Acting Up

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Authors: Melissa Nathan

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Acting Up

Melissa Nathan was born and raised in Hertfordshire. A journalist for twelve years, she turned to writing novels full time in 1998 and shortly afterwards
Pride, Prejudice and Jasmin Field
(now called
Acting Up
) and
Persuading Annie
were published
.
Melissa discovered she had breast cancer whilst writing her first novel for Random House,
The Nanny
, which hit the
Sunday Times
Top Ten in the spring of 2003. She went on to write another top ten bestseller,
The Waitress
, and finished her fifth novel,
The Learning Curve
, in February 2006. Sadly she died two months later, aged 37. A new literary award, The Melissa Nathan Award for Comedy Romance, was established in 2007 in her honour. She is survived by her husband, Andrew, and young son, Sam.

Praise for Melissa Nathan

'You'll find this very moreish'
Daily Mirror

'Tremendous fun – an ingenious update of the greatest love story of all time' Jilly Cooper

'Funny, tender and sharp'
The Times

'Hugely enjoyable'
heat

'This is one to gobble up in a single sitting'
Company

'A captivating comedy'
Red

'A witty novel about love'
B

'Melissa Nathan's brilliantly well-written novel will effortlessly remind women everywhere that quality time with your nearest and dearest – not to mention a bit of romantic interest – is something we have to make time for'
New Woman

'A witty spin on the nation's favourite novel . . . with a loveable, contemporary heroine at its heart'
Good Housekeeping

Also by Melissa Nathan

Persuading Annie
The Nanny
The Waitress
The Learning Curve

Acting Up

Melissa Nathan

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

ISBN 9781409066231

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Arrow Books 2008

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Copyright © The executors of the estate of Melissa Jane Nathan

Melissa Nathan has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Piatkus Books as
Pride, Prejudice and Jasmin Field

Arrow Books
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA

www.rbooks.co.uk

Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

ISBN: 9781409066231

Version 1.0

To Andrew

Acknowledgements

Thank you, Mum and Dad, my meticulous copy-editors through life, for your constant, enthusiastic and totally biased support.

Thank you, Andrew, for being away on business so much that I had time to write a novel. And thank you for coming back, reading my work again and again, laughing at the right bits and making constructive criticism so sweetly that I didn't want to shoot you.

Thank you, Frances Quinn, for your practical and emotional support. It proved invaluable.

On a more general note, thank you, Claude Lum, for being a rock in my life through the hard times.

Without these people this book would not have been written. So if you don't like it, go to them.

Prologue

The television was on.

* * * * *

'ooh, look – it's whatsisname'

'who?'

'you know . . .'

'which one?'

'the one with the hair'

'oh yeah – God, haven't seen him for years. What was he in? Years ago now?'

'he was in that detective programme – what was it called?'

'oh I know, with that woman'

'what woman?'

'you know the one with the um – oh – married to that actor'

'what actor?'

'big guy, funny eyes – oh god what was he in? That's going to really annoy me now'

'I never knew they were married'

'yeah (belch), pardon'

'I wish I could remember the name of that programme'

'what programme?'

'the one that bloke was in'

'what bloke?'

'you know, whatsisname'

'
who?
'

'DO YOU TWO MIND IF WE ACTUALLY
HEAR
THE PROGRAMME AS WELL AS WATCH IT?'

'Sorry'

'Sorry'

1

The tube train was stifling and packed. Jasmin Field – Jazz to her friends – couldn't read her book because someone's entire body was in her private space. Pinned to the door, she shut her eyes and imagined a cool breeze gently nudging a weeping willow as she swung lazily in her hammock. Somewhere in the distance a woodpigeon cooed and the smell of freshly cut grass wafted by. She smiled drowsily and hoped she wouldn't have to move a muscle ever again.

Then the man next to her farted and the moment was lost.

'It's Harry Noble!' shrieked someone suddenly and the squash eased as a mass of sticky bodies shot to where the words had come from. Jazz was grateful for the extra room. The train had been stuck in the station now for ten minutes – some poor bastard had fainted in the front carriage apparently. Jazz was certainly no Harry Noble groupie, but she was grateful to him because now at least she could move her book up into the right position and start reading again.

Then, as one, the entire carriage moved to the windows. Not a word was spoken, of course – this
was
the London Underground – but a silent, almost mystic power of understanding bound everyone together. It's a common enough phenomenon when a mass of people all repress the same emotions – in this case, exhaustion, resentment and fascination – and it's one that happens every second of every day on the tube. But this time it was increased to the nth degree and you could almost hear it buzzing. Jazz looked up from her book and watched in wonder.

And then there he was.

Unbelievably, Harry Noble strode past them all, just a foot away, down West Hampstead Station's now empty platform. It was like being in a film. No one made a sound, they all just stared at him as he walked, elegant and tall, his neck straight, his eyes fixed ahead, to the exit. He
was
beautiful. Jazz was sure his lips were moving, as if he were talking to himself. He could have been on a desert island he was so wholly unaware of his audience. So
this
was the real reason the doors were still shut, surmised Jazz. No fainting passenger, just a famous one, who expected star treatment wherever he went. Suddenly, one young woman could hold back no longer – even if she was on the London Underground. She didn't care, dammit. She banged on her bit of the window and screamed, 'HARRY!' in a voice full of longing and heartache.

He didn't even turn his head. His eyes kept staring straight ahead, as if no one was there.

'HARRY!' came more voices, plaintive and hoarse.

Eventually, ever so slowly, he turned his majestic head and smiled a curt smile. And then everyone forgot their reserve. Now every carriage took its turn shouting, banging on windows and squealing as he passed them by. It was like a Mexican soundwave of passion and loss. It was quite moving, thought Jazz. And Harry Noble, of the illustrious Noble theatrical dynasty, heart-throb English actor who had gone to Hollywood and got an Oscar for his troubles, had the decency to look touched. He even winked at one girl who caught his dark, brooding eye.

And then he was gone.

There was silence for a moment and then, miracle of miracles, commuters actually started talking to each other.

'Oh my God, he's even more gorgeous in real life!'

'He winked at me! He winked at me!'

'I think I'm going to faint!'

'My daughter won't believe this!'

'He winked at me! Did you see him wink at me!'

Jazz marvelled that these people, who had unwittingly been kept in a stuffy, enclosed space for fifteen hellish minutes just so that one man could get out faster and easier than them, could make such fools of themselves. He's just a man, thought Jazz. A man who has to go to the toilet like them, who gets headaches, verrucas and wind.

Her smile widened as she wondered what these people would say if they knew she was actually about to
meet
the pompous twat. And with that thought, she returned to her book. Ten minutes later, the doors finally opened and the train haemorrhaged its dazed and sweaty passengers onto the platform.

Once out of the Underground, Jazz walked to the monstrous Gothic church at the end of a nearby road. She was meeting Mo, her flatmate, and Georgia, her elder sister, at the audition, and couldn't have moved fast in the hot, airless atmosphere engulfing north London if she'd wanted to. There was no sign of the famous Harry Noble. He must have been picked up by a limousine, she thought. Shame she hadn't been able to catch up with him – she'd have cadged a lift.

Much more of a shame, though, was the fact that she wasn't in the least bit nervous about doing this stupid audition. It would have made excellent copy for her column: she always wrote well about suffering from nerves. But she just couldn't work up a sweat about performing in front of the great Harry Noble, the director of what was intended to be the celebrity fundraising theatrical experience of the millennium –
Pride and Prejudice, An Adaptation
. She'd tried, but it was all too ridiculous. So there would be no self-deprecating humour about sweaty palms and a faltering voice. Damn. Not for the first time, Jazz cursed the fact that she could never write what wasn't true.

She was glad that she wasn't going to tomorrow's audition, which was for the steaming masses. Today's was for specially selected actors, writers and personalities as well as anyone lucky enough to be personally invited by one. As a journalist, Jazz fitted into the second category, and had chosen to invite her best friend and flatmate, Mo, to see if she could get herself a small part. Georgia, a budding actress whose career filled Jazz with sisterly pride, had also been invited along. Jazz wondered if tomorrow was purely a publicity stunt and today was the real thing. Would they really let complete unknowns work with the great Harry Noble? Seeing as they wouldn't let the great unwashed share an Underground platform with him, it seemed unlikely.

As she approached the church, Jazz could see about 100 people cordoned off outside it and she tried to ignore the thrill it gave her to force her way through and show her pass to the bouncers. The crowd didn't even look at her; they were too busy scrutinising the streets for signs of their idol.

Jazz opened the heavy door and was instantly assailed by a musty church smell. She walked down the darkened corridor and wondered if Mo and George were here yet. She hoped not – it would give her more time to watch everyone else.

She turned the corner and came face to face with a pair of glasses.

'Did we know you were coming?' asked the glasses. They were amazing. Big purple frames that almost covered their wearer's entire face. Tragically, not all of it.

'Sign your name and then go to the end of the corridor where you'll be given a script,' instructed the glasses – which, Jazz noticed, were in the company of a chunky metal brace on the top row of their wearer's teeth. Jazz blinked, fascinated. The woman looked as if she had suddenly woken up one day and thought, How can I make myself as unattractive as possible? and had come up with a damn fine answer.

Jazz signed quickly. At the end of the corridor was a trestle table peppered with piles of scripts, each one entitled
Pride and Prejudice, An Adaptation
. Jazz picked one up. She tried reading it but couldn't concentrate. She sat on one of the chairs by the wall and waited for more people to arrive. Some knew each other and there were various luvvie air kisses and much affected affection. She watched intrigued, trying to guess who was an actor and who was a fish out of water. It wasn't too difficult to make the distinction.

An actress entered. She wore a beautiful big brown fur-lined leather jacket and had a commanding presence. Her jet-black hair fell to angular shoulders, her long legs seemed to go on for ever and her eyes were like bullets. Jazz recognised her from a recent three-part thriller, in which she'd played a malicious killer. She was surprised to see that she actually looked even harder off-screen than on. The actress's name was Sara something – Jazz couldn't quite recall. Jazz watched her pick up a script and read it intensely, while pacing the floor. She seemed to desperately want a part.

A group of impossibly attractive people entered the hall and one of the men among them stood out from the rest. Jazz knew him instantly – he was a household name. He was the actor William Whitby, famous for his role in the popular series
The Trials of Father Simon
. In it he played the eponymous Father Simon, a warm, loving priest who brought peace to a rough inner-city housing estate. He had sandy-coloured hair and a handsome, easy, round face, but the most attractive thing about him, Jazz decided, was that he chatted to nearly everyone in the room. He was obviously well-liked, and Jazz could see why. Although he made a lot of rather unnecessary body contact with people, he seemed sincere and likeable. He stood with his head inclined towards them, a hand gently touching their elbow while they spoke to him, or he nudged them before saying something that he followed with a big, loud, warm laugh. He seemed delightfully unaware of the effect he had on everyone he talked to. No wonder he made such a perfect priest, thought Jazz.

She found it almost impossible to tear her eyes away from the actors. How did they manage, so instinctively, to make themselves so interesting to watch? It was compelling viewing. She wanted to know everything about them, and yet oddly enjoyed this temporary stage of not knowing anyone well enough to be able to fix any significance to their actions. It was like watching a foreign film in glorious technicolour without the subtitles. She didn't want to miss a moment of it. Her eyes were everywhere. She kept trying to turn her attention to the wallflowers like herself, but couldn't do it. The butterflies were too entrancing.

A tall, blond man wandered in, looking keenly at everyone, reminding Jazz of a big golden Labrador looking for a stick. He had twinkly blue eyes and rosy cheeks. She couldn't remember what play or programme she'd seen him in, but she knew his face well. He sat down on a chair by the wall opposite her and quietly studied a script. To her surprise, the woman in the brown jacket went over and joined him. She noticed that they were intimate enough not to need to talk to each other. The woman in the jacket was then joined by a shorter, less stunning friend, who was in turn accompanied by a man whose face had had a fight with gravity and lost.

What made the whole exercise so enjoyable for Jazz, was that for the first time ever, she was able to watch people without them minding. Usually, when she people-watched, she had to do it subtly – with quick sideways glances – otherwise people started to stare back. But these actors seemed to expect her stares; in fact, some of them were happily giving Jazz her own private performance. She wondered whether, if she got up and left the room, they would, en masse, collapse in a silent, audience-less heap on the floor, waiting for the next observer to come in so that they could start again. Naturally, not one of them was wasting any time looking at
her
unknown face.

Eventually, she tore her eyes away from them and looked towards the door. There she saw a face that made her innards shrink. It certainly wasn't an unpleasant face; in fact, Jazz could still see its charms, although now they left her cold. It was a smiling, unctuous face that she could now barely tolerate. Yet at the same time, by some obstinacy she didn't understand, she couldn't take her eyes off it. It was incongruously feminine, with pale skin and full red lips and cheeks, topped with a crop of dark hair, slicked forward into the newest French style with thick Brylcreem. Of course the mouth was upturned into a forced smile, but those eyes she knew so well were darting here and there; it was only a matter of time before they alighted on her. Still she couldn't look away. All too soon, the bright eyes met hers and Jazz only detected a nano-second of consideration before they were filled with careful warmth.

'Jasmin Field, I might have guessed you'd be here,' said Gilbert Valentine, ex-colleague and now self-important theatre journalist for a small, exclusive, self-important theatre magazine. Gilbert, she knew, always liked to think of himself as a superior sort of journalist – and, indeed, as a superior sort of person – but it was common knowledge that he used his privileged position, one that enabled him to get into previews and cast parties, to supplement a spin-off career as the tabloids' primary source of luvvie gossip. He didn't do it for the money, although the money was good; he did it because it gave him the kind of fame he craved. To be famous within the most desperate circle of fame-hunters was quite an achievement.

Gilbert Valentine was dangerous. When he had first entered the theatrical world, he had, chameleon-like, adopted a camp manner to endear him to his victims. He had never been able to shake it since. Gilbert was the only 100% straight man who minced like a true thespian. And like his manner, nothing about him could be trusted. He was the sort of journalist who gave journalists a bad name, and he put all actors in a no-win situation. If they didn't invite him to their parties, he got the gossip on them anyway, through fellow-actors anxious to get on his right side. So actors were forced to treat him as a friend, which for many of them was the most successful performance of their lifetime. However, it wasn't really difficult to butter Gilbert up. All one needed to do was flatter his writing. Gilbert's Achilles' heel was his genuine insecurity about the quality of his work. He was the sort of man who couldn't wait until his obituary was published and all the quality newspapers would beat their chests for never utilising his genius themselves. It didn't occur to him that his obituary was already written and filed under
T
for
Tosser
.

'I didn't know you were an actor
manqué
!' he oozed patronisingly, as if Jazz's presence at the auditions was somehow more revealing than his. He came over and sat down next to her.

Jazz always found herself in the unhappy position of wanting to say to Gilbert, 'Likewise', but knowing that it would only belittle her. It was incredibly frustrating.

Instead she smiled and said simply, 'Well, now you know everything.'

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