Pride, Prejudice and Jasmin Field (4 page)

Lizzy, her voice growing in strength with her confidence and anger, assured him quietly but firmly that there were two reasons. One, he had been instrumental in breaking the heart of a much-beloved sister

and two, he had ruined the life of a certain Mr Wickham.

Matt Jenkins started shifting his weight from left foot to right and noted that she took a great interest in that man. He peered closer at his script, took a deep breath and read that perhaps he should have pretended not to have been in any doubt about proposing to someone whose family’s position was so much further below his own. His left shoulder hunched suddenly to his ear in a spasmodic twitch of tension. Then in a split second, his right elbow shot out to his side and back again.

Lizzy fixed him with a steely eye and clenched her teeth, sharpening her cheekbones even more. She explained clearly, and with a quiet force, that far from preventing her from accepting his hand, that had only made it easier for her to care less about hurting him. In a voice like iron wrapped in velvet, she used this perfect opportunity to vent her hurt feelings and told him that from the very first time she had met him she had found him unpleasant. He was the last man she could ever want to marry. Her voice broke and her eyes shone with injured pride as she went on to tell him he was arrogant, rude and self-satisfied, and that even if he had acted in a more gentlemanly-like manner, her answer would have always been the same.

Relieved beyond belief that they had reached the end, Matt Jenkins said ‘Rightie ho,’ beamed at Harry, tapped his watch and scarpered from the imaginary stage.

Lizzy, stunned, angered, confused and exhausted, stood up to start pacing but realised she felt too weak. As Matt Jenkins did a scene-hogging Scoobydoo-tiptoe to the front corner of the room, Lizzy sat down heavily again, put a hand to her heaving chest, closed her eyes, let a tear fall down her cheek and an unexpected sob escape.

*

The sound of her sniffing filled the audition room.

Slowly Jazz took a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose loudly.

Eventually Harry spoke. ‘Have we got your phone number?’ he asked quietly.

Jazz looked up at him. He was staring intently at her. ‘No,’ she said dully. ‘I wasn’t asked to give it.’

‘That’s all right, we’ll get it off your sister.’

She waited for a while, and looked at Matt Jenkins. He smiled back and winked at her. Then his shoulder twitched again and his elbow shot out from his body, leaving his hand on his waist. No one took any notice. Good God, thought Jazz, alarmed. Any minute now, he’s going to break into Riverdance.

She was surprised at how exhausted she felt. Harry was still scribbling but Jazz decided she’d had enough. She didn’t care if he was planning to try and direct her like he had George, she was ready to go home.

‘Bye then,’ she said to Matt.

‘Ta-ta,’ he said jovially, his nose now the only part of him that was moving out of context. ‘You were rather good.’

Jazz thanked him, knowing she was not enough of an actress to return the compliment. She looked at Harry. He was still writing. She walked out, humming determinedly, without glancing at Sara Hayes.

‘Anyway, thanks for the mango, George,’ said Mo and they all started chortling weakly. Jazz could still taste toffee at the back of her teeth and Mo had just eaten most of a packet of chocolate eclair sweets. George, who had polished off the marshmallows, joined in guiltily.

They all looked at the unpeeled mango that Georgia had brought round. It lay on the coffee-table, surrounded by lots of brightly coloured sweet wrappers. They just couldn’t be bothered to peel it.

‘A mango is like a man,’ decided Mo.

‘Why?’ asked George.

‘Because it’s too much effort to open up and has a heart of stone.’

Jazz smiled. ‘You forgot “And it tastes like shit to swallow and it’s always you who has to wipe up afterwards”.’

Mo snorted the remains of the last eclair up her nose.

‘I love mangos,’ smiled George happily.

They all turned to watch the mute TV for a moment.

The flat in West Hampstead belonged to Mo. It was bright, cosy and well-worn. She’d bought it five years ago, just before the latest boom, when her mother had died and left her a substantial amount of money.

Jazz loved living there. She could be in the heaving metropolis of central London in fifteen minutes and in Brighton in half an hour on the Thameslink. And she could be “with Mo when she needed good company or stay in her room with its sofa and heaving book shelves when she needed space. What’s more, George lived five minutes away in the next road. Jazz was delighted with her home.

George pulled her face away from the TV screen.

‘Did you see that gorgeous blond bloke at the auditions?’ she asked.

Mo shook her head. ‘Nope. I was too busy wondering when, how and where I was going to be sick.’

Jazz knew exactly who George was talking about. Maybe Action Man was on his way out, she thought hopefully. She turned her gaze away from a tap-dancing tube of toothpaste and a happy set of sparkling white teeth doing a Busby Berkeley number. It wasn’t easy. She looked at her sister.

‘Why don’t you chuck Simon?’ she suggested bravely.

George grimaced. ‘I’m too scared.’

‘Of what?’

‘I don’t want to hurt him.’

Jazz wasn’t sure if that was an answer or a new thought. She suspected the latter.

‘How many bastards have hurt you?’ demanded Mo.

‘Exactly,’ said George. ‘I’ll know how awful he’ll feel.’

‘George,’ interrupted Jazz. ‘How long have you been going out with him?’

‘Three and a half months.’

Only Jazz’s sympathy for her sister could have stopped her from laughing out loud.

‘Chuck him, girl,’ she said firmly but kindly. ‘I know he’ll probably never find anyone as lovely again, but he will get over it.’

George’s large white-blue eyes looked at the carpet. ‘I’ll wait until he chucks me,’ she said quietly.

Mo and Jazz erupted.

‘Chuck him!’ they both shouted.

‘OK!’ shouted George back, shutting them up.

She pulled her long legs under her little bottom, as if making herself smaller would somehow improve things. Jazz watched her. Her naturally fair hair suited her highlights so well and her skin went a stunning honey colour after just one sun-bed session every six weeks. She had no hips to speak of, a pretty bust, a concave stomach and the rest of her was golden skin and delicate bones. Perfection. Very occasionally when Jazz looked at her, for a split-second it was like looking at her reflection, only in technicolour and on a thinner, taller scale. Jazz’s hair was much darker than her sister’s and her figure more rounded. Whereas George had the kind of tall, androgynous body that the media and fashion world adored, Jazz had what was known as The Winslet Body - that is, a body that the media and fashion world trumpeted as obese but that men seemed to like well enough. Jazz also had their father’s translucently pale skin and his deep chestnut eyes. She often wondered wistfully if, had she been born with George’s vivid colouring, she’d also see the world in bright primary colours. But as for envying George’s figure, Jazz wouldn’t have known how to. That was one thing Martha — mother to George, Jazz and their younger sister, Josie - had taught her girls. With her splendid bosom, gloriously rounded bottom and shapely ankles, Martha had given each one of her very different daughters a priceless gift - the gift of loving their bodies. By example alone (and some very choice words at sensitive, adolescent times), she had taught them how to celebrate their own shape. She’d left it up to the world around them to present it as something to be ashamed of.

They all stared at the telly in silence, Jazz wondering how she could open up the conversation again. But within seconds her concentration was diverted by the images on the screen.

George sat up and pointed. ‘Oh look — it’s Andrew! I was in Lysistrata with him in Cardiff!’

‘Have you had him?’ asked Mo.

George smiled a confessional smile. Jazz shook her head in amazement. Was no actor safe?

Before yesterday’s audition, all Jazz and Mo had wanted to know about the Gala charity play was the address of the audition and the measurement of Harry Noble’s inside leg. Now they had both, they wanted more information.

‘It’s a one-off, one-night play in aid of breast cancer research, to be performed at the King George Theatre in the West End,’ explained George, in an excited rush. ‘Part of a massive theatrical bonanza-type thingy. The Pride and Prejudice part is semi-professional, with a complete range in the cast from unknowns to working actors, journalists, novelists and artists. Then the next night there’ll be a pantomime with soap stars and on the last night they’ll be doing It’s A Knockout with all the country’s news presenters. They say they’re going to get Jeremy Paxman in a Daffy Duck outfit. So our bit is the only bit that’s serious acting. But what makes it so different from all the other charities is that the audience will be full of celebrities and the cast will contain some ordinary working people for a change. Get the celebs to actually pay the money this time - that’s the twist. They’ll edit the highlights for a TV programme and the cameras will be on the audience as much as - if not more than - the stage.’ George ignored Mo’s gasp of terror. ‘And the way to get such a star-studded audience was to ask Harry Noble to direct. Every actor wants to see his work. It’s a massive coup. Apparently they managed to get him because his great-aunt died of the disease.’

‘And his Great British Public want to see him doing something good,’ added Jazz. She told them how she had heard the producer, Matt Jenkins, telling Harry that this would enhance his reputation in Hollywood and the tabloids.

‘Are you going to put that in your piece?’ asked Mo eagerly.

Jazz shook her head. Much as she detested Harry’s hypocrisy, that wasn’t her style. She was a journalist and columnist for the popular women’s weekly Hoorah! The women’s magazine with a difference. She didn’t waste her time writing celebrity gossip, although that didn’t stop her being fascinated by it.

Jazz had the perfect personality for a columnist. Where George was ready to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, Jazz was happy to give them the benefit of her wisdom. She was highly judgmental of everything and everyone. She could spot bluff at a hundred paces. She couldn’t help it, it was like a sixth sense. But most importantly for a columnist, Jazz was very emotional and easily riled. Her weekly tirades were a unique blend of heartwarming tales about her perfect family and home life, mixed with apoplectic opinions about society’s foibles. Her columns were highly popular with the . readers. She felt fairly sure she had a future, with or without Hoorah! It was just a case of waiting to be snapped up by a broadsheet and never having to do a proper day’s work again.

‘Is Harry Noble always going to be that terrifying?’ asked Mo.

‘No more than your average pretentious, egocentric actor,’ grinned Jazz at George. Jazz had interviewed so many celebs over the years that she wasn’t remotely in awe of them any more. Apart from the odd one or two who showed a genuine interest in the stranger to whom they were pouring out their one-dimensional hearts, she had found that most of them were self-obsessed and pathetic. But she’d never interviewed anyone nearly as famous as Harry Noble; he was way out of her league. He was A-list, while she had only ever done strictly B-and C-list actors. And of course, he was a member of the famous Noble dynasty - a whole family of celebrated Shakespearean actors and part of England’s heritage. Harry though, had been the first Noble to break into Hollywood.

Jazz had been impressed by every performance he’d done; even the cameo role he’d performed in a tacky American sitcom had had class. And he had shone at the Oscars. She thought he was a truly wonderful actor. And she’d been delighted to discover that in real life, he was every bit as abominable as she’d expected.

*

The next morning, Jazz sat at her computer in Hoorah!‘s features department, her eyes unfocused and her mind freewheeling. She’d finished ‘I married my poodle!’ in only two hours and was trying desperately to think of a way into this week’s column.

Miranda, the junior researcher, was tapping away furiously at her wretched keyboard and Mark was pretending to be John Humphreys over the phone to a woman who had eloped with her husband’s son by his first marriage. He had now asked her the same question four times. She imagined the woman was probably close to tears at the other end.

Maddie Allbrook, their boss, was reading her horoscope.

‘Ooooh,’ she said excitedly. ‘I’m going on a long journey. Maybe that’s my summer holiday?’

‘Crikey, how do they do that?’ said Jazz, shaking her head. ‘Genius.’

Maddie pouted happily. It was impossible to upset her; God knows, Jazz had tried over the years. Maddie had creamy white skin and long, wavy black hair. She was petite and always wore little mini-skirts. She loved her job, her colleagues, her life. If she had been a house, she’d have been a little country cottage, complete with beams, log fires and creeping clematis up the front wall.

Mark slammed the phone down.

‘Hopeless. Fucking hopeless,’ he shouted dramatically. Maddie and Jazz looked at him as he wiped his hand over his eyes and over his head. ‘Woman had a brain the size of a split pea,’ he went on. ‘I’ve gotta get out of this place.’ And with that he strode out of the room, off for a fag no doubt.

Mark had long since stopped intriguing Jazz. By now, she had him pretty well sussed. With his saucer-shaped, dazzlingly blue eyes, angular cheekbones and high forehead, he had obviously been a beautiful baby and child. Which explained why he compensated by being a total dickhead to work with. He used every macho trick in the book to hide the fact that he was actually a rather sweet bloke. He had worn his thick curly, golden hair - the sort of hair any self-respecting woman would have grown as long as possible and nurtured with loving care — cropped close to his head for as long as she’d known him. If he knew that it actually made him look more vulnerable, he would no doubt have grown it. And he moved his body - which, she guessed, had only shot up and broadened in his late teens, long after the insecurity had set in - with a studied aggression.