Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field

by Melissa Nathan

  At the end of the rehearsal, as she was picking up all her things, she could feel Harry approach behind her. As usual he just stopped and stared.

  She turned round.

  “Do you mean to frighten me by staring all the time?” she asked rudely.

  Harry seemed genuinely surprised. “I only came to ask if you were ready,” he said.

  She looked over to Wills who was deep in chitchat with one of Lizzy's pretty younger sisters. She didn't notice Harry follow her gaze. Suddenly, he was spurred into action.

  “Right, let's go,” he said and led the way.

  Harry's car was not what she had expected. It was messy inside, and because it had been sitting in the sun all day, it was also stiflingly hot and the leather seat was sticky on Jazz's skin.

  The journey wasn't long by foot but because of all the one-way streets, it took a while to get there by car. All Jazz could think of was how much she would prefer to be walking. It was the end of a lovely summer's day. Harry took the MG's roof off and they wound down their windows and set off. His driving was forced and awkward, exactly like his manner, thought Jazz. Slowly she began to realise that he was actually self-conscious. She looked out to the left, so as not to put him off and tried not to smile when he stalled while letting a car go past him down a narrow street. She noticed the people in the car stared rudely at him in disbelief as they drove by. The girl shrieked suddenly: “Oh my God, it's Harry Noble!” How rude, thought Jazz. Harry ignored them completely. As they drove off, the girl shouted out laughingly, “Wanna shag?” Jazz closed her eyes in embarrassment and disgust.

  She had got into his car determined not to be the one to start talking, but when she realised that all Harry's concentration was taken up not driving onto the pavement, she decided it would be fun to engage him in conversation.

  “Do you offer people lifts to ignore them in a confined space?” She hadn't meant to make it sound quite so hard.

  Harry didn't answer.

  “I'll take that as a yes, shall I?”

  Eventually he answered. “Do you accept lifts to interrogate people?”

  “Of course,” she said with a smile. “I'm a journalist.”

  “And why would you want to interrogate me?”

  “To work you out, of course. Anywhere, here will do. That's my block. Number seven. Lucky for some.”

  He didn't so much park as stop somewhere near her mansion block.

  She was just about to get out when, looking ahead of him, Harry said, “You enjoy watching people, don't you?”

  “As I say, I'm a journalist. Anyway, I could say the same for you,” answered Jazz, squinting in the sun and opening her door.

  “Ah yes, but I don't put down my thoughts in a national magazine.”

  “That's only fun. No one takes them seriously. And that is my job, remember. The tacky world of women's magazines.”

  “I do remember,” he said gravely. He looked at her. “You write well.”

  Jazz was so surprised that she had no answer. If he'd been reading her columns, he'd have seen the few comments she'd made about everyone in the cast, including him. She had written some lovely, warm things about Wills but everyone else had got fairly sharp shrift.

  “Thank you.” The vision of him reading Hoorah! brought a smile to her lips.

  He was still looking at her. “Are you never worried that your criticisms - witty and urbane though they may be - might sometimes be wrong?”

  Riled, Jazz knew she might have guessed there would be an insult behind his compliment.

  “No,” she said shortly. “I'm not. And I can assure you I don't put all my thoughts down. Only the ones I won't get sued for.”

  “You seem to have a lot of confidence in your opinions.”

  “Yes, and confidence is so unbecoming in a woman, isn't it?” she said, and continued before he could interrupt: “Tragically, Mr. Noble, I'm usually right. Would that I was wrong more often.”

  “Are your opinions always that depressing?”

  Jazz shrugged. “Yes. Most of the time. I find most people unlikeable.”

  “Such cynicism in one so young,” he half-smiled.

  “Ah well, the more people I meet, the more I like my fridge,” misquoted Jazz.

  “I think you like to hate. It makes you feel superior.”

  Jazz had had enough of the character assassination. “Oh? As opposed to actually being superior — like yourself, I suppose?” she asked.

  Harry shrugged. Amazed, Jazz continued. “I've met someone through this play who seems to have a very different opinion on the matter of your natural superiority.”

  At first Harry looked uncomprehending, then a realisation struck and to Jazz's delight, he started to look profoundly uncomfortable. Jazz was determined not to be intimidated by the silence that followed. When she thought Harry would not reply, she picked up her bag as thought to leave. It worked. Harry coughed.

  “William Whitby has a way about him,” he said eventually. “No woman I have ever met seems able to withstand his charms for very long.”

  “You sound jealous,” Jazz said quietly.

  Harry seemed angry. “Then you don't know what jealousy sounds like,” he said with ill-disguised scorn.

  Jazz ignored that. “Since he's so irresistible, it's bizarre, don't you think, that he hasn't made it in Hollywood? After all, he has the right connections and the right talent.” Harry seemed to be making an effort to control himself. Thinking she might have gone too far, she changed tack. “Anyway,” she countered, “wouldn't you say that you are also pretty confident in your own opinions?”

  “Yes, if they're made with sound judgement,” replied Harry.

  “Ah. So it's just women who make errors of judgement, then?”

  “Those are your words, not mine. I hope I would never be so sexist.”

  “How sweet,” smiled Jazz. “You'd be the first man I'd ever met who wasn't.”

  “Maybe that says more about the men you meet than men in general,” Harry retorted.

  Jazz was furious. “Oh well, of course it would be my error and not men's. Thank you for putting me right after all these years. It must be ever so nice to be perfect.”

  “I never said I was perfect, Ms. Field,” said Harry, growing more and more annoyed, “but I would like to think that perception and judgement are not my faults.”

  Jazz refused to give up. “But tell me, would you confidently say that you've never let professional rivalry influence your opinion-making?”

  Harry stared straight ahead. “I hope I'm bigger than that,” he said shortly.

  “Because,” Jazz continued, “when someone holds as much sway over others' opinions as you do, and someone is as sure of their own opinions as you are, wouldn't you agree that it would be doubly important for your opinions about people to be right?”

  Harry frowned at Jazz before answering thoughtfully, “It's always important for people's opinions about others to be well-founded. The difference with me perhaps is that once founded, my opinions rarely change.”

  Wasn't that one of Darcy's lines from the play? thought Jazz. To both of their surprise, they smiled together suddenly. They couldn't avoid the fact that they were starting to think and behave like the characters in their play. Harry was used to this phenomenon — a few years ago, he had actually felt his back ache and one leg feel weaker than the other when playing Richard III - but to Jazz, this was a new sensation, as if her personality was possessed. Even though it was by the personality of Lizzy Bennet, it was still somewhat unnerving.

  “The trick,” Harry continued, “as any good journalist — like yourself— would know, is to go to the right sources instead of — instead of. . .” He broke off, obviously thinking of words to describe Wills.

  “Instead of sources which you disapprove of?” helped Jazz.

  “Instead of sources that might be misleading,” he finished quietly.

  “Well, thanks for the lift,” said Jazz “it's been most educative.”
And she leapt out of the car, slammed the door shut and was gone. If he thought she'd be inviting him in for coffee he was very much mistaken.

  She threw shut her front door and, feeling very much like Jasmin Field again and very little like Lizzy Bennet, stomped angrily up the stairs. Dripping with sweat, she jumped straight into the shower where she allowed herself to give vent to her hatred for the man who thought he could criticise her writing just because he had given her a lift home. How dare he? How would he like it if she criticised his acting?

  Harry meanwhile, was getting lost down a one-way street. His fury at Jazz was soon taking a different direction. When he got home some forty minutes later, he sat in his car for a while, just thinking. He looked at the seat next to him, noticed some drops of sweat on it and, feeling very much like Harry Noble again and very little like Fitzwilliam Darcy, smiled at how crude he could be sometimes.

  Chapter 12

  Apart from the unwanted attentions of Harry Noble, Jazz was having to cope with a considerably more annoying pest during rehearsals.

  For some reason Gilbert Valentine seemed to think that she and he had something rather special going on. Odd that when they had worked together all those years ago, he had hardly noticed her existence, and now that she saw him for what he really was, he seemed interested. He hardly ever left her side, which was almost more than she could bear at the best of times, but what made it even more infuriating was that it was putting Wills off. He hardly ever came over for a chat any more. She was going to have to do something about it, and tonight was the night. Daniel McArthur - playing Denny, the mutual army friend of Lizzy's sister, Lydia and the wicked Wickham - was giving a party and Jazz was determined that this would be her opportunity to make it bloody obvious that she was not interested in Gilbert.

  At the end of the rehearsal, she managed to get five minutes with Wills.

  “Are you coming tonight?” she asked.

  “I hope so,” he said earnestly, treating her to a long look with those eyes, “although it might be a bit awkward.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, rehearsing with the man is one thing, but socialising with him is quite another.”

  Jazz was utterly disappointed. She felt pure anger towards Harry.

  “You can't let him spoil your life just because he spoiled your career,” she said hotly. “You have to go. Anyway, there's no way he'll be there. He wouldn't lower himself. Believe me,” she tapped her nose, “inside information,” she said, thinking back to the conversation she'd overheard at the audition, when Harry had insulted his then future cast to Matt and Sara.

  Wills looked over at Harry. “You're right. Why should I let the likes of him spoil my fun?” He grinned broadly at her. “OK - you're on. If you're going.”

  She smiled. “Of course I am.”

  “It's a date,” he beamed.

  * * *

  Later on that evening Mo came into Jazz's room. She had kitted herself out in a new slimline party outfit. It was black. Jazz thought she looked like a slim widow.

  “How do I look?”

  “With your eyes.”

  “Gee thanks. Don't ever become a Samaritan.”

  Jazz turned to Mo and gave her a thorough inspection. She smiled. “You look really gorgeous, Mo.”

  Mo brightened. “Thanks. If I don't get a shag, I'll kill myself”

  Jazz gave a short laugh. “How post-feminist of you,” she said. “Emily Pankhurst would be proud.”

  Jazz herself was still wearing only a bra and knickers. Outfits were strewn all over the floor.

  “Aren't you ready yet?”

  “No,” Jazz sighed. “I'm having a wardrobe crisis.”

  “Don't be daft, you've got a lovely wardrobe. Get dressed, we're late.”

  “I don't know what to wear,” moaned Jazz and slumped onto the bed.

  Mo patiently sat down next to her. “What do you feel comfortable in?”

  “Bed.”

  “Hmmm. I've seen you in bed and it's an ugly sight. I don't recommend it.” She looked round the room. “Hmm. Try that pink top on, by the sofa.”

  Jazz got up and put it on.

  Mo wished she had Jazz's curves. “Lovely. Now put on that short floaty fuschia skirt.”

  Jazz did.

  Mo wished she had Jazz's strong, long legs. “Perfect. Let's go.”

  They were meeting George at the party. It was a regular pattern. Now that George was With Man, she would of course, be going there with him.

  * * *

  They could hear the music as soon as Mo parked her car. As they got to the door, she turned to Jazz and said, “Knock 'em dead, pal.”

  “Or at least knee 'em where it hurts.”

  They pushed the door open. Suddenly Jazz shut it again.

  “If you see Gilbert Valentine coming anywhere near me,” she hissed, “save me, for God's sake. Otherwise I won't be held responsible for my actions.”

  “OK,” Mo promised.

  At first the dark made them both squint; they couldn't see a thing. Gradually everyone became distinct and Jazz realised that the reason it had taken her eyes so long to adjust was because nearly everyone was dressed in black, like Mo. It looked like a wake. Immediately, she became aware of the dark, almost menacing presence of Harry Noble at the back of the room, facing the door. Damn, she thought. What the hell was he doing there? Didn't he think everyone here was too far below him to socialise with? And didn't he realise how off-putting it was to have him there? How could people let themselves go when they were in awe? And why was he always looking at her like that? As if he knew something about her that she didn't? A horrid, knowing, half-smile. It infuriated her.

  She spotted Gilbert approaching him, so took Mo by the hand and rushed her to the cramped living room where the music was blaring. She and Mo started to dance. Jazz loved dancing. It was the one area of life (that didn't involve manual labour, nudity or pain) where everyone knew that women were superior to men and accorded them the proper respect. As they started to dance, Jazz watched with astonishment as Gilbert started talking to Harry and Harry, totally ignoring him, actually looked over his head and slowly walked away from him, leaving Gilbert standing stupidly on his own, trying to look like he had meant it to work that way. She realised she was laughing. She and Mo boogeyed happily together for about an hour.

  Harry honestly hadn't registered Gilbert's presence. He'd been too intent on finding a better position from which to observe Jasmin Field. He had tried not to watch her but couldn't help himself. He had never seen anyone forget themselves so totally. Her eyes were closed and her body moved with such ease and elasticity to the different beats of the music that it was as if the music was going through her body. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Even when she started doing some very stupid-looking steps to a song that would have made Norway proud at the Eurovision Song Contest, he thought she was electric.

  A cool voice eventually disturbed his thoughts.

  “Still think the Ugly Sister is perfect for Miss Elizabeth Bennet?” It was Sara Hayes. Sara was dressed in the obligatory little black number, which showed off her staggeringly long legs. Jazz was now doing a Mexican wave all by herself, while Mo pogo-ed round her.

  Harry found himself in the unusual position of wanting to laugh out loud.

  “More than ever.”

  “She certainly doesn't care what people think of her,” conceded Sara. “Just like Lizzy.”

  “That's true,” agreed Harry. “And she's just as fascinating.” And with that he disappeared, leaving Sara feeling sick to her stomach.

  Mo started miming having a drink and Jazz nodded. Her hair was starting to stick to her head with sweat. They went to the kitchen, which was packed.

  As if from nowhere, Gilbert appeared. “Well, you two have certainly been enjoying yourselves,” he said in a slightly disapproving tone. He was, as usual, much too close for comfort.

  “Yes, well, it's a party, Gilbert,” said Jazz. “By the way, have you sa
id hello to Mo?”

  Gilbert gave Mo a cursory smile.

  “Mo's playing Charlotte Lucas to your Mr Collins.”

  Gilbert managed to keep his smile going and raise his eyebrows in a show of interest.

  “She's my flatmate,” continued Jazz.

  Mo smiled at Gilbert and then said to Jazz, “I'm not that flat, mate.”

  Jazz grinned at her. “Do you know that's funny every time you say it?”

  “Thanks,” said Mo with a big smile.

  “What drink do you want, Mo?” asked Jazz, desperate to get away from Gilbert. She was damned if Wills would come in to find her talking to him. She was hugely disappointed to discover he wasn't there yet.

  “Ooh, I'll have a beer please Bob,” said Mo.

  Jazz went off and pretended to take ages to get the beers in. She turned round to see if she could spot Wills and gasped in revolted horror. Gilbert was pressing against her in the crowd.

  “Hello gorgeous,” he whispered with a big smile. He said it as if it was the concluding sentence to some storyline. Ignoring the significance he'd given his words, Jazz pushed the beers in front of her, forcing a gap between them.

  “Gilbert, I'll spill the drinks,” she said, but he put his hands on the sink, cornering her completely. As his mouth approached her ear, Jazz closed her eyes pretending she was somewhere else. Anywhere else. Trapped in a ski-lift with the McGann brothers - anything.

  “Come on,” he whispered. “You know you want to.”

  Jazz's body went cold. She hissed back, “Yes, but I'll be done for GBH.”

  “Ooh, sexy,” he laughed as he put one hand on the curve of her waist and rested the other on her hip.

  Jazz shrieked at his touch. He seemed a bit surprised and moved his hands back on to the sink. He raised his eyebrows at her. “I didn't take you for the shy type,” he said.

  “I am not shy,” she spat. “I'm picky. And you haven't been picked.”