Acting Up (17 page)

'You're leaving me?' said Maddie, her eyes wide with disappointment.

'Oh, please don't make me feel guilty,' said Jazz keenly. 'You'll be snapped up within weeks. I saw how the Editor of the
Reactor
was looking at you at the awards.'

She knew that would work. Maddie's little mouth turned up slightly at the edges. They were sitting on the table in the tiny area next to the coffee machine. Since they'd gone open-plan, private spaces were a thing of the past. They had to be quick.

To Jazz's amazement, Brigit Kennedy, Commissioning Editor of the
News
, had phoned her first thing the morning after she'd sent in her columns. She hadn't heard anything from the
Daily Echo
and hoped Sharon Westfield had forgotten her.

'Love your style,' Brigit had said. 'It's so rare to get a column that's about a marriage that's working nowadays. Of course, it's a risk because today's readers only want to read about others' troubles, but we think you're a risk worth taking. We'd be delighted to have you on board.'

Jazz was over the moon. 'Thank you,' she breathed. 'You won't regret it.'

'I'm afraid we can only offer you five hundred pounds a column––'

'I'll take it,' Jazz said quickly, and the two women laughed. Contracts were faxed over to her and she'd signed that afternoon. She'd been absolutely staggered at how fast newspapers can move if they really want you.

After the call, Jazz had felt wonderful, ecstatic, elated, over the moon, tearful, relieved and special. Her dream had finally come true. Until she remembered she'd have to break the news to Maddie.

'You're leaving me alone with Mark?' repeated Maddie.

'Oh, you know how to deal with him,' said Jazz sympathetically. 'Anyway, you might find he really lightens up once I've gone.'

'And Angry Alison?'

'I thought you liked Alison.'

'And Mad Miranda?'

'Yes, I'm beginning to see your point,' said Jazz. She hadn't realised Maddie would take it quite so badly. So she explained that she still wanted to do work for
Hoorah!
either on a freelance basis or possibly as a part-timer.

'I'll tell Agatha,' said Maddie. 'Let's hope I come out alive.'

They both smiled weakly.

'I can't believe you're leaving me,' Maddie said once more, her little red lips starting to tremble slightly. They walked back to the office and Maddie told everyone Jazz's news. She'd have to tell Agatha tomorrow; she was in meetings all day.

Mark came over immediately. Miranda continued tapping.

'Say congratulations to our columnist for the
News
, Mark,' said Maddie, as sternly as Jazz had ever heard her speak.

'So are you fucking off then?' he asked instead, leaning back against the empty desk and crossing his arms. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows and Jazz noticed that the sun had brought out the fine auburn hairs on his forearms.

'Yup. You can talk about shagging now as much as you like in the office,' said Jazz. 'As long as you mention IKEA a few times.'

Mark stared hard at Maddie.

'Don't think this means we won't still come and see you in your play,' said Maddie, veering off on another subject. 'We'll be there with the banners.' Oh God, the play, thought Jazz. She'd actually managed to forget about it.

* * * * *

The next morning, Jazz was staggered to open the
Daily Echo
and see a double-page spread headed IS THIS THE LAST HAPPY FAMILY IN THE COUNTRY? above a massive picture of her smiling family. Quickly scanning the piece, she could see that it was mostly hearsay and speculation with one or two quotes from Martha, whom they had obviously spoken to for two minutes on the phone. At the bottom, in bold, were the words You can read award-winning Jasmin Field's regular column starting next month. Only in the
Daily Echo.
Weren't they at all concerned that she hadn't even sent them her first column yet? Maybe they expected columnists to miss deadlines.

Jesus Christ. She hadn't even sent them her fax yet. And Maddie hadn't told the news to Agatha yet. She certainly hadn't signed anything with them yet. What's more, she
wasn't
going to write for them, she was going to write for the
News
.

She phoned her mother straight away. 'Have you read the
Daily Echo
?' she asked.

'Yes,' said Martha.

'When did you speak to them, Mum?'

'I hadn't realised I had, dear,' answered Martha, mildly flustered. 'Someone phoned me to ask how I felt about you winning the award and how I felt about having three famous daughters. They said they were the award organisers and this was for their internal journal. Anyway,' she scoffed, 'I didn't say I was "over the moon". I never talk in such ridiculous clichés. Perish the thought.'

Jazz was furious. She had half a mind to phone Sharon Westfield and complain. But what was the point? It was much more important for her to phone Brigit Kennedy and explain that it was all a horrible mistake and then apologise to Agatha before she was sacked.

Brigit Kennedy was surprisingly phlegmatic about it. She knew Sharon Westfield of old – 'She was my Deputy at
Smile!
' she told Jazz. 'Morals of a dog on heat. Knows her stuff though. Don't give it a moment's thought.'

Brigit gave Jazz her first commission there and then. If anything, Jazz felt it had worked in her favour.

Then it was off to Agatha's office. The door was open and Jazz could see Agatha at her desk, reading the
Daily
Echo
. Smiling out at her was Jazz's entire family.

She knocked feebly on the door.

Agatha looked up at her. She said nothing.

'I can explain,' said Jazz.

Agatha crossed her arms and waited.

'I'm not going to write for them. They asked me to and I hadn't even sent them my provisional fax yet. It's a horrible mistake.'

Agatha started to look slightly more human again.

'That's all right then,' she said. 'Otherwise I'd have had to fire you.' And she turned the page over and ignored Jazz.

Jazz didn't think it was the right time to mention the
News
.

She started her first column for them at midnight when she couldn't sleep. It was full of bile. At 1.30 am she e-mailed it and made herself a Horlicks. She slept very peacefully until 6.30 am.

The next morning she got a call from Brigit.

'Thanks for the column. Really nice. Loved the nostalgic bit about you and Josie arguing about Euro '96. You telling her that football had nothing to do with reality and her pointing out that it had become political because even John Major had told Gareth Southgate he had nothing to be ashamed of when he missed the penalty.'

Jazz smiled over the phone. This was a good start. But Brigit went on. 'And then you saying that Gareth Southgate had never returned the compliment,' she finished, as though Jazz didn't remember the cadence and rhythm of every single one of her beloved jokes. The Commissioning Editor laughed loudly. 'Politics, humour and sport. Keep it coming, gal.'

Brigit told her it would go in as soon as possible, and gave her her direct line. That meant Jazz had to pluck up the courage to tell Agatha very soon. She tried not to think of Sharon Westfield.

It was a Saturday night and Jazz, Josie and George turned up to the latest cast party together, just like when they were teenagers, hundreds of years ago. Jazz was on a high for the first time in a very long fortnight. George circulated easily among the crowd. Jazz saw that Jack was staying put in the kitchen, nursing a beer and a forced smile and William was flitting. Of course William was at the party, thought Jazz. He could be safe tonight because he knew that Harry would be on stage most of the evening.

Jazz introduced Josie to all and waited patiently for William to flit round to them. She was going to test him.

She didn't have to wait long.

'Hello,' he grinned, eyeing Josie up. Josie had George's vibrant colouring, and even though a few years of exhaustion had faded it somewhat, Jazz knew her sister still looked good.

At first Jazz tried hard not to notice those crinkly lines at the corner of William's eyes nor his warming smile. But then she realised that looking at them didn't hurt her like she thought it would. She introduced him to Josie, and William seemed delighted to discover there was another Field sister. She wished she'd warned Josie about William, but she supposed there would always be time. Jazz told him that she had managed to get tickets for Harry's play and waited for his reaction. William looked surprised. After a pause he edged nearer to her.

'I suppose knowing the truth about him, you're doubly intrigued to see the difference between a false act and a genuine one?' he said lightly.

Jazz couldn't help but smile at his words. It helped the hurt a bit.

'Oh, I've got to know him a bit better since we last spoke,' she said. 'And I find Harry's manner – with some people – easier to swallow now.'

Jazz got a sense of deep satisfaction watching the different reactions that fought for control over William's pleasing features.

'You mean,' he began, when he could trust his voice to be indifferent, 'that you've grown used to his manner? Or has he turned into a lovely warm chap who will surprise us all at the next rehearsal?'

'Oh no,' replied Jazz, enjoying the conversation even more than she thought she would. This was probably the only good thing that would come out of the e-mail. 'He's still the same old Harry Noble. I just mean that when you get to know more about the man's past – and the past of those he loves – it's easier to understand the reasons behind his actions.'

To her delight, William actually coloured.

'I'm surprised to see that Carrie isn't here,' she said, looking round.

There was now no doubt that they both knew what Jazz was talking about.

'Harry's sister?' he asked evenly, though it was obvious to Jazz he wished he were no longer talking to her. 'She rarely comes to parties.'

Jazz nodded slowly. 'Maybe she doesn't like what drink does to some people,' she said quietly and then with one last look at him, she turned and walked away, leaving him, not without some regret, to talk to Josie. The fact that he looked annoyed instead of embarrassed put a final end to her crush on him.

She was stopped on her way towards the kitchen by Mo. 'Be nice,' Mo said urgently, before Gilbert approached. Jazz realised pretty quickly that he was very drunk.

'Jazzy Jazzy Jazzy,' he slurred and then slumped untidily against the wall. Jazz took advantage of the situation and started talking to Mo as if he wasn't there.

'You'll never guess,' she said. 'I'm going to see Harry in his play tomorrow.'

'What?' said Gilbert, his eyes glazed over. 'Famous Harry Famous Noble's famous play? If you see his bitch of an aunt there – can't miss her, face like a baboon's arse – would you kindly spit in her eye for me?' He took a swig from a bottle of red wine.

Jazz looked at Mo.

'She's stopped sponsoring his magazine. She found out he was in the play with Harry and completely went over the top. Didn't just fire him, she pulled all her money out of the whole magazine,' said Mo.

They both looked dismayed at Gilbert. Gilbert belched. They all knew that without his specialist mag – which was respected by those in the business, even if it was seen as pretentious – Gilbert was as good as on the scrapheap. Without his regular contact with the theatre world, his part-time career would grind to a halt, too. There were always others only too happy to sell sordid little secrets to the tabloids. Respected theatre journalism was notoriously difficult to get into and on the nationals – which would be all Gilbert would be able to tolerate moving to – they were heavily over-subscribed with clever, experienced writers who were far more arrogant than Gilbert could ever aspire to be. Gilbert's only choice would be to end up on some provincial paper, which would lower his profile, ego and reputation beyond repair. A future of bitterness beckoned.

'In fact, you can tell her from me that her acting stinks,' Gilbert was slurring. 'Just like her nephew's.'

When she realised that Mo wasn't going to leave Gilbert's side all evening, Jazz eventually extricated herself from them and watched from a safe distance as Mo tried to pull the bottle out of her boyfriend's weakening grip.

She noticed that Sara Hayes was absent from the party. Of course, she thought. Why would she waste her evening with the likes of us if Harry Noble wasn't going to be there? And then she checked herself glumly. Maybe Sara had a hospital appointment or something, who was she to know? She wasn't always right.

As for the cast, the only people she could be bothered to talk to were Matt, who was always lovely, and Jack, who was now out of bounds. She suddenly found the rest of the cast oppressively wearisome. And even though she had just won a prestigious award, achieved her professional goal and had got tickets for Harry's show that no one else there had managed to get, she was vaguely aware that there was something lacking in the evening's entertainment. Her bubble had silently burst. With growing horror, she realised why. The truth was she'd become very used to being watched by a certain Harry Noble. Hell, damnation and buggery bollocks.

She managed to make dull social chitchat until midnight, when she decided to call it a day. She couldn't find Josie anywhere. Maybe she was already back at the flat, she thought. She'd given her a spare key. When Jazz finally got home, the flat was silent but she assumed that Josie was in Mo's room and went straight to bed.

The next morning, she found Josie dressed and up in the kitchen.

'Nice evening?' she asked, pouring herself a coffee.

Josie grinned sheepishly. 'Fabulous. You didn't tell me what a dish William Whitby was.'

'There's a good reason for that,' said Jazz. 'He's a shit. Of the highest order.'

Josie's face fell. Then she looked sheepish again. 'Who cares?' she said, and was off home.

Jazz was very, very happy. Her first column had appeared in the
News
, lots of her friends and family had phoned to tell her they loved it and there had been no comeback from Agatha since Maddie had convinced their boss that it would help their circulation having the
News
's top columnist as their exclusive celebrity interviewer. Maddie had decided, since her interview with Jazz, that Jazz should still work for them on a freelance basis.

When her phone went for the umpteenth time, she picked it up happily. 'Hello,
Hoorah!
'

'I thought we had a deal!' barked a terrifying voice at the other end of the phone.

'S-sorry?'

'What the fuck do you mean giving the
News
your column when I was there first?' It was Sharon Westfield and she was spitting blood.

Although taken aback, Jazz was firm. She knew she hadn't promised them anything.

'I'm sorry Sharon, but––'

'SORRY? I'll show you sorry, young lady. Think you can do the dirty on me, do you? After we ran a spread on your cosy family picture––'

Jazz didn't think now was the time to mention that her family hadn't enjoyed being duped and misquoted.

'Who do you think you are?' the woman ranted on. 'You wouldn't have got that stupid award if I hadn't tipped the wink. Believe me, young lady, if there's dirt to be had on you, I'll find it. Consider yourself dropped.' And she hung up.

Jazz was mind-blown. She had done nothing wrong.

She could go to whatever paper she wanted. Sharon Westfield was quite obviously barking mad.

And she was now Jazz's enemy.

When she told Maddie about her call, Maddie was philosophical. A friend of hers worked with Sharon so she knew all there was to know about her.

'Forget it,' she said simply. 'Sharon won't remember your name next week. Apparently she's going through a really difficult divorce at the moment – it was just bad timing. Anyway, you're not allowed to be worried tonight, we're going to see Harry Noble act. So cheer up and that's an order.'

By the time Maddie and Jazz walked into the foyer of the Pemberton Theatre that evening, Jazz was in a bad way. There were so many knots in her stomach, she could have joined a Boy Scout group. The theatre was packed with beautiful, famous people. Jazz didn't know where to look first. She and Maddie squeezed their way through the crowd and up the staircase to their seats in the front row of the dress circle. Jazz knew this theatre well and it looked as stunning as ever. But never before had she felt so in awe of the stage. It was enormous, and Jazz suddenly felt terrified for Harry. How could he put himself on the line like this? Regularly? All these people waiting for him to make their evening go with a bang. All these people expecting him to give them their money's worth. If he fluffed even one line, hundreds of people would be disappointed. For the first time, Jazz grew numb with terror at the prospect of acting. In only one month's time, she would be doing the same thing as Harry, albeit in a smaller, less grandiose theatre.

She looked up at the ornate plasterwork and painting on the ceiling above her. The workmanship was breathtaking: it must have taken years to complete – decades even. But no one would be looking at that tonight. She stared hard at the red velvet curtain on the stage. What would Harry be doing now? She knew that he would have no problem focusing himself; unlike her, who was always so easily distracted. God, he must have been frustrated by her in rehearsals. She forced herself to think of something else before the familiar depression took hold.

Maddie was beside herself with excitement. 'Ohmygod, there's whatsisname,' she squeaked. Jazz followed the direction of Maddie's indiscreetly pointed finger with her eyes. So it was. The place was full of actors and directors, critics and celebs. She spotted Brian Peters who, to her enormous surprise, gave her a big smile from his circle seat. And a hush came over all of them when the Noble family entered their box. Jazz saw that Harry had his mother's colouring and his father's strong features. They smiled at everyone regally.

Then the lights dimmed, and Jazz was overwhelmed by excitement, terror and an incongruous sense of empathy with Harry.

The set was the interior of a 1950s house, complete with kitchenette and plastic covers on the couch. The detail was amazing. She could see the gold lettering on the book spine by the drinks cabinet. A door slammed in the distance and in walked Harry. Or rather, in slouched Harry. At first Jazz didn't recognise him and wondered if there was some mistake. He was wearing the unflattering trousers of the day, which belted high in the waist, making his legs look shorter and his stomach look larger. His shoulders were rounded with fatigue, his neck was tense and his head hung as if bowed by misery. His hair was Brylcreemed into an unattractive, slick style. He called out a woman's name and when he got no reply, he went to the fridge, took out a bottle of beer and slumped down on the couch.

Jazz was transfixed. With supreme confidence, Harry flipped the lid off his drink and slowly drank half the bottle. He even belched, which got a snigger from the audience. Then he pushed his hand through his hair – a gesture that brought a confusing squirm to Jazz's stomach – and looked wistfully into the auditorium. She could have sworn he was looking right at her. She blushed in the dark.

He spoke in a Texan drawl, but his voice was the same. It had such depth, such quality. For two and a half hours, he spoke of his life, his desires, his sacrifices. Every little movement he made was entrancing. He could transform his entire audience's emotions with the smallest change of expression, make them laugh with the slightest shift of his eye. He had such control over them, such power. He turned them into one conscious being, instead of hundreds of separate people. When Harry cried, unmanly sobs that came from the pit of his stomach, Jazz thought her heart would break. He was intoxicating.

There was only one moment when she allowed her mind to meander from the play. It was when Harry took his shirt off. That beautiful smooth, olive-brown torso, those gently curved shoulders, the width of his forearms and the vulnerability of the back of his neck . . . His body was probably the most beautiful one she had ever seen and its natural grace made her think for the first time how nice it would have been to have walked into a party with him by her side. She had never looked at him
properly
before, and now that she was safely in the dark, she drank him in. And she was in awe. I could have had that, she found herself thinking in wonder. I could have been mistress of that. And she made herself smile and find it funny.

When the play finished, and Harry bowed fully and slowly, as if trying to take in each and every member of the audience, Jazz stayed in her seat, clapping. She wanted everyone else to disappear, she wanted it to be just him and her. She wanted to be up there on stage with him. She wished the spotlight would fall on her now, and reveal her sitting in the audience. She felt a sudden, intense jealousy of everyone whose eye Harry caught as he bowed. She wanted to own him. And, as she glanced quickly at the rapt faces of the audience – not taking her eyes off him for too long – she experienced, for the first time, a deep sense of gratitude for the attraction he'd once felt for her.

* * * * *

She had told Maddie beforehand that they were to leave before the curtain went down, but there was no way she'd do that now. She just sat there, soaking in the atmosphere. When had he found time to learn his lines, to rehearse, focus? And he'd done all this while keeping
P&P
going. She was staggered.

Eventually, the heavy curtain dropped to the floor and wasn't going to go up again. People reluctantly began to leave and she heard snippets of their conversations:

'This generation's Olivier' . . . 'mesmeric' . . . 'hypnotising' . . .

She and Maddie took ages to get through the crush. They seemed to get caught behind everyone and, of course, they both had to queue to use the Ladies. Maddie re-did her make-up, but when Jazz looked in the mirror and saw her puffy eyes and red nose, ravaged by forty minutes of intermittent crying, she knew she was past helping. It always took a day or two for her face to recover from sobbing. By the time they left the theatre, only a few people were still around.

When they finally got to the door, Jazz stopped and closed her eyes at the delicious night breeze on her hot and sticky body.

'Jasmin!' called a shocked voice.

She opened her eyes. To her horror, there stood Harry, dressed in a crisp white shirt and narrow-legged, flatfronted dark trousers, his jacket slung over his shoulders, about to enter the foyer. It was only a fortnight since she had last seen him, but so much had happened since then that it felt like months ago. At first they were both so astonished and uncomfortable, neither could think of anything to say. Jazz's awareness of their shared awkwardness kept overcoming her in waves. Why had she let Maddie force her to come? What would Harry think of her? It was unbearable.

Harry wasn't coping too well with the situation either.

'Congratulations on your award,' he said eventually.

How did he know about that?

'Congratulations on your performance,' managed Jazz back. She was suddenly feeling so shy that she hardly noticed he was even more tongue-tied than her.

There was a painful pause.

'How are you?' asked Harry eventually.

'Fine, thanks. You?' replied Jazz.

'I – I didn't know you were coming,' he continued. 'You could have had drinks in the interval backstage.'

'Oh,' said Jazz intelligently, forcing herself to look him in the eye, like an adult. She noticed for the first time that his upper lip was probably his nicest feature. And his cheekbones were amazing.

'How is George? And Mo?' he asked, as if he hadn't seen them for years.

Jazz couldn't find a suitable reply. George is catatonic? Mo is moronic? Her brain seemed to have stopped working.

Maddie interrupted. 'Mr Noble, my name is Maddie Allbrook. I'm Jazz's boss. We were very lucky to get tickets.'

Harry looked at Maddie and stunned Jazz by giving her a big smile and putting his hand out to shake hers.

'Any friend of Jasmin's is a friend of mine,' he said simply. 'Did you enjoy the show?'

Maddie let out a very unfeminine noise that expressed yes. 'You were – you were ay-mazing,' she finally managed to say.

Harry grinned at her warmly. 'It's very kind of you to say so. Thank you very much, it means a lot.' Then he looked back to Jazz, who was having considerable difficulty believing her eyes or ears. This was a completely different Harry from the one she knew. This must be his post-performance persona. It was the only possible explanation.

Suddenly she remembered that her nose would still be red and she said accusingly, 'You made me cry.' She wished she could read the expression in his eyes.

But Harry made no comment. He turned to Maddie. 'You're from the press?' he asked her. 'Oh dear – I hope you're not going to be too harsh on me?'

Maddie looked shocked and hurt. 'Not all journalists are out to knock, you know.'

'I think your magazine is splendid,' Harry answered sincerely.

'Well,' said Maddie. 'It was once.' She looked at Jazz. 'Its staff are certainly splendid, it's just the readers who've gone downhill. Present company excluded, of course,' she gushed.

Harry assured her that no offence had been taken.

Then he suddenly remembered something and looked at them both.

'Will you come inside and meet my family?' he invited them.

Jazz didn't know what to say.

'They'd love to meet you,' he went on. 'You already know my sister Carrie, Jasmin. They're inside. It'll only take a minute.'

All helpful information, yet Jazz still didn't know what to say.

Maddie answered for her. 'How wonderful,' she breathed and took Jazz's arm, pushing her back into the foyer.

There stood Carrie and their parents. People were walking round them, transfixed, nodding and smiling as if they were royalty. Jazz was fascinated. From the impression she had always got from the press and indeed from Gilbert, she believed Harry's parents to be highly principled, yet cold people who had never given him any affection. So she was very surprised when Harry's father hugged him and the two of them stood like that for a while. His father didn't say anything – he couldn't, he was too close to tears. When Harry bent down to embrace his mother, her grin almost split her face and tears ran happily down her cheeks. Carrie gave him a big hug and then smiled a shy yet proud smile over at Jazz. Jazz smiled back, ashamed that she'd never given Carrie a moment's thought.

'Mum, Dad, this is Jasmin Field, my Elizabeth Bennet.'

Both his parents pretended to know exactly who she was and smiled at her warmly, shaking her hand. His mother actually took Jazz's hand in both of hers while she shook it. They must have been on an amazing high.

Jazz made some noises to indicate she thought that the fruit of their loins had done them proud and that she really ought to leave them to their evening. With that she said goodbye to Harry and walked Maddie out.

But Harry followed her. 'Are you coming to the next rehearsal?' he asked, leaning against the doorframe and looking at Jazz intently. If there is a noise that accompanies the act of swooning, Maddie made it.

'Well,' said Jazz slowly. 'As long as you don't mind the fact that I can't act.'

Harry's smile was so full of affection that Jazz momentarily missed the fact that he didn't contradict her.

'Now that the previews are over I can start coming back to them,' he said. 'I thought we should concentrate on the last scene when Darcy proposes the second time, so it'll just be you, me and maybe Matt. Oh, and Carrie will come later to discuss costumes with you. She thought it would be a good time to get you alone. Perhaps we could all go for a drink afterwards?'

Jazz didn't think she'd ever heard Harry use such long sentences. She nodded. 'Lovely,' she said softly.

And they both separated.

* * * * *

'So
that's
the "bastard", Harry Noble?' Maddie said dreamily. 'Jasmin, he is
gorgeous
. He is a god. He's
so
tall. And broad. And those
eyes
. The man has teeth that were made in heaven.' She started an impression of The Wicked Witch of the West. 'I'm melting, I'm melting . . .'