Acting Up (5 page)

Jazz stopped in her tracks. Mo was standing in the kitchen wearing a fresh white tracksuit and gleaming trainers. She looked like a short fat ghost with a perm.

'I'm going to get fit and slim and beautiful,' announced Mo. 'I'm on a diet as of today and I'm on my way to join the gym. Wish me luck.'

Jazz was staggered. If Mo had said, 'I'm going to marry a Mormon and help look after his five wives,' she couldn't have been more stunned.

'Why?' was all she could manage to utter.

Mo picked up her gym kit and brushed past her.

Jazz followed her into the hall. 'But you've – you've always said looks don't matter and women only diet for men and life is obsessed with the superficial, and that's why so many people are starving,' she gabbled desperately.

'Yes, I know,' said Mo, 'but then I thought, Hey, wouldn't it be fun to be sexy?'

'Mo!' Jazz slammed her hand down on her kit. She couldn't think of one cogent argument that would stop her friend. 'Who am I going to eat chocolate with?' she ended up saying weakly.

Mo slowly peeled Jazz's hand off.

'See you later, there's a whole gym waiting for me,' she said, and then she stopped. 'We can go together some time, if you like.'

Jazz's face showed such unadulterated horror at the idea that Mo simply turned and walked to the door.

'Life's too short!' shouted Jazz angrily.

Mo yelled back, 'So am I!' and slammed the door.

Jazz looked down at her body. Sure, she could probably do with losing a pound or two here and there. But then she could also learn some Greek or go Flamenco dancing. Or have a hot bath, listening to a play on the radio. Or, more importantly, watch telly.

She went into the lounge and turned on the box before she could notice how quiet the flat was. It was the ads. Skinny women (who were paid to be skinny) eating chocolate. Skinny women (who lived on apples and water) holding products and smiling. Skinny women (with bulimia) laughing into the eyes of adoring men. Skinny women (who were just born that way) confiding about washing powder. Skinny women (who were nicknamed Pinlegs at school) talking about Weight Watchers.

Jazz turned off the telly and went to run a hot bath and have a look at her script which had been posted to her that morning.

* * * * *

At the first read-through of the play, Jazz was already growing fond of the musty smell of the church. As she sat herself down in the circle of chairs in the centre of the hall and settled back to watch everyone come in, it dawned on her for the first time how much more the actors had to lose in this production than anyone else. She was only just beginning to realise how high-profile this affair was going to be. The audience would not only be full of celebs but also stacked to the rafters with casting agents, national theatre directors, top fringe theatre directors, journalists and critics. It could make or break the actors. It was massive. But from a funding point of view, it needed to attract more than just luvvies. The organisers needed all the publicity they could get, in order to persuade the punters to tune in and get out their chequebooks. Which probably explained why two key journalists had been chosen for the main parts, thought Jazz suddenly, as well as giving the tabloid darling, Gilbert Valentine, a look-in. With Gilbert's regular titbits of gossip from the play, her columns about the rehearsals and critic Brian Peters' forthcoming acting début, Jo Bloggs would easily be herded into a frenzy of excitement about the whole enterprise, turning it into the viewing experience of the year. There would hardly be anything for the press officers to do.

As for worrying about her performance, Jazz just couldn't work herself up to it. What did she care if some bored critic lambasted her? She could always lambast his syntax in her next column. She had never professed publicly to being able to act, and if there was one thing she had never judged in her columns, it was actors' ability or otherwise. But for Brian Peters it was quite a different matter. He was going to have a lot to prove in his one-off reincarnation as one of the most romantic fictional heroes in English literature. Jazz smiled. This was going to be fun.

Mo had come straight from work and George would be coming straight from doing a play on Radio 4. Jazz didn't think she'd tell Mo that she was the only person there not involved in the arts. She'd only end up in the toilet throughout the entire rehearsal interrupting herself with offers of Mintos.

She barely noticed that Sara Hayes and her friend Maxine were there, but she instantly recognised their friendly, blond companion – George's next conquest – who seemed to recognise her and greeted her with a warm smile. She didn't know anyone else. There were lots of ridiculously handsome people taking their seats and hiding their nerves behind self-conscious airs of indifference or weariness. Jazz watched them all keenly.

Mo came and sat next to her. As the seats filled up, Jazz realised that William Whitby wasn't there. How could he not have been given a part? He was so . . . watchable. Just as her stomach was deflating with disappointment, the door opened and there he was. Maybe it was because she was so obviously aware of him, maybe it was because there was a spare seat next to her and their eyes had met as soon as he had walked in, she didn't know why, but he saw her, grinned and came to sit down next to her.

'Hi,' he smiled, proffering his hand to be shaken. 'I'm Wills.' Jazz nodded. It would have looked stupid to pretend she didn't know his name. His openness of expression and large, brown eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled, were even more endearing in the flesh than on television. Jazz almost had to stop herself from bear-hugging him.

'Hi,' said Jazz, shaking his hand vigorously and grinning like a moron. 'Jazz.'

'Short for?' he questioned.

'Men over six foot four. My only restriction.' Dear God, had she really said that?

He chuckled. 'Who are you playing?'

'Lizzy,' she said, wondering if her pupils were dilating so much that her eyes were now just two black holes.

His grin widened and he touched her arm affectionately.

'Hey wow, congratulations,' he said. 'You must be really good.'

Impossibly, she warmed to him even more.

'Must I?' she said as coyly as she could. 'Who are you playing?'

'Terribly Wicked Wickham,' he said wickedly.

'Ooh, how exciting,' she said, noticing that he had several freckles on his nose and golden flecks in his eyes.

'Yes, it'll be a laugh,' he agreed. 'And from a professional point of view, it's a great opportunity to play a baddie. I don't want to be typecast as a priest for ever, you know.' A heart-blisteringly wide smile. 'Of course, you realise we'll have to learn how to flirt with each other.'

With considerable self-control, Jazz managed not to cheer. Maybe this acting business was going to be more enjoyable than she'd anticipated.

Just then, she became aware of a blurred image behind William's head and, with some effort, drew her eyes towards it. It was a beaming Gilbert.

'Jasmin!' he exclaimed. 'You made it, I knew you would!' He kissed her smack on the mouth. She was too shocked to move. Thankfully there wasn't a seat next to her and with an affectionate squeeze of her shoulder, Gilbert had to go and sit somewhere else. As she watched him go, she wondered idly what part he could possibly have got.

Wills turned back to Jazz. 'That's Gilbert Valentine, Theatre Hack, isn't it?' he whispered to her.

'No,' whispered Jazz back. 'It's Gilbert Valentine, Pathetic Twat. We used to work together.' She wondered why life was never perfect.

Wills, meanwhile, was laughing with delight.

The atmosphere cooled as soon as Harry Noble entered the room. He walked over to where the chairs were stacked, his eyes fixing on no one. He picked up a chair and stood silently behind two people in the circle. Without a word being said to either of them, they made room for him. Jazz was so preoccupied watching the remarkable reaction Harry seemed to create on everyone that she scarcely noticed the quiet, red-headed young woman who had come in with him. Silently the woman – or girl – found herself a seat at the back.

Eventually Harry honoured his cast by looking briefly at them.

'Hello people,' he said quietly, and Jazz marvelled at how he could fill those two short words with such considered condescension. Everyone inched closer and Harry took off his black leather jacket exposing a loose, black V-neck jumper and faded black jeans. He leaned back lazily in his chair, fully aware that everyone was watching him avidly. Jazz observed in wonder as the entire room eyed his body, greedily taking in the curve of his Adam's apple and the enticing peek of olive-brown collarbone, his languidly elegant torso, broad shoulders, long, flat stomach and perfect thighs.

Harry was almost sunbathing in the warmth of everyone's stare. Then without eyeing any of his new cast, he delivered a speech that Jazz thought he must have had written for him by some out-of-work ham playwright – a speech called 'Director Drivel'. He hardly bothered to move his body as he spoke, and his voice was so cold and quiet that people were leaning forward to catch every little gem. Jazz was transfixed, amazed that someone with such screen presence could be such an atmosphere vacuum in real life. It was as if he only gave of himself when he thought it was worth it, and he certainly didn't rate his present audience.

'Some of you have never acted before,' he droned on. 'Some of you may think you have. But all of you will discover new meanings of the word if you listen to me.' He now looked deliberately at them; some of the women blushed under his steady gaze. 'And trust in me. Let me be your guide.' Jazz gazed round at his audience. They would let him drill their molars if he so desired. They were eating out of the palm of his hand.

Incredible. She'd never seen anything like it before. Slowly, she tore her eyes away from his entranced followers and looked back at him. She was more than surprised to find that he was looking straight at her. She became aware that everyone else was now looking at her and realised that he had just asked her a question.

She smiled half-heartedly. 'Sorry, I-I . . . wasn't listening.'

He tilted his sculpted face at her with an expression she couldn't yet read.

'An excellent start, Miss Field,' he said calmly, hardly moving his perfect lips.

There was a slight laugh from the audience.

Jazz felt her cheeks warm.

'I just asked our starring lady, our
Elizabeth Bennet
,' (crescendo), 'to stand up and introduce herself.'

Jesus Christ.

She stood up.

'Hi,' (cough), 'my name is Jasmin Field. I'm a journalist. So don't piss me off. Ha ha. And um – well, I can't really act. Ha ha.' No one laughed.

She didn't know what else to say. Harry's almost inaudible voice cut the atmosphere like an ice-pick.

'I don't work with people who can't act, Miss Field.'

Oh pur-lease, she thought. Get
out
of your bottom, it's dark in there.

'Good job this is voluntary then,' she smiled sweetly.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

'Money has nothing to do with an excellent performance, Miss Field.' He smiled wryly at the rest of the cast. 'Although I don't expect a journalist to understand that.' They broke into relieved laughter, grateful that he had shared a joke with them. Out of the corner of her eye, Jazz could see Gilbert attempting the look of an offended genius.

Harry started looking around the room for his next victim.

'Oh, you'd be surprised,' Jazz said a bit too loudly. 'We journalists understand lots of things. Particularly,' she pretended to pluck words out of the air, and finished softly with 'pomp and affectation.'

The room held its breath, but Harry merely looked back at her. 'Oh dear,' he said in an infuriatingly measured tone. 'Miss Field, we might as well sort this out once and for all. For the short period of your life that you leave behind the tacky world of women's magazines and work with me, I will turn you into a good actress. However painful that experience may be for both of us.'

Jazz bristled. 'I never leave behind my "tacky world", as you put it, Mr Noble – it follows me, I'm afraid. Much in the same way that a bit-part in a "tacky" American sitcom would follow a classic actor.'

A couple of people coughed nervously.

'Well, there you're very much mistaken, Miss Field,' said Harry, leaning forward and allowing his voice more inflection. 'I don't allow anything to follow anyone when they act with me. I want you, Miss Field, completely and utterly naked.' A fractional smile. 'I'm speaking emotionally, of course.' Jazz grimaced. 'And that's your first lesson.' He threw her a hard smile that landed, with a dull thud, in her gut. 'Learning the difference between pomp and affectation and substance and integrity we'll have to leave to another day.'

And with that he turned swiftly to his next victim. Somehow Jazz found her seat again without falling flat on her bottom. The fact that everyone had now stopped watching her did nothing to lessen her sense of embarrassment. She hated him. In fact, she was so shaken by the public humiliation that it was several moments before she began to look forward to describing it in her column.

It was Mr Darcy's turn next. Jazz had at first been delighted to discover that Harry had succumbed to Matt's advice and given the part of the greatest romantic hero to the acerbic critic, Brian Peters. But within moments, her delight turned to serious concern. Poison Pen Peters' prose, albeit cruel, was always elegant, well-honed and majestic. His 'voice' was an aesthetic joy, something every reader was in awe of due to its obvious natural superiority, whether or not they agreed with its content. As a writer, he would have made a perfect Mr Darcy. As an actor, however, he would have made a perfect ferret. It appeared to Jazz, as she studied Brian Peters for the first time, that testosterone had passed him by. His shoulders were narrower than hers, his voice higher, and his long, slim head made him look as if he was still recovering from a forceps delivery. How could such magnificent prose come from such an unimpressive person?