.
'You see,' Sharon Westfield continued, 'that's just the sort of new angle we're looking for. Sort of post-Bridget Jones, post-ironic, post-modern, post-post-feminist sort of thing. D'you see? Women being content and capable. It's so new. Very exciting.'
'Ye-es,' said Jazz dubiously.
'We'd like you to write us three provisional columns of twelve hundred words each. And remember, our readers are right-wing bordering on fascist, chauvinistic bordering on misogynistic – especially the women – and, of course, thick as pigshit. These are people who record Jeremy Beadle. Try and remember all that while you write, it'll save you having to do a re-write. That will be, what? Five thousand pounds?'
Jazz couldn't speak.
'OK – call it seven and a half. Fax it to me by Monday. Triple four, double five, double three. For the attention of Sharon Westfield. Ciao.'
Jazz put the phone down, bubbling with anger and excitement in equal proportions – a reaction that was becoming strangely familiar.
'What was that?' asked Mark, intrigued. Jazz rarely remained monosyllabic on the phone.
Jazz told him.
'Jeez, some people have all the luck,' he said.
'You think I should go for it?'
'Are you stark-bollocking mad? Of course you should go for it! A column at the Daily Wacko? You'd be set up for life.'
'Even if it means selling out bigtime?'
Mark frowned. 'What do you mean?'
'Never mind.'
Jazz had the rest of the week to consult George and Mo. And, of course Josie. But there were other things on her mind that she had to sort out first.
* * * * *
Jazz sat on the sofa in her room, the soft sound of monks chanting from her stereo speakers rocking her into a calm state. Now that she had sorted out in her mind why the e-mail had distressed her so much, she realised there was information in it that she should act on. Maybe. She decided she had to speak to George. She needed some advice from someone with strong moral fibre and a heart of gold. She stretched out to the phone behind her.
'Are you going to tell me you can't babysit for Josie tomorrow?' asked George.
In her bewildered state, Jazz had completely forgotten about that. George and she now took it in turns every Thursday night to babysit Ben while Josie and Michael went out together. Jazz was constantly impressed by their marriage. Josie deserved to win an award, whether or not it was under Jazz's name.
'No, that's fine, I can still do tomorrow,' she answered.
'Oh, OK,' said George disappointedly. Then: 'Can I come too?'
Oh poor heart, thought Jazz. 'Of course,' she said in a jolly voice. 'It'll be much nicer with you there.'
'Do you still want to talk tonight?' asked George hopefully.
'Yes, come round,' said Jazz. 'I'll make pasta.'
It was a date.
When George turned up, Jazz had to hide her shock at her sister's appearance. She looked almost emaciated, although she was smiling more than she had been for a while.
'I feel fine,' assured George. 'I just don't seem to want any food.'
'Well, you'll eat everything I serve you tonight,' said Jazz firmly.
'Yes, Mum,' said George.
George picked at the pasta, but managed nearly all of her salad. Jazz watched her in near despair. She had always thought being single would be good for George but now she wasn't so sure. Her sister was practically wilting away before her eyes. Jazz waited until they were drinking coffee and George could concentrate on the matter in hand completely. Maybe it would do her good to think of something else; be made aware that her brain had to go on for others, if not for herself. Slowly and clearly Jazz told George about Harry's e-mail and, more relevantly, the true story about William Whitby. The shock registering on her sister's wan face made it look more animated than it had in days, but she said nothing.
'What should I do?' asked Jazz at last.
'What do you mean?' asked George back. 'Do you want to apologise to Harry?'
'No,' said Jazz, pained. 'I mean, what should I do as a journalist? Wills – William – is adored by the public because they think he's like the priest he plays. And I'm a journalist who knows the truth about him. George, he's an alcoholic woman-beater. What the hell should I do?'
George looked dumbfounded. 'We-ell,' she started.
'I mean, there's legitimate public interest here,' rushed Jazz. 'Should I shop him now and watch his career die – when he's never done anything to me except be positively charming – or do I wait silently, knowing that while the world thinks he's a really nice guy, he's probably beating up his make-up woman?
George frowned deeply. Jazz continued regardless.
'All I have to do is phone any features desk and William Whitby's career is over. And by sick coincidence, mine is made. What the hell do I do?' Jazz was pacing now.
George was beginning to look a little bit more certain. 'You sit pretty,' she said fixedly.
'I let him go on beating other women?'
'No, I didn't say that. You don't know what went on behind closed doors between him and Carrie.'
'You mean she might have been asking for it?' asked Jazz crossly.
'No, I didn't say that,' repeated George calmly. 'I mean he may never do it with anyone else. Or he may have stopped drinking.'
'But surely it's my duty as a journalist to inform––'
'No, it's not your duty,' George interrupted. 'First of all, press coverage – even about something as sordid as this – might give him more fame than he deserves. Secondly, Harry told you in confidence. And thirdly, it's not even Harry's secret to tell, it's his sister's. And it sounds as if she would hate to have her name brought into anything.'
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