“Of course,” said Gilbert silkily, “you do realise I almost know Harry Noble personally.”
Jazz raised her eyebrows questioningly and Gilbert needed no more prompting.
“Well, you know that his aunt, Dame Alexandra Marmeduke,” here Gilbert cast his eyes downwards as if she were dead, or a saint or something, “is the patron of our magazine? Without her, my life would have no purpose. No other publication, as you well know, has quite the same reverence for the theatre as we.” Jazz winced. “I owe her my livelihood and therefore my life. She's a spectacular woman. And her 1930s' Ophelia . . .” he closed his eyes as he savoured the memory “. . . was an all-time great. No one has ever surpassed it,” he whispered in hushed reverence.
Jazz nodded, wondering if that was the version where Ophelia wore a wig that looked like a dead octopus.
“But of course,” continued Gilbert, when he had quite recovered, “she and her nephew” - he paused for effect -“Do Not Speak.”
Jazz's eyes lit up. Inside information! “How come?” she asked.
“Didn't you know?” said Gilbert, delighted. Strictly speaking, he was aware that he shouldn't impart such a valuable piece of gossip to a fellow journalist without consulting terms first, but the temptation to impress Jazz proved irresistible. And anyway, it had always frustrated him that he could never actually make any money on this one - he couldn't risk Dame Alexandra finding out that he had been the source of such information. But, one day, who knew? He could receive payment of another kind from Jazz . . .
“Well, strictly entre nous,” he began, as he always did when about to sell a gem to a hack, “they had a furious family row years and years ago. That part's common knowledge within the theatrical world, but nobody - and I mean Nobody - knows the details quite like myself. Not many have had to visit Dame Marmeduke's Devon cottage. If I didn't work for that wonderful woman, I'd have sold this for a fortune, my dear. A fortune.”
Jazz started to grin mischievously and her eyes twinkled. She'd never heard this one.
Gilbert was just about to launch into the story when, to Jazz's extreme frustration, he sat back and stared at her, much in the same way one would eye a painting.
“You know, it's an absolute living, breathing joy to see you again,” he said, emphasising each word as if someone, somewhere, was writing down everything he said. “You look ravishing.”
Just when she thought she was going to have to get up and run out screaming, Jazz caught sight of her smiling sister George, coming towards her. She introduced George to Gilbert, hoping that somehow she could get him back to spreading malicious gossip and away from "joy", "ravishing" and, indeed, breathing.
“Ah yes, the working actress,” cooed Gilbert, standing up and kissing George on both cheeks. He was obviously impressed by what he saw, although he did manage to say the word "working" as though it was an insult.
Jazz explained to her sister how she knew Gilbert and hoped that George would have forgotten the many midnight conversations she had bored her with over her crush on him at her first job on a local paper. She also hoped George would vanish until her work here was done. Gilbert, luckily, adamantly refused to move from Jazz's side, leaving a polite George no choice but to sit down next to him, rather than edge past him to the free seat on her other side. Gilbert seemed to have no idea that he was in any way unwanted company for George. Instead he made lots of comments to the purpose of being a thorn between two roses, a comment he felt sure would delight Jazz.
Jazz winked at George and worked on Gilbert.
“So,” she said, forcing herself to look him in the eye, “it would be worth a fortune, would it, this piece of gossip?”
Gilbert smiled. It was rather charming having Jasmin Field's attention. Made him feel rather warm, rather nostalgic. He decided he didn't want to let go of it just yet.
He pretended to look at her afresh. “You know, I can't believe it's been so long,” he said, shaking his head at her.
“You should have called me. We could have done lunch.” A pause. “Or something.”
With a fixed smile on her face, Jazz turned to the church door while racking her brains for a way to get the subject back to Harry Noble and his aunt. She knew that it probably wasn't ever going to be usable in her magazine, but she couldn't quell her natural journalistic instinct to try and get to the bottom of this. She loved to know more about people than they supposed she knew.
Just then, she saw her flatmate Mo walking towards her, looking unusually sullen. It was only when Mo got nearer that Jazz could see that it was, in fact, terror written all over her face, and not moroseness.
“Hi,” grimaced Mo, when she reached Jazz. She didn't notice Gilbert, who had in any case turned his attention to George. Mo squeezed herself past Gilbert and George and sat down heavily next to Jazz. She looked awful. After a long, deep sigh, she turned to Jazz.
“You haven't got a Portaloo on you, by any chance?”
“I knew I'd forgotten something,” smiled Jazz. “You'll be fine. Just pretend you're teaching.”
“Oh — and that doesn't terrify me?”
Mo got up immediately and went to find the toilet. Jazz started to read the script, intrigued to see how Pride and Prejudice had been transformed into a play. The Jane Austen classic had been her all-time favourite book as a schoolgirl, and the young heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, was, without doubt, one of her favourite fictional heroines. Like many a sensitive, intelligent teenage girl, she had spent countless oppressive afternoons in a stuffy English classroom, dimly aware that a teacher was explaining Austen's use of plot, while fantasising that she was Lizzy Bennet - feisty, pretty, proud and poor.
They just don't write 'em like that any more, she thought to herself wistfully as she read the scene.
The excerpt chosen for the auditions was the explosive scene in which the hero, Mr Darcy, stuns Elizabeth by proposing to her for the first time. Jazz read it through and started to feel her heart pound against her ribcage: it was very well-written.
“It's a classic tale of intrigue, money and notorious family pride,” said a voice next to her. Jazz tried to look up, but couldn't tear herself away from her script.
“I said it's a classic tale of intrigue, money and notorious family pride. And it's yours for one smile.”
Gilbert was back on-line.
With an effort, Jazz looked up and gave him her best "I'm listening" smile. It worked.
He inched closer. “There was this massive Marmeduke and Noble family row years and years ago. Aunt Alexandra wanted our Harry to leave home and live with her instead of his parents when he was a child.”
Jazz frowned. “Why?”
Gilbert paused. It was the first time he'd ever considered this to be an unusual thing for an aunt to do. Eventually, he shrugged. “Because she's barking. Wealthy luvvies, you know,” he enlarged, gaining in confidence enough to start philosophising about something he knew nothing about, “do bizarre things like that.”
Jazz nodded briefly.
“Anyway,” said Gilbert, “she offered to pay for the best tuition in the country, give him everything money could buy - everything that his parents couldn't give him.”
Jazz was beginning to enjoy this.
“Wow,” she said quietly.
“Yes,” smiled Gilbert, “it's good, isn't it? You see, Alexandra had made her fortune as an actress and she'd always hated the fact that her little sister, Katherine - Harry's mother - had given up her career to become Wife and Mother. Alexandra was an early feminist. Told you she was barking.” He corrected himself. “Wonderful, of course,” he said quickly, “but eccentric, shall we say.”
Jazz's teeth began to grind.
“And she resented Harry's father Sebastian even more for being an excellent actor,” continued Gilbert, in full flow, “but one who was never in anything that made him or his family any money. Alexandra felt he should have provided better for her baby sister - accepted TV ads as well as RSC roles, that sort of thing -
but Sebastian would never stoop to it. So, she thought they were irresponsible parents and she'd do a much better job of bringing up their child.”
“What made her so amazingly arrogant?” asked Jazz, fascinated.
“Well,” sighed Gilbert sympathetically, “she was almost fifteen years older than Katherine and had rather mothered her during her childhood. Katherine had always idolised her older sister, and had gone into acting to be like her. Alexandra couldn't quite get used to the fact that little Katie could give it all up - and hence, give up idolising her - for a mere man. Took it as a big rejection. Never forgave Sebastian — never.”
He paused dramatically.
“Minto, anyone?” came a voice from behind Jazz.
Jazz turned to Mo and shook her head impatiently. Mo was nervous, she knew the signs. Frequent trips to the loo, witless interruptions and offers of Mintos. She should try and calm her down, but Gilbert's story was getting good. She loved a good yarn.
When Gilbert had her attention again, he explained: “Adopting little Harry would have been a way for Alexandra to recapture control of Katherine's life, you see. She was a complete control freak - still is.”
“And did it work?” asked Jazz.
“Nope. Sadly, it had exactly the opposite result. It sounded the death knell for Alexandra and Katherine's relationship.”
Jazz nodded. That made sense.
By the time Mo had returned from another trip to the toilet, Jazz was so engrossed in Gilbert's story that the distant sound of female screams from outside the church made no impact on her.
Harry Noble had arrived.
By the time she'd noticed the hush and looked up, Harry Noble had already walked past her and was on his way to a big black door leading to the audition room. Every head in the room was turned towards him. Jazz didn't get much of a chance to watch him go, but she caught a quick glimpse and it was enough for her to spot the same manner of striding past his fans, the same jeans, the same jacket. It made her feel she knew him somehow. He put his hand on the door handle, turned round to the room and spoke in a deep, clear, velvety voice.
“The first two in five minutes,” he said. And with that he was gone.
There was silence for a moment and then everyone started talking at once.
“I think I need the loo again,” said Mo.
Chapter 2
“Who's that girl with Georgia Field?” asked the actress in the leather jacket, Sara Hayes, to her new bosom friend Maxine.
Maxine looked over. “Which one?”
“The pretty one. Next to Georgia.”
“I don't know,” said Maxine. “The other two can't be actors. Unless they're character actors.”
They smirked.
“Do you think she's Georgia Field's sister?”
“The one who's a journalist? I think she may be. They've got the same nose.”
“Ye-es,” said Sara thoughtfully. “Although she just doesn't have It like Georgia does. Maybe if she were blonde . . . She'd vanish in a snowstorm, she's so pale. And she's fatter than Georgia.”
“Oh, she's not that bad,” said Maxine. “She's just curvy. Some men like tits and arse.”
“Yes,” said Sara, “but they're all over sixty.”
Maxine smiled. “She's got fuller lips than Georgia.”
“Mmm,” nodded Sara. “Very eighties.”
Happily unaware that she was being scrutinised by the actress and her friend, Jazz was busy observing their smiling, blond companion. His large blue eyes, which were admittedly flitting around a fair bit, seemed to alight on George rather often. And while there, she saw in them that dazed expression she so often noticed in men watching her sister. It was like a friendly rabbit caught in the headlights. She liked him, she decided instantly.
* * *
Every time two more people had gone inside to audition, Mo had told herself that she'd go in next. Every time they had come out, her body had told her not to be so rash. Jazz finally forced her in with the threat of making her do the washing-up for a month.
Seven minutes later she re-emerged, a pack of unfinished Mintos still visible in her tightly clenched fist.
“That man is a bastard,” she said coldly. “I'm going home.”
Gilbert started to stand up slowly, as if to stretch his legs.
“Suppose I'd better give it a whirl,” he said with a grin. “So to speak.”
“So that's it then?” asked Jazz, keen to find out as much of Gilbert's story as possible. “A simple family feud?”
Gilbert sat down again.
“Oh no, it gets much better,” he said. Jazz noticed that every time Gilbert started up the story again, he got closer to her. Any more interruptions and he'd be sitting on her lap.
“Give them their due,” he went on, “Harry's folks actually let him - their only son - make the choice. Told him that his aunt was rich and could give him more than they ever could, blah blah blah. They were big on children being treated like small adults -” here he stopped to interrupt himself. “Whole bloody lot of them are barking, if you ask me.”
Jazz unclenched her jaw, which had gone numb.
“Upshot was young Harry refused her offer. Not just refused it but, unbeknown to his parents, he wrote her a stinking letter, as only a twelve-year-old boy can. Well, you can imagine the effect that had,” he said proudly.
Jazz couldn't. Gilbert elaborated for her.
“An eccentric, hypersensitive, control-freak luvvie being told by a twelve-year-old brat that she's a fat old cow.”
Jazz gasped. How did Gilbert get this kind of information? From the fat old cow's mouth?
“Well,” said Gilbert with a finishing flourish, “that was it for the Marmeduke and Noble entente cordiale. Finale, as we say in the trade.”
Jazz nodded slowly. “So!” she thought to herself. The adored Harry Noble had one very bitter enemy.
“With no encore,” added Gilbert.
Jazz nodded again.
“Curtain.”
“Yes, I see,” said Jazz firmly, realising that nodding was not doing the trick.
Then the audition door opened and in a moment, Gilbert was gone.
Jazz tried to lean back and unwind, but she couldn't get rid of the tension in her body caused by spending some of her quality time with a moron.
George went in next. She came out twenty-five minutes later with a big grin on her face.
“That was amazing. He's going to be a brilliant director,” she beamed. “Tough, though. God, I hope I get a part.” And with a quick glance over at the blond rabbit in the headlights, to check that he was still looking, she sat down next to Jazz to dissect the audition.
Jazz's stomach was starting to feel as tense as the rest of her body, but she was determined to stay until the end. It would give her more to write about.
After Gilbert had come out of his audition, he had spent some time chatting to all the hopefuls he knew and loved. Quite a while later, he came to say goodbye to Jazz.
“How did your audition go?” she asked, with a healthy vested interest.
“Oh, you know,” said Gilbert, affecting indifference, though looking rather shaken, “I'm only doing it for the work possibilities. Couldn't miss an opportunity like this.”
“Are you a spy for Dame Alexandra?” gasped Jazz.
“Hush, my dear,” said Gilbert, suddenly nervous. “Good Lord no. If she knew I was here, I'd be out of a job in no time. Oh no,” and a slow smile appeared on his lips, “she has no idea, lives in her little cottage, happily filling her scrapbooks and feeding Revenge and Sweet.”
“Eh?” said Jazz, her eyes wide.
Gilbert sat down next to her again, unable to hide a grin. This time he was so close that his thigh was pressed against hers, and his mouth was so near that if Jazz turned round too quickly they would, in some parts of the world, be technically married. She decided the best policy was to freeze rigid and keep her eyes down.
“That's the best part of the whole st
ory,” he whispered urgently, his breath ice cold on her neck. “The part that nobody else knows but me. Alexandra hasn't spoken to the Noble family for twenty years. And she has fifty scrapbooks of cuttings on them all, starting with the infamous letter from twelve-year-old Harry. She won't let anyone mention their name in her presence and has called her two Persian cats Revenge and Sweet.”
To Jazz's relief, Gilbert inched away so that he could register her shock and awe.
“Twenty years,” he repeated. “Fifty scrapbooks. Fifty.”
Ooh, thought Jazz. That was almost worth having to sit through. Cats and scrapbooks - spooky. However, if she didn't get up soon, she would lose sensation in the leg Gilbert was practically sitting on.
“Right, well. I suppose I'd better go in soon,” she said and leapt up away from him. “Just going for a walk, get rid of my nerves. Bye then.” It didn't work. Gilbert sprang up to give her a big, wet kiss very near her lips. “Ciao, honey. Break a divine leg.”
She watched him walk away and sat straight back down to finally give her script a proper read. Eventually she and George were the only ones left, except for Purple Glasses, who was by now tidying the scripts.
George was finally ready to leave. “I must go — I'm seeing Simon tonight,” she said, working up to a smile.
Jazz looked at her sister. “What, Action Man? Swivel hips, roving eye, no genitals?”
“I wish you wouldn't call him that, Jazz.”
“Sorry. How about Fuckwit?”
“Jazz. That's not funny.”
“I know,” sighed Jazz loudly. “Sorry. I'm just nervous,” she lied. She'd rather eat her own heart than hurt George intentionally.
George didn't reply. Jazz studied her sister. Tragic, she thought sadly. Congenitally unable to enjoy life without a boyfriend.
They both stood up and smiled the short, wistful smile they used when they disagreed about something. As George walked out, Jazz walked silently to the audition door. It was ajar. She was about to knock to remind them she was still there, but for some reason decided not to.
The soft sound of conversation came from inside.
Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field Page 2
