“Is Harry Noble always going to be that terrifying?” asked Mo.
“No more than your average pretentious, egocentric actor,” grinned Jazz at George. Jazz had interviewed so many celebs over the years that she wasn't remotely in awe of them any more. Apart from the odd one or two who showed a genuine interest in the stranger to whom they were pouring out their one-dimensional hearts, she had found that most of them were self-obsessed and pathetic. But she'd never interviewed anyone nearly as famous as Harry Noble; he was way out of her league. He was A-list, while she had only ever done strictly B- and C-list actors. And of course, he was a member of the famous Noble dynasty - a whole family of celebrated Shakespearean actors and part of England's heritage. Harry though, had been the first Noble to break into Hollywood.
Jazz had been impressed by every performance he'd done; even the cameo role he'd performed in a tacky American sitcom had had class. And he had shone at the Oscars. She thought he was a truly wonderful actor. And she'd been delighted to discover that in real life, he was every bit as abominable as she'd expected.
* * *
The next morning, Jazz sat at her computer in Hoorah!'s features department, her eyes unfocused and her mind freewheeling. She'd finished “I married my poodle!” in only two hours and was trying desperately to think of a way into this week's column.
Miranda, the junior researcher, was tapping away furiously at her wretched keyboard and Mark was pretending to be John Humphreys over the phone to a woman who had eloped with her husband's son by his first marriage. He had now asked her the same question four times. She imagined the woman was probably close to tears at the other end.
Maddie Allbrook, their boss, was reading her horoscope.
“Ooooh,” she said excitedly. “I'm going on a long journey. Maybe that's my summer holiday?”
“Crikey, how do they do that?” said Jazz, shaking her head. “Genius.”
Maddie pouted happily. It was impossible to upset her; God knows, Jazz had tried over the years. Maddie had creamy white skin and long, wavy black hair. She was petite and always wore little mini-skirts. She loved her job, her colleagues, her life. If she had been a house, she'd have been a little country cottage, complete with beams, log fires and creeping clematis up the front wall.
Mark slammed the phone down.
“Hopeless. Fucking hopeless,” he shouted dramatically. Maddie and Jazz looked at him as he wiped his hand over his eyes and over his head. “Woman had a brain the size of a split pea,” he went on. “I've gotta get out of this place.” And with that he strode out of the room, off for a fag no doubt.
Mark had long since stopped intriguing Jazz. By now, she had him pretty well sussed. With his saucer-shaped, dazzlingly blue eyes, angular cheekbones and high forehead, he had obviously been a beautiful baby and child. Which explained why he compensated by being a total dickhead to work with. He used every macho trick in the book to hide the fact that he was actually a rather sweet bloke. He had worn his thick curly, golden hair - the sort of hair any self-respecting woman would have grown as long as possible and nurtured with loving care — cropped close to his head for as long as she'd known him. If he knew that it actually made him look more vulnerable, he would no doubt have grown it. And he moved his body - which, she guessed, had only shot up and broadened in his late teens, long after the insecurity had set in - with a studied aggression.
Jazz's desk was opposite Maddie's; Mark sat in the far corner of the room facing them both. There was an empty desk opposite Miranda, but Mark had astutely chosen not to sit there when he joined almost a year ago. Jazz could see why. Miranda was about as interesting as varicose veins, although not quite as attractive. Over the past few months Jazz had begun to get the oddest feeling that she was being watched whenever things went quiet in Mark's corner. And his bolshie outbursts had grown more and more unpredictable. She hoped to God he wasn't starting to fancy her. She tried not to think about it. Just like she tried not to think about the depths to which her principles had sunk.
When she'd started at Hoorah! it had been one of a dying breed, a magazine that was interested in the higher qualities of life; relationships that lasted instead of those that collapsed spectacularly, people who were an inspiration, not an example. Unfortunately the readers were leaving in their thousands. “Nice” just wasn't a seller any more. People wanted short, they wanted snappy, they wanted dirt. Agatha Miller was brought in as the new Editor and she changed everything. Hoorah! became Hoorah! the women's magazine with a difference - the difference being that it had readers. The writing style went downmarket, the morals stooped, the storylines stooped lower still and the circulation hit the roof. Jazz found herself working on a trashy women's magazine instead of the last remaining decent one.
Agatha had brought with her a few colleagues from her previous magazine and Mark was one of them. Thankfully though, Agatha had liked Jazz's column and hadn't wanted it changed too much. Just a few more exclamation marks - known in the business as screamers — put in here and there to alert readers to the fact that they had just read a joke. Each screamer cut Jazz like a knife, but she was grateful that her column hadn't been axed completely.
“Oh look, another one bites the dust,” said Maddie happily. She read out the first few paragraphs in the tabloid she was holding about another highly regarded columnist's descent into infamy. His skeletons had finally struggled out of the cupboard after years of being locked away in the dark. It was always the same. After this gleeful character assassination, no one would ever read his criticisms of others, his comments on the world and his observations of human nature, without thinking, You're a fine one to talk. However brilliant he was. And this one was brilliant.
Jazz was eternally grateful that her personal life was so straightforward. She had a family that would make the Waltons look like the Kennedys, and a track record that was neat and uncomplicated. She knew it had to stay that way. You couldn't be respected as one of society's critics if you stepped off the straight and narrow yourself. Society loved to hate a hypocrite. Especially a famous one.
She sighed a deep sigh. She just couldn't start her column. The longer it took to get going, the worse the column was. Why couldn't she focus her mind?
There was a squeal from the corner of the open-plan office, followed by some raucous laughter.
“Listen to this, it's priceless . . .”
It was Sandra, the agony aunt, reading another of her letters out to the eager office. Usually Jazz would tune in, but with a monumental effort she stared at her screen. Focus, focus, focus. She spread her fingers out on the keyboard as if about to plunge into a piano concerto . . . and stared hard at the blank screen. She started her favourite daydream puzzler, wondering which Baldwin brother she'd most like to get stuck in a lift with.
Her machine bleeped. Excellent, an e-mail.
She scanned her messages. The one at the top said Stop Press. She double-clicked it.
AARRGGH!! I've worked out how to use the e-mail. I'm so excited, I can't write
any more. Write back NOW. My address is Maureen-Harris @ loughborough.co.uk.
But if you ever call me Maureen to my face you're a dead woman.
Mo.
Excellent! It had only taken one year. Mo must be using the one staff computer. Maybe one of her four-year-olds had showed her how it worked. She started tapping.
Gold star!! Ten out of ten!! Etc!!
Jazz.
PS. What's for dinner?
Then she tried to concentrate. Another bleep on her computer. Bloody hell. She double-clicked.
AARRGGH!! I've worked out how to use the e-mail. I'm so excited, I can't write
any more. Write back NOW. My address is Maureen-Harris @ loughborough.co.uk.
But if you ever call me Maureen you're a dead woman.
Mo.
Oh dear. She'd write back and then she'd start her work.
Mo hon, you just sent me the same message twice. You've managed to do what some
people can never do. Be boring on e-mail.
Love, Jazz.
Another bleep. Mo again.
I know I sent it twice. I didn't think you were listening the first time.
PS. It's your turn to cook tonight. I cooked last month.
Jazz smiled. Thank God for modern technology.
Maddie had finished reading the papers. She was now standing up, sorting through her filing tray.
“Mark, your 100 Things You Didn't Know About Wicked Willy piece is outstanding.”
Jazz saw Mark grin widely, his eyes warm with pleasure. “Cheers, babe.” He winked at her.
“No, Mark,” said Maddie. “It's outstanding. It's late.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, you see, there's a bloody good reason for that.”
“Yes?”
“Bloody good . . .”
Maddie and Jazz watched him try and get out of this one.
Jazz's phone rang. “Bloody hell, I can't get a thing done,” she muttered before picking it up.
“I'm going to do it,” said a voice that sounded as if it was in a mangle.
“Do what?”
“Chuck Simon, like you told me,” said George almost inaudibly.
“Jesus,” whispered Jazz in awe. “When? Where?”
For the first time she realised that a single George was as unknown territory to Jazz as it was to George herself.
“Do you think that blond bloke at the audition really liked me?” asked George.
“I'm sorry, I fail to see the significance,” said Jazz in her favourite pompous tone.
“Never mind,” answered George. “Will you come round tonight? We can talk tactics.”
“Of course,” said Jazz sincerely. She just stopped herself from saying, “It will be my pleasure.”
“Thanks,” whispered George.
“We'll be nasty about Simon together,” promised Jazz. “It'll be fun.”
“There isn't anything nasty to say about him,” said George pathetically, remembering his broad shoulders and forgetting his broad rump.
“Oh, I'm sure we'll find something,” said Jazz. “I seem to remember he only has one eyebrow. I always meant to ask you if it goes all the way round his head.”
Jazz could hear her sister smile. “See you tonight,” she said.
Jazz put the phone down and started her piece. Title - Taking Control. She finished it forty minutes later, and then read the dailies.
Chapter 4
The doorbell rang at number 5, Winchester Road, Hampstead and Sara Hayes took a last look at herself in the gilt-framed mirror.
The doorbell rang again and she went to answer the front door. She smiled at her welcome guests.
“Hello, popsie,” she said to Maxine and the two gave each other air kisses. The affection bordering on gratitude that Sara felt for her new confidante, Maxine, was as much to do with the fact that she was married, as it was to do with the fact that she was unquestionably less attractive than her. Next to Maxine, Sara looked even more stunning. Happily, Maxine's fondness for Sara was based on her friend's amazing good looks and daring single lifestyle. Next to Sara, Maxine didn't feel so married and dull. Nothing bonds some women together more than their differences.
“Charles!” exclaimed Sara as warmly as she could to Maxine's husband, whose shoulders sloped at such a sharp angle she wondered that his blazer didn't fall off.
Expensive wine was handed over and surprised delight expressed. Then they all went into the lounge, where the lights "were dimmed and some carefully selected dinner jazz was playing quietly in the background.
“Are Harry and Jack here yet?” asked Maxine, as she sank into the soft, deep plum-coloured sofas and looked round appreciatively at the large room.
“No, they're keeping us waiting, naughty boys,” winked Sara affectionately and poured out two gin and tonics.
She couldn't help but be excited. It had been two weeks since the audition and Harry was bound to reveal what parts he had given her and Maxine. She was on tenterhooks to know. She was in danger of being typecast as a bitch, which as every actor knows, is good for the short term, but if you had real ambitions, like Sara, it had to stop. This would be a golden opportunity for her to be seen to work for charity, and it could also be the chance she'd been waiting for, for over ten years, to finally work with Harry Noble. She had been desperate to work with him ever since her brother Jack had made friends with him at RADA.
Maxine cared only slightly less passionately about getting a part in the play. She used to be an actress too before she had become big in celebrity fundraising. Her little black book now had more names in it than Who's Who. But it would be nice for her to get a bit of exposure again, just like the good old days, when she and Charles Caruthers-Brown had met.
Charles had first seen Maxine in the chorus of a West End production of Forty-Second Street, and he'd been so bowled over by her that he'd sent her an enormous bouquet of red roses backstage that night. After that, he had come and seen every performance for a fortnight until she had agreed to go out with him.
It certainly wasn't love at first sight for Maxine. Charles courted her very cautiously, and eventually, after seven months, a holiday in the Bahamas on his private yacht and a diamond necklace with matching tiara, she fell head over heels in love with him. After they married, her career had taken a back seat while they did up their London home and their country home, and she'd been only too happy to get involved in some high-profile fundraising "work. She "was to be involved in the fundraising aspect of this production too, but had auditioned with the hope of getting back into the limelight — and of adding the great Harry Noble to her little black book. In fact, she couldn't quite believe that she was going to be in the same room as him tonight. Neither could Charles. Even he was a bit tense.
The doorbell rang again and the men arrived.
Everyone stood up and said, “Ah,” as they came into the lounge. Jack Hayes's smiling face appeared round the doorframe first, followed almost immediately by his tall, slender frame. He ambled in, all jollity and eagerness to please. His cheeks were as rosy as ever and his eyes shone with warmth and interest. He was a tall man, but next to Harry, he looked slight, and beside Harry's crow-black hair, his blondness looked almost silly.
The genuine pleasure that Jack exhibited at being there would have eased the tension somewhat, had it not been for Harry's seeming indifference. Jack greeted them all warmly, kissing his sister and her friend on the cheeks and shaking Charles's hand vigorously. Harry stood in the corner and nodded his greetings to them, without a smile. Everyone was delighted by him. He made no reference to having met Maxine or Charles at the auditions and, as general conversation began, he let Jack do all the talking, preferring instead to study the various ornaments in the room. Sara grew more and more irritated with her brother. Why wouldn't he shut up, so that Harry could talk? After twenty tense minutes, the hired butler came in and announced that dinner was served.
The dining room was vast and decked out in rich red and gold with sumptuous velvet curtains swept up at the sides of the sash windows. A suit of armour occupied the corner of the room, somewhat unnerving those with sensitive dispositions. Sara had arranged the place cards so that she was sitting opposite Harry. Maxine and Charles were facing each other and Jack was at the head.
As they ate the gazpacho soup, Sara could wait no longer.
“The last time we were all in the same room, Mr. Noble, we were all desperate for your approval,” she said, with pretence at a coy smile. She had insisted on calling Harry Mr. Noble ever since he'd won the Oscar. He had never expressed displeasure at it, so she had kept it up whenever she was trying to be more intimate with him.
“Oh yes,” said Maxine, affecting surprise at the subject. “Can you put us out of our misery and tell us if any of us made the grade?”
She and Sara laughed in amazement at the idea and Jack joined in willingly. Charles was now preoccupied with his soup. The food had taken away what nerves he had
felt at the thought of meeting Harry Noble. Harry Noble was just a man but soup was soup. Even if it was cold.
“Oh, you can assure yourselves I approved heartily of you all,” said Harry, and continued to eat.
Sara tried again.
“Did any of us spring to mind when you cast the part of... say ... Elizabeth Bennet?”
Harry kept on drinking his soup.
“Perhaps that girl - now what was her name?” Sara laughed gently, “You called her the Ugly Sis—”
Harry interrupted. “Jasmin Field.”
“Yes, that's right — I think she's Georgia Field's sister,” said Maxine.
Jack looked up.
“Oh yes,” pretended Sara. “She was petrified, poor thing, I felt mortified for her. Mind you, she made a sterling effort, I thought, didn't you?”
Harry put his spoon down and wiped his mouth with his well-pressed serviette.
“Yes, sterling,” he said, placing his serviette on the table. “So sterling that she is our Elizabeth Bennet.”
There was a stunned silence.
“Marvellous!” said Jack genuinely.
“Elizabeth Bennet?” gasped Sara. “Lizzy?” she tried, hoping that she might have misheard.
“Yes,” said Harry simply. “Delicious soup, by the way.”
Sara struggled to keep her voice composed. “I must say I am most surprised,” she managed. “After all, when you first saw her you called her an Ugly Sister. Aren't you at all concerned that that's what the audience will think too?”
“No.”
“Surely you can't have a short, busty, ugly Lizzy Bennet? It will spoil everything.”
“When I first saw her,” corrected Harry, “she was standing in the shadow. I couldn't see her face properly from there. Especially her eyes.”
“Her eyes? What have they got to do with anything?” demanded Sara, her own eyes shrinking in anger.
“You didn't notice them?” asked Harry.
Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field Page 4
