by Jean Ure
On the way to Mum’s dressing room they passed the girl who had played Jo. Keri Dunn. She didn’t look quite as stunning offstage. Her skin was bad and she had a rash of pimples on her forehead. Jazz tried not to be pleased, but after all, she thought, I am only human.
Driving home in the car, with Lady Jayne in front with Mum and the four girls squashed up in the back, they discussed the performances. Everyone agreed that Mum had been brilliant as Marmee.
“You do a good accent,” said Lady Jayne.
“Thank you kindly!” laughed Mum. “What did you think of our Laurie?”
Laurie was the Lawrence boy – the boy next door. Jazz said she thought he was OK, Rose that he was a bit wet. Daisy, always the most impressionable, thought that he was lovely.
“Not a patch on Leonardo,” said Laurel. Everybody groaned.
“How about Jo?” said Mum.
“Nowhere near as good as Jazz,” was the general verdict.
Lady Jayne sniffed, and sneezed, but she didn’t actually argue. I am good, thought Jazz. I know I am!
“Now, are you sure you’re going to be all right?” said Mum.
“Mum! I told you!”
Rose gave Mum a little push towards the front door, where Jazz and Laurel stood waiting. It was Sunday, the day of the party, and if Mum had asked once whether Rose and Daisy would be all right, she had asked a dozen times. She was anxious about Daisy, who had caught Lady Jayne’s cold and was tucked up on the sofa, with Muffy and Tink. Daisy’s colds were always worse than other people’s. Once when she was little she had caught pneumonia and had to go into hospital, so Mum always fussed over her more than she did the others.
“You’ve got the telephone number?” she said.
“Yes, Mum! I’ve got the telephone number.” Rose said it kindly and patiently, as she shepherded them down the hall.
“We shan’t be long. Just a couple of hours. We’ll be back by nine at the latest.”
“Yes, Mum.”
“If anyone comes to the door, don’t open it. Not even on the chain!”
“No, Mum.”
“Well, then.” Mum smiled, brightly. “Are we ready?”
Jazz had been ready for over an hour. She liked to look neat, but she knew she could never be glam so she didn’t try. She was wearing a crop top, bright orange, and a short black skirt with an orange border which showed off her legs. Jazz wasn’t vain, but she was secretly proud of her legs. She considered them her best feature. (Even if a girl at school had once said she looked like a racing spider. Totty Langhorn, that was. Squat little gnome.)
“Laurel?” said Mum.
Laurel had come sailing down the stairs at the last minute. Laurel was someone who could look glam. She was wearing a blue dress that had been one of Mum’s favourites until an awful day, just a few weeks ago, when she had discovered she could no longer get into it. She had blamed it on Dad. (Mum blamed everything on Dad.) She said that she had done nothing but “comfort eat” ever since he had left, which Jazz found odd since Mum always claimed to be glad that Dad had gone. Anyway, she had got too fat (not that anyone could call Mum fat) and so the dress had passed to Laurel. With a few nips and tucks it fitted her perfectly.
But how grown up she looks! thought Jazz. With her hair swept back, Laurel could almost have passed for eighteen. It made Jazz, in her crop top and short skirt, feel about ten years old.
“Have a nice time,” said Rose, who didn’t mind in the least not going with them. Rose quite liked being left at home, in charge. Dad always said that Rose was the one real adult in the family.
“The rest of us are all just children.”
Mum was driving them to the party because that way, she said, she wouldn’t be tempted to drink. (She was on a diet and drink was strictly forbidden.)
“Can we drink?” said Jazz.
“Certainly not!” said Mum.
“But we’re not on diets!”
“Can’t help that.”
“It’ll seem so childish,” sighed Laurel. “And there’s bound to be champagne!”
“Too bad,” said Mum. “Just think yourselves lucky you’re coming at all.”
The director giving the party was called Rufus White. He only lived twenty minutes away, in an old tall house near Clapham Common. Mum said that some people were going on afterwards to have dinner, but she hadn’t wanted to do that.
“Why not?” wailed Laurel. “I’d love to go and have dinner!”
Crushingly, Mum said, “The dinner is for grown-ups. Not for children. You’ll have your fun early on.”
Just at first, Jazz wasn’t sure that she was going to have fun. Mum disappeared almost immediately, swept away by an actress friend.
“Be all right, you two?” She beamed and nodded and vanished into the crowd, leaving Jazz and Laurel on their own clasping glasses of orange juice.
“There is champagne,” whispered Laurel. “I saw it!”
Jazz shrugged. She wasn’t interested in champagne, she was interested in people, only there didn’t seem to be anyone else there of her age. There were several little kids racing about, all over-excited and showing off, and lots of what Dad called Beautiful Young Things, also over-excited and also showing off, shrieking and kissing and making a lot of noise. Jazz thought she recognised one of them. A girl dressed in deepest black with spiky hair and lips painted purple.
She wondered if she dared go up to her. Well, why not? she thought. It’s a party.
Jazz took a breath.
“Excuse me,” she said. She said it in her best voice. Polite and posh. Her actress voice. Not the one she used for school or with friends. Her Sarf Lunnon voice, as Dad called it. “Excuse me … were you on television the other day?”
The girl looked at her as if she were some form of low life that had crawled out of a drain.
“Who knows?” she drawled.
Well! I’d know if I’d been on television, thought Jazz. She felt a bit dashed. Maybe the girl was incredibly famous and thought that she had been insulted. Jazz swallowed, and turned back to Laurel – only to discover that Laurel was no longer there. She was being led across the room by a tall, floppy youth wearing a dinner jacket. I bet he thinks she’s older than she is, thought Jazz. She wondered what to do next. She wasn’t shy, but I’ve been snubbed once, she thought. I’m not going to be snubbed again!
She wriggled her way through a crush of people until she came to a bit of clear space. She stood there, clutching her orange juice and trying to pretend that she was having a good time. She had been so looking forward to this party! She had even had visions of being discovered. Of the great Rufus White catching sight of her and going, “Oh, my goodness, Debs! Is this your daughter? How would you like a part in my next production, my dear?”
That had just been plain silly, of course. That had been day-dreaming. Except that these things did happen! Just occasionally. Jazz tilted her chin and placed one leg carefully in front of the other. After all, you never knew who might be watching.
A tickle began to twitch in her nose. She sneezed. Heavens! She must have caught Lady Jayne’s stinky cold. She sneezed again. She tried to do it in as ladylike a manner as possible. Not a big vulgar Aaaaaaaaaaaah followed by a clash of cymbals, but a little genteel t’shoo!
She sniffed and felt for her handkerchief. She hadn’t got one! She hadn’t got a handkerchief! Laurel, busy being – t’shoo – grown up, had brought a stupid little bag with her, but Jazz scorned such things. Now what – t’shoo! – was she supposed to do? She couldn’t even wipe her nose on her sleeve because she didn’t have any sleeves. And any – t’shoo! – way, it would be horribly inelegant.
Jazz stared round, despairingly, in search of Mum or Laurel. She couldn’t see either of them! And now her nose was beginning to drip. She blotted it, on the back of her hand. Ugh – t’shoo! – disgusting!
“Want a rag?”
Jazz spun round. A boy was standing there, grinning and holding out a handkerchief.
“It’s OK, it’s clean,” he said.
Jazz wouldn’t have cared if it had been filthy dirty. She snatched at it, gratefully.
“Think I’m getting a cold.”
“Really?” He leaned excitedly towards her. “Give it to me, give it to me! Breathe over me!”
“Are you mad?” said Jazz, blowing her nose.
“No, but I’m supposed to be doing a day’s filming next week and maybe if I got a cold I wouldn’t have to. My brother could do it, instead.”
Jazz regarded him, in stupefaction. “You’re loony!” she said.
“I’m not, I just don’t want to have to do any more filming. My dad keeps making me do these one-liners for him. It’s really boring!”
Jazz swallowed. “Who’s your dad, then?”
“Rufus White. Who’s yours?”
“T.J. Jones.”
“Is he an actor?”
“Yes, and so’s my mum. She’s Debbie Silver.”
“Oh, yes. I know her. Are you an actress?”
“Not yet.”
His lip curled. “I suppose you’re a wannabee.”
“No, I’m a gonnabee!”
The boy laughed. He was about the same age as Jazz. He wasn’t terribly handsome – his hair was blond and a bit limp and his mouth was crooked – but he had bright blue eyes that crinkled rather nicely when he laughed. Jazz laughed back.
“Why do you think filming’s boring?” she said.
“Dunno.” He shrugged. “Just is. All that hanging around while they set the lights and sort out the camera angles, and then you have to do it over and over till you feel like screaming.”
I wouldn’t feel like screaming, thought Jazz. It seemed very unfair that someone who didn’t want to act should be pushed into it, while other people – such as Jazz – couldn’t even get to drama school.
“Why does your dad make you?” she said.
“’cos he doesn’t feel comfortable working with kids and he knows he can shove me around. Did you come here to watch all the luvvies? Wonderful to see you, dwahling!” He screeched it in a high falsetto voice, hurling himself at Jazz and going, “Mwah! Mwah!” as he planted kisses on both cheeks.
She couldn’t help laughing. Actors and actresses did tend to be a bit over the top, even Mum and Dad.
“Who is the girl with spiky hair?” she said.
“Dee Lovejoy. She’s a cow.”
“Cows are nice!” said Jazz.
“OK, so she’s a slime. Is that your sister over there?”
Jazz looked where he was pointing and saw Laurel, standing with a group of Beautiful Young Things and gazing up, all melty-eyed, at the tall floppy youth in the dinner jacket. She was holding a glass in her hand and it didn’t look like a glass of orange juice. She’ll catch it if Mum sees her, thought Jazz.
“Mm.” Jazz nodded.
“She’s a lot older than you!”
“No, she isn’t,” said Jazz, bristling. “She’s fourteen. She’s just pretending to be older. Who’s that boy she’s with?”
“Simon Allsopp. He’s another slime.”
“Is he an actor?”
“No, he just happens to live next door. His mum and dad are friends of my mum and dad. They’re all slimes.”
“Seems to you everyone’s a slime,” said Jazz.
“No, they’re not! You’re not.”
Jazz felt a big stupid grin spread across her face, though why she should care one way or another what a not terribly good-looking boy with limp hair thought of her, she really couldn’t imagine.
“What’s your name, anyway?” he said.
“Jazz. What’s yours?”
“Theo. Short for Theodore. What’s Jazz short for?”
“Jasmine.” Jazz pulled a face. “But nobody calls me that.”
“Nobody calls me Theodore. I’d bash ’em if they did!”
Jazz spent the rest of her time at the party standing in a corner with Theo, giggling at his jokes and listening in amazement to the stories that he told her.
“Well,” said Mum, as they drove home, “you seemed to be having a ball! That was Rufus White’s son you were chatting up.”
“Yes, I know,” said Jazz. “He was funny. But his dad makes him act and he doesn’t like it.”
“Oh, he probably does,” said Mum. “He was probably just trying to impress you. How about Laurel? Did she meet anyone interesting?”
Laurel didn’t answer. She had fallen asleep with her head on Jazz’s shoulder. Her mouth was open and she was making little whiffling sounds.
“No?” said Mum.
“She met a boy called Simon,” said Jazz. “But he’s a slime!”
Definitely not orange juice, Jazz thought. Laurel was going to suffer for that in the morning!
“All right, then, you lot!”
Mum was getting ready to leave for the theatre. Christmas was over, and they were back at school, but Mum’s play was booked to run until the end of February. Every day except Wednesday (when she had an afternoon performance) she would be there to say hello when they came home, then they would have tea together and Mum would listen to any of their problems before setting off.
It seemed they were all having problems, just at the moment. Daisy still had the remains of her cold and was whiny and grizzly. She kept complaining because Mum wouldn’t let her have another kitten.
“They’re so sweet! And they’re free. They just want good homes for them.”
Jazz was consumed with jealousy because Pinky Simons, who was in her class, had now started tap and ballet lessons as well as going to Glenda Glade two times a week.
“And she’s useless! She’s absolutely useless!”
Laurel moaned non stop about the state of her wardrobe. Even Jazz was sick of hearing about the state of Laurel’s wardrobe. All her clothes (she said) were grotesque. She would sooner (she said) go about naked than wear some of the hideous dowdy old-fashioned muck that was hanging in her closet.
“How can I go out with Simon looking like a six year old?”
It was Simon who was at the root of it. Ever since meeting him at Rufus White’s party, Laurel had given herself airs and graces. Looking down her nose at us, thought Jazz. Like we’re just kids and she’s grown up. But she isn’t, no matter how she preens and prances!
Today it was Rose’s turn. Rose was grumbling again about not having a computer.
“Look at all this stuff I have to write out … pages of it!” She pulled a wodge of paper from her school bag and banged it down on the table. “It takes me ages! Far longer than anyone else. They all have computers except me. It’s not f—”
“Don’t say it!” Mum held up a hand, like a traffic policeman. “Just do not say it. All I ever hear from you people is I want, I want, I want! It’s about time you learnt that we can’t always have everything we want. It’s a hard fact of life, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry you don’t have parents who can afford to indulge you, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. You’ll just have to make the best of it. I’m sick of the lot of you!”
Mum swept up her bag and her car keys and headed for the door.
“I’m going off to the theatre. You four can sit here and whinge amongst yourselves. At least I shan’t have to listen to it!”
Mum disappeared, slamming the door behind her. There was a stricken silence.
“Marmee never turned on her kids like that,” muttered Laurel.
Maybe they didn’t whine as much, thought Jazz. She said it aloud, but Laurel only tossed her head.
Rose said, “No, they were such goody-goodies.”
“Now we know why Dad left,” said Laurel. “Obviously couldn’t stand Mum bawling him out all the time.”
“Dad was just as bad,” said Jazz, trying to be fair.
“Dad didn’t yell and shout!”
“He did sometimes.”
“Not as much as Mum!”
“No, but then he used to go all quiet and that used to drive
her mad.”
“Are you saying it was Dad’s fault?”
“It was both of them! Both of them!” Jazz jumped to her feet and began snatching dishes off the table and clattering them into the sink. “And now we’ve upset Mum and it’s not fair, ’cos she’s doing her best!”
“I only wanted a kitten.” Daisy said it pleadingly. “Just one dear little sweet kitten!”
“You’re being greedy,” said Rose. “You’ve already got Muffy and Tink. And anyway, kittens cost money. Yes, they do!” she said, as Daisy opened her mouth to protest. “You still have to feed them and take them to the vet. We can’t afford another cat. We haven’t got any money. We’re poor.”
“Not like we used to be,” said Laurel; but the money Mum was earning from Little Women wasn’t enough to keep them, and the money from Icing was dwindling fast. A few small cheques had dribbled in – repeat fees from telly work that Dad had done, royalties from a commercial he’d been in, and Icing had sold to Australia and New Zealand, but still it was hardly a fortune. Just enough to pay the bills while they all kept their fingers crossed and waited for the telephone to ring. It sometimes seemed to Jazz that Mum and Dad spent their lives waiting for the telephone – for that call from their agent to say they’d landed a big part, that Steven Spielberg wanted them for his next movie, that the National Theatre had asked for them. It hadn’t happened yet, but one day …
“Maybe they ought to have gone and got proper jobs,” said Rose.
“No!” Jazz howled it at her. Acting was what Mum and Dad had trained for; acting was what they did best. It was impossible to imagine them working in a shop or an office.
“In that case we’ll just have to stop moaning,” said Rose, as if she hadn’t been one of the worst offenders. She gathered up her papers. “I suppose I don’t really mind getting writer’s cramp and wearing my fingers down to stumps.”
Next day when they arrived home Mum was waiting for them with a broad smile on her face.
“Guess what? The telephone rang!”
“Dad?” squeaked Daisy.
“No, not your dad! It was Gus.” Gus Manning was Mum’s agent. “They want me for a telly part. I’ve got to go for an interview tomorrow. The only thing is—” She gave a little laugh, rather nervous. “It’s to play the part of a thirty year old.”