Acting Up (6 page)

By now, everyone else knew the sort of interrogation they would receive from their director and had time to think of something half-witty to say for their own introductions. They were all suitably banal and benign. Sara Hayes had won the part of Miss Bingley – Mr Bingley's sister and doomed admirer of Mr Darcy – which almost managed to cheer Jazz up. How wonderfully typecast, she thought, with glee, watching the woman preen herself. Better still, Sara's friend Maxine was Mrs Hurst – her sister – and the man chosen to play Mrs Hurst's husband was Maxine's own porcine husband. Charles Caruthers-Brown's look of utter indifference to the proceedings suited his new role down to the ground.

The tall fair man who was still impersonating a stunned rabbit whenever he looked at George turned out to be called Jack – he was playing Mr Bingley, troubled suitor to George's Jane. Would life imitate art here also? wondered Jazz to herself. Is the Pope Catholic? she answered herself happily. She was even quite excited to see that Gilbert had won the part of Mr Collins, the insufferable, social climbing curate. Despite herself, Jazz began to feel some respect for Harry Noble's casting ability.

The part of Lizzy's mother, Mrs Bennet, had gone to a large woman with heavy-lidded warm eyes, cropped black hair and beautifully smooth skin. Mr Bennet was to be played by a character actor Jazz had seen in many period productions on the television. He had always had minor roles and she had never given him more than a cursory glance. She had certainly never attributed any great meaning to anything he'd said, yet now she saw him in the flesh, with his tired, ruddy skin, his desperately grave expression and deep, mellow voice, she realised that while she had been ogling handsome lead actors, she had been wantonly ignoring many actors' lifetimes' achievements just because they had less pleasing features. She felt profound sympathy for the man who was doomed to always have the smaller, instantly forgettable parts just because his nose was too bulbous, his eyes too close together and his mouth too far over to the left. Her sympathy for him didn't last long though. She watched him for a while. He was unexpectedly self-obsessed and so blusteringly affected that she started to admire his lifetime's work of modest, humble characters afresh. He was obviously a far better performer than she had ever given him credit for.

Lizzy's three younger sisters were to be played by young fairly well-known personalities – one a novelist whose debut novel
Monarchy, My Arse
had had rave reviews, another a young photographer who had exhibited twice to rapturous reviews, and the other almost an 'It' girl – cable TV presenter, party-goer. Even they were quite obviously flustered in the company of Harry Noble. So Jazz had been right. The second day of auditions
had
just been a publicity stunt. There was no one here who was a complete unknown. Apart, perhaps, from Mo and from Maxine's other half, Charles.

Just looking round the room at all the hopeful, determined faces was enough to convince Jazz that she had made the right decision never to try acting as a profession. She'd toyed with the idea for a week or two at the age of eighteen, but realised that she'd rather scrutinise the world than emotionally strip in front of it.

She was relieved to find out that her new friend Wills didn't think less of her after her
tête à tête
with Mr Noble. In fact, it was rather the opposite.

As soon as Harry and Jazz had finished their spar, Wills had turned round to her. 'May I be the first to congratulate you,' he murmured. 'You have answered back the great Harry Noble.'

'Is he always this pretentious?' she asked.

Wills tried not to laugh out loud. 'Believe me, you'll get used to the bastard.'

Jazz snorted. 'What, like I got used to PMT?'

At this he did laugh out loud. A great, manly bellow of a laugh. Jazz couldn't help but join in. She was hooked. Nothing was as attractive to her as a man laughing at one of her jokes. Except a crowd of men laughing at a string of her jokes.

'Probably,' he said finally. 'Perhaps that's why women seem to get on better with him than men.'

'Most women,' reminded Jazz, 'only want one thing.'

She looked over at Jack and George, already deep in conversation. When she glanced back at Wills, she actually blushed to find he had stopped laughing and was studying her.

The first rehearsal had been just a read-through of the play. Jazz thoroughly enjoyed it. The adaptation had been very cleverly done – there was even a hint at a final snog with Darcy and Elizabeth, which didn't feel too anachronistic. However, every time Jazz looked at her Darcy, she felt seriously concerned. She certainly wouldn't be resorting to method acting with Brian Peters.

As soon as she and Mo were back in the flat, Jazz made a tape-recording of her part with long pauses for the other parts. Harry wanted everyone to be off scripts within a fortnight. She vowed to play the tape at every single opportunity. It took her three exhausting hours to make it.

Afterwards she and Mo met up in the lounge for their usual late-night tipple. Thank goodness Mo hadn't yet realised that her diet might be affected by alcohol. They were discussing George.

'There goes Action Man out the window,' sighed Jazz, feeling almost nostalgic.

'Oh? Why?'

'Haven't you been watching George at rehearsals? Talking to the blond guy with NEXT stamped on his forehead. The bloke called Jack who's playing – wait for it – her lover.'

'Really? I didn't think she liked him.'

'Oh come on, she was practically salivating all over him.'

'Actually, I thought she wanted me to come over and save her at one point,' said Mo. 'Good thing I couldn't be bothered.'

'Are you mad? She all but sketched him her favourite wedding dress design.'

Mo frowned heavily. 'The tall guy with the pink cheeks?'

'Yes, the one whose lap she had to be hoovered off at the end of the rehearsal.'

'Nope. Can't see it myself,' said Mo and finished off her Baileys.

'Has your diet stopped blood getting to your brain?' asked Jazz in wonder. 'George was giving signals so big she was practically using semaphore.'

'Bollocks!' scoffed Mo. '
You
may be able to understand George's body language, but to the rest of us, she's as unreadable as a – a – Thomas Hardy novel.'

Jazz stared at Mo in disbelief. Mo continued, determined to put this subject to rest for the evening: 'Look. I'm very fond of your sister – you know I am, but . . .'

Jazz didn't want to hear any more. Didn't Mo know the rules? Only Jazz could criticise George.

'. . . But between you and me, I haven't got a clue what's going on inside her pretty little head. As for her
flirting
with anyone,' Mo snorted, 'I don't know what the hell you're talking about.'

'Well, that's because you haven't been feeding your brain for the past month,' scoffed Jazz. 'Your brain cells are slipping out of your ears, I can see them. I keep treading on them in the bathroom.'

'You're just jealous.'

'Jealous of what?'

'My new sleek body.'

Jazz was shocked. 'Are you calling me fat?'

'Yes, Big Bum.'

'Well, I'd rather have a big bum than a white tracksuit any day.'

'You'd look crap in a white tracksuit.'

'Of course I would. Everyone would. Everyone does.'

'You're just chicken.'

'Chicken of what? Looking like Littlewoods Man?'

'No, of coming to the gym.'

'I am not. I could beat you at step-a-crap anyday.'

'Bet you couldn't.'

'Bet I could.'

'Done!' yelled Mo, delighted.

Shit. How the hell did that happen?

'Are there any steps that go down?' Jazz asked feebly. 'Into a cafe?'

The next day she got a phone call in the office. It was Josie, her younger sister, she of the perfect marriage. Could Jazz babysit on Thursday evening please, because she and Michael needed to go out somewhere. Of course, Jazz would be delighted. The rest of the day was spent writing about her sister, she of the perfect marriage, who still went out with her husband, on their own, mid-week, six years after they'd met, three years after their wedding and two years after their firstborn had entered the world. It takes dedication, hard work, tolerance and a sense of humour, but marriages can still remain romantic, long after the glorious honeymoon is over, typed Jazz, and
Jazz Judges . . .
was over for another week. The Harry Noble character assassination could wait till next week, she had bigger fish to fry.

That evening Jazz arrived home to a depressing flat. Things just weren't the same since Mo had gone fit on her. She had joined the rest of the mad world and had stopped looking outward on life and was instead looking only at herself. As Jazz stared at the empty lounge, she mused that as far as Mo was now concerned, anything further than her nose was now out of focus and everything nearer than her nose i.e. the rest of her body, was blown up a size too big. She'd lost all sense of proportion.

Since Mo's changed life, Jazz had started looking more critically at her own body. Perhaps she could be less curvy. But then, she would be less her. No. She was damned if she was ever going to be at war with her body. She
loved
her body. It kept her alive. She used her strong legs and nimble feet to walk into the kitchen. She used her dextrous hands to put the kettle on. She used her graceful arms to open a cupboard and her agile fingers to niftily open a chocolate bar. She used her sensuous mouth to taste her favourite food. She used her joyous taste buds to experience pleasure and her contented mind to think of something that made her laugh while she was eating.

How could she hate her body? It was magnificent. It was a miracle. It was
her
.

The room was dark and warm. The only sound was of everyone's breathing and Harry Noble's deep, mellow voice, which seemed to float through the heavy air. Jazz was aware that he could bring out different depths of his voice for different words. It was a language in itself.

'You're feeling sleepier and sleepier and sleepier,' he lulled. 'Your limbs are like lead and your head is floating on a cloud. You're in a garden. Somewhere in the distance you can hear a dog barking. You are sitting in your favourite part of the garden, enjoying the feel of the sun on your face.'

Despite herself, Jazz was relaxing – on a floral hammock wearing a matching summer dress.

'Now I'm going to go round asking you nice, simple questions that you must answer without a pause. Any pause and it will be ruined.'

Lying on the floor, Jazz started drifting off. Her Doc Martens made her feet so blissfully heavy, Harry's voice seemed to be inside her head.

'What's your first memory, Jasmin?'

Why did he always start with her?

She spoke quietly so as not to wake herself too much out of her trance. 'I'm not sure whether this is from my memory or from a snapshot I once saw,' she told him, keeping her breaths deep and slow. 'I'm in the garden shed in my pram and I'm crying because I want to come in.'

'You must have been very young.' Harry's voice was inside her head.

She half-smiled. 'About fifteen.'

Drowsy laughter went round the room.

There was a big sigh from Harry and then a very different voice. 'Ha Ha, Ms Field.'

'Yes, I must have been very young,' said Jazz quickly, realising she had spoilt the whole ambience.

His voice was now coming from her level. It was as if there were only the two of them in the room.

'What scares you most about dying?'

Bizarrely, Jazz felt a quick welling up of emotion.

'Not being able to talk about it afterwards.'

'Who to?'

Slight pause.

'You paused,' said Harry impatiently.

'I have to think. These are big questions.'

Harry hid a smile.

'Mo. George. Dad. Mum.'

'Did you have a happy childhood?'

Tiny pause.

'Most of the time.'

'What made you unhappy?'

How was this going to make her acting better?

'Is this really necess––'

'Yes,' said Harry wearily. 'If you can't be honest now, how can you be honest on stage?'

'I'm hardly being honest on stage – I'm reading a script. I hate to be the one to break it to you but I think the audience knows that.' It was so much easier arguing with him with her eyes shut.

She could almost feel him frowning at her, without having to see him. Isn't this emotionally naked enough, she thought? Lying with my eyes shut being watched by you while you ask me stupid questions?

There was a long pause. What was he doing?

She opened her eyes and fixed him with a questioning gaze. He was sitting next to her, elbow on knee, hand in hair, frowning intently at her face. She rested herself on her elbows and frowned intently back.

'Would it save time if I just sent you my autobiography?' she asked.

'I didn't know you'd written one,' he said.

'I haven't yet.' She lay down again.

She thought he'd gone and so started a slow, secret smile.

'Why are you so scared to let go?' he almost whispered from next to her. Then he jumped up and walked quickly to the other side of the room.

Wazzock, thought Jazz.

The truth was that no sooner had Harry told everyone that he had given himself his biggest challenge yet in casting an unattractive Lizzy Bennet than he began to realise that he had in fact made life very easy for himself. When he'd first set eyes on Jasmin Field, he had marvelled that her sister could have all the lucky genes while she had none. Then during her impressive audition piece he had realised that while Jasmin didn't have her sister's easy prettiness, she could be beautiful. Then at that first rehearsal, when she had proved to be such a concentrated pain in the backside, he had begun to notice just how well cast she was. Her face was indeed rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. If eyes are the window of the soul, Harry found Jazz's soul compelling.

But she was such a bloody challenge. She was so emotionally retentive – what was she scared of ? If only he could tap into her depths, he was sure she could be a fine actress. And he was determined to, both for his reputation, and for his own growing interest in her. She could be a stunning Elizabeth Bennet. Yep, the more he looked at Jasmin Field – and he found himself looking longer and longer – the more he was struck by his uncanny knack for casting. Was there no end to his talents?

He walked slowly to the other end of the hall.

'What makes you unhappy?' He was walking round, looking for a likely candidate. 'Sara?'

Sara's voice was ever so husky at that angle.

'Poverty. People dying alone unloved. Homeless people make me weep. War. Famine––'

'Jasmin?'

Oh, not again. Was this punishment for snorting?

'Um. Finishing a bar of chocolate.'

Because her eyes were shut, she couldn't see how a full smile warmed Harry's chiselled features. 'You see, Sara,' he said, 'there's no point in playing this if you're not going to be honest. At least when Jasmin gives up, she does it honestly.'

Oh good, thought Jazz. I need an enemy.

The 'game' continued for forty minutes. People were saying staggeringly honest things about themselves, most of which Jazz had no desire to know. The whole thing, she was convinced, was to feed Harry's need to feel in control. Yet couldn't he see that most of the cast were only saying things to impress him? On the other hand though, it had been fascinating to discover that Mo wished she had been able to cry about her mother's death, but was unable to – except in her dreams. Jazz thought she knew everything about Mo.

She had noticed that Wills got particularly short shrift from Harry. In fact, Harry never asked him one question and Wills didn't seem surprised by it at all. He seemed happy enough to be ignored. But why should Harry ignore him? Jealous probably, she answered herself confidently, vaguely aware that that didn't make much sense.

* * * * *

One hour later, Lizzy, Jane, Kitty, Lydia, Mary and Mr and Mrs Bennet were reading through Scene One.

For the first half an hour, the mood was so buoyant that no joke was too small for a hearty laugh from all. Mrs Bennet in particular was very hyped. She kept telling awful anecdotes that began with, 'That reminds me,' and ended with punchlines so weak that Jazz had to stop herself from saying, 'So what happened next?' and were filled with such total irrelevance to what had preceded their telling that Jazz wondered whether the woman was in fact deaf. It wasn't long before she found it wearing to be with so many over-excited adults in one room.

'You know, that reminds me,' chuckled Mrs Bennet, apropos of nothing, 'of a very amusing story.' And with that, she interrupted herself by starting to laugh silently and shake her head, as though she didn't trust herself to tell the said tale.

Harry interrupted. 'Right people, let's try again from "While Mary is adjusting her ideas . . .", shall we?' Mrs Bennet didn't seem to mind at all, chuckling happily to herself and shaking her head as if it was just as well she'd been stopped. It seemed Jazz was the only one who even noticed Harry's rudeness.

Three hours later they were still doing the opening scene. It was approaching midnight. Jazz was tired, hungry and utterly bored. As she sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by the others, waiting for Harry to stop reading the script and tell the actress playing the part of Kitty what to do next, Jazz's stomach growled so loudly it actually frightened her. There was an embarrassed silence.

'I am officially starving,' said Jazz solemnly. 'Please call Comic Relief.'

The others laughed and added meaningful little quips like 'me too'. Harry didn't seem to hear any of this, he was too absorbed by the script.

'What do you
mean
by those words, Kitty?' he asked instead.

Kitty looked at the script as though if she looked hard enough the words would appear. She was so terrified of saying the wrong thing that she said nothing at all.

'Does
anyone
know?' said Harry painfully.

Jazz knew she might as well answer before he asked her anyway. 'She means "It's nearly midnight, you'd better let us go home now if you want us to ever come to another rehearsal".'

Harry looked at his watch.

'Jesus! Yes, of course,' he said quietly, as if only addressing himself. It apparently didn't matter to him that other people might find it late, only that it was late for him. He rubbed his eyes. 'Right then,' he clapped his hands. 'See you all Wednesday. Good work.' And he picked up his coat and walked out. He didn't even notice Purple Glasses who had been waiting for them all to leave so she could lock up.

Jazz and George dawdled getting on their coats and chatted outside the church door.

'That was absolutely knackering,' yawned Jazz.

'I know, he's brilliant.'

'Is he? Wills doesn't think so.'

'Wills?'

'William Whitby. He's playing Wickham.'

'Oh him. Well, he's not an Oscar-winner, is he?'

'No, but he's got a very nice arse.'

'Oh, and Harry hasn't, I suppose?'

'No, Harry has. There's no denying that. It's just one of my principles not to get involved with a man who talks out of it.'

'Want a lift home?'

'No, I need the fresh air, I'm completely shagged.'

'Well, phone me when you get home then.'

'Yes, Mum.'

* * * * *

The night air was deliciously fresh. Jazz loved being up when most people weren't – it was the closest she felt to nature, especially in West Hampstead.

'Want a lift?'

She looked over to the car at the end of the road. It was a clapped-out old MG with its roof down and Harry sitting in it. Despite the appealing picture, Jazz felt no urge to go any nearer. How long had he been sitting there? Had he heard anything they'd said? Did he think she needed a pep-talk already?

'No, thanks. I need the air.'

'You never know what's out there,' he said gravely. 'Could be dangerous.'

'No less dangerous than getting into the car of a strange man, I shouldn't wonder.'

'You think I'm strange, do you, Ms Field?'

Jazz mulled this over. 'Well, put it this way,' she said. 'I'm still making you out, Mr Noble.'

'Well, have a lift,' he said with a touch of impatience, leaning across to the passenger door and opening it wide, 'and you'll get some extra material for your work.'

She managed a smile. 'I think I've done enough work for today, don't you?'

Instead of answering the question, Harry simply said, rather dramatically Jazz thought, 'I won't bite, Ms Field,' as he started to put his key in the ignition.

Jazz walked up to him slowly.

'Look, since you like honesty without any pauses, here goes. I would prefer to walk through the midnight streets of West Hampstead on my own than have a lift in your car.' She shut the car door and smiled at him. 'Thanks all the same.'

And she strolled into the sweet night air.