Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field

by Melissa Nathan

  Gilbert didn't seem to hear her. “I remember you when you were just out of college,” he said huskily, getting nearer again. “Couldn't take your eyes off me, could you?”

  “Yes, but in those days I also liked shoulder pads. We all make mistakes.”

  Gilbert chuckled, “I made a mistake,” he said. “I didn't make my move. Go in for the kill.”

  “Oh, how exquisitely put. Look, Gilbert, how can I say this nicely?” She pretended to give it a second's thought. “I'm not remotely interested. OK? Is that clear enough? Perhaps you'd like me to show you the hand signals that go with that? And the facial expression? Or I could get someone to come over and translate?” The crowd made it impossible for Jazz to actually move away.

  Gilbert smiled. “Ooh, you've really learned the art of playing hard to get, haven't you?”

  Jazz was exasperated. It was impossible trying to get a message across to someone you couldn't bear looking in the eye. “Look,” she started. “What can I say? It was a long time ago. My sense of taste wasn't fully developed. Whereas you had peaked in every way. Life's sad but there you go. Face reality, Gilbert. I know it's tough, but it's ever so rewarding in the long-term.”

  “Mmm,” he whispered, pretending to smell non-existent perfume on her neck.

  Desperately, Jazz swiped his head with one of her cans of beer.

  “Ow! That bloody hurt!” he said angrily, finally moving away. He looked at her like she was a harpie.

  “It was meant to!” she shouted. “Now piss off before I pour the contents down you.”

  Gilbert stared at her in disgust. “Jesus, no wonder you're alone, Jasmin,” he said, eyeing her now as if he wouldn't sell her body to a tramp. “You always had a foul temper on you.”

  And with that he fought his way out of the room towards the door where Mo stood patiently waiting for her drink.

  Daniel, the host, appeared at the sink, washing a stain off his shirt. Only slightly shaken, Jazz tried the subtle approach. “Where's Wills then?” she asked.

  “Oh, he's not coming,” Daniel told her. “Didn't care to share an evening with You Know Who. Actually, he asked me to say sorry to you particularly.”

  Jazz was devastated. She tried to smile and started to drink Mo's beer absent-mindedly.

  Half an hour later, George came over, grinning like a fool. Jazz had now started to drink her own beer. George looked gorgeous in her little black number. Jack's hand seemed to be glued round her waist and Jazz thought her sister had never looked so happy.

  Jack went to get George a drink. Jazz always found it sweet the way men assumed that the second a woman became their girlfriend, she forgot how to do everything for herself -except cook, of course.

  “Gilbert's a shit and Wills isn't coming,” she shouted in George's face, not caring who heard. “But even worse, Wills isn't coming.”

  “Oh no,” said George, trying very hard to look sad.

  “And it's all because of your - your nice Mr. Harry Noble,” said Jazz.

  “He's not my Mr. Noble.”

  “No, but you think he's nice. And . . . nice,” she finished weakly.

  “I think everyone's nice,” beamed George. “I'm in love.”

  “That's nice,” said Jazz, opening another can that was lying near the sink.

  When Jack came over with George's drink, he beamed at Jazz with exactly the same happily dazed expression on his face as George. He whispered something to George and she giggled. Jazz felt lonely in a room full of so many people she couldn't move.

  She finished her third beer in no time and decided she was getting drunk. So she had a glass of wine instead and stopped thinking about her own troubles. She began to feel truly happy for George. Her sister had finally found her Mr Right. This was worth celebrating.

  Six hours later, she found herself sitting in a small, select group playing Fuzzy Duck, a peurile drinking game, the sole purpose of which was to make people so drunk they couldn't get their words round the title and would end up swearing. It was absolutely hilarious. She thought she'd die laughing. She had even managed to forget that Harry was there, or at least not care less that he was watching, as usual.

  “Where's the ashtray?” asked someone suddenly.

  Jazz thought this was very funny.

  “Where's the ashtray?” she copied and started laughing.

  “We've lost the ashtray,” said someone else urgently.

  “We've lost the ashtray!” spluttered Jazz. It just got funnier and funnier.

  “Spot the ashtray!” commanded someone else, and a few people duly started scanning the furry carpet.

  Jazz collapsed in loud hysterics. She thought she might be winded she laughed so much.

  “Fido the plant!” she squealed.

  There was a pause, while Jazz laughed so much that no noise came out. Then gradually, the others started to join her. Soon everyone was laughing till it hurt.

  “Ferdinand the television,” roared Jazz, tears running down her cheeks.

  There was an explosion of laughter.

  “Digbert the Sofa,” whinnied someone else, and Jazz laughed so much she forgot to breathe in.

  As Fuzzy Duck came to a rather unusual end, Harry Noble realised he was in danger of becoming seriously unfocused professionally.

  Chapter 13

  Jazz woke up feeling very fragile indeed. Somehow, someone had come into her room in the night and placed a throbbing headbrace over her skull and a dead yak in her mouth. She prised her eyes open.

  Without moving her head any more than was completely necessary, she managed to heave herself out of bed and into the hall. She had no idea what she was wearing, what the time was or who she was, although the name Tamsin seemed strangely familiar. But when she came face to face with a smirking pyjama-clad Gilbert Valentine in her hall, she knew something was terribly wrong.

  “Ooh, nasty,” he beamed when he saw her.

  The word "Likewise": struggled to mind but didn't make it to her mouth. Suddenly, the night before hurtled back to her with some force. Oh God, no. She managed to run into the kitchen.

  Mo was sitting at the table with a coffee, toast, the papers and a big grin. Jazz came in, slammed the door shut and leant against it.

  “You have to help me,” she whispered, putting her hand to her forehead and starting to whimper.

  “Why?” asked Mo.

  Jazz started pacing the kitchen, distressed beyond belief. Surely she couldn't have? Not with Gilbert? She could never live with herself again. She was actually wringing her hands.

  “For God's sake, Jazz, what's wrong?” asked an increasingly concerned Mo.

  “There's been a horrendous - hideous - heinous - horrendous mistake,” whispered Jazz dramatically.

  “You've been offered a job in the Diplomatic Corps?”

  Not hearing, Jazz stopped pacing suddenly and froze on the spot, ashen-faced.

  “Jazz, what is it?”

  “I think I'm going to be sick,” she mouthed and rushed to the sink.

  Mo went straight to her side and started rubbing her back. She was starting to get really worried.

  Just then Gilbert's voice came from the hall. “I'm just having a shower, pussycat!”

  Jazz retched. She was ice cold yet covered in sweat.

  The retch seemed to do the trick. She didn't think she was going to be sick any more. Slowly she turned away from the sink and walked to the table where she sat down heavily. Mo joined her. They sat there in silence for a while.

  “Well?” said Mo gently, her hand stroking Jazz's arm.

  Not really, thought Jazz.

  “I - I - I -” Jazz didn't think she could form the words out loud. “I think I,” she whispered, “may have just . . . just . . . just... ”

  “Yes?”

  Jazz was almost inaudible. “Slept with . . . Gilbert Valentine ... a bit ... last night.” And with a gasp at hearing the words out loud, she laid her head on the table and pulled her face into an extremely ugly expres
sion of self-loathing.

  “Well now,” said Mo crisply, taking her hand off Jazz's arm. “That would be impressive,” and she stared at her open paper.

  “Oh God,” whimpered Jazz, her head still lying next to Mo's paper. “I'm going to have to commit suicide, it's the only way I can live with myself.”

  “Two women in the same night, eh?” said Mo through gritted teeth, pretending to talk to herself.

  “I'll leave you all my Boney M records, Mo,” mumbled Jazz pathetically.

  “And two women who've been friends since they were four, too,” Mo went on, a bit firmer this time.

  “And my papier mache bin,” continued Jazz.

  “Who live in my flat,” finished Mo.

  There was a long pause. Slowly Jazz lifted her throbbing head and looked suspiciously at Mo.

  “Wha - ?” she interrogated.

  “You didn't sleep with Gilbert Valentine last night,” Mo told her gently.

  “I didn't?” Jazz started to frown and shake her head, but it hurt too much.

  “No,” said Mo. “You slept with a big smile on your face.”

  “Oh! Thank Christ for that,” said Jazz, emotionally. “You don't know how happy you've made me, Mo. You're an angel.” Grinning, she sat back in her chair. “I must give something to charity. Have you got any small change?” She padded over to the cupboard where the aspirins were kept.

  “I slept with Gilbert Valentine,” said Mo calmly.

  And Jazz was suddenly stone cold sober.

  “What do you mean, you slept with him?” hissed Jazz.

  “I mean I had carnal knowledge of him,” said Mo, straight-faced.

  “What?”

  “I had sexual intercourse with him.”

  Jazz felt faint. “Please. I might want to eat later.”

  Mo ignored her and read her paper silently.

  Jazz came back to the table and stood by Mo. This was terrible.

  “Do you know what you're doing?” she asked eventually. “He is a lizard of the highest order.”

  “I didn't know lizards had orders.”

  “He - he - he -”

  “He made me scream Eke a wildcat four times in one night,” said Mo. “That doesn't happen very often.”

  Jazz thanked heaven for small mercies and thought she was going to retch again.

  Just when she thought things couldn't get any worse, Gilbert himself came into the kitchen, wearing nothing but her favourite yellow fluffy towel.

  “That's my towel,” she croaked.

  “Oh, I'll take it off then,” said Gilbert, smiling wickedly at Mo and starting to peel it off.

  “No!” screamed Jazz. “It's fine. You can borrow my robe as well.”

  “Hello, pussycat,” Gilbert slimed at Mo.

  To Jazz's utter horror, Mo actually purred and Gilbert slid past Jazz to Mo and the two of them started doing some very loud, wet kissing.

  Jazz thought she was living in a nightmare. This couldn't possibly be happening. Not in her own home. In her own kitchen. In her own towel. Oh God. She struggled to her room and phoned George. George was out. She paced her room. A whole Sunday to get through and Mo had gone mad in the kitchen and George was in love somewhere. Should she phone Josie? No, Josie had a life, the bitch. Her mother?

  No, that would only depress her. What to do, what to do, what to do ...

  The phone went. Jazz rushed to answer it.

  “Poppet?” It was her mother.

  Jazz started crying silently into the phone.

  “Hello, Mum,” she sniffed.

  * * *

  “Mo is allowed to have boyfriends,” said Jeffrey, sipping tea, while Martha cut Jazz another slice of apple cake and thought her heart would burst.

  “Not boyfriends I hate,” sniffed Jazz pathetically.

  “You're just jealous, dear.”

  “Jealous? Yes, I wish I'd have spent the last month dieting my personality away so I could sleep with Mr. Oilslick.”

  “Not of her. Of him.”

  Jazz paused.

  “More apple cake?” asked Martha.

  Jazz sat silent.

  “Jealous?” she finally repeated.

  “Yes,” said Jeffrey. “You've lost Mo, your soulmate. But don't worry, you'll soon get over it - when you find a true soulmate. Your own longterm partner.” Jeffrey felt proud that he'd managed not to say husband — that was very old-fashioned nowadays.

  Martha and Jazz both looked at him in dismay.

  “You were doing so well, dear,” said Martha, disappointed. “For a man.”

  Chapter 14

  Jazz got into work early on Monday morning. She had woken up at six and after twenty minutes of lying in her bed, fast awake, decided she couldn't get back to sleep. The thought of bumping into Gilbert in the hall again had actually invaded her dreams and roused her before the alarm went off. When she got there, she had only been slightly surprised to find Mark already there, tapping away furiously at his computer. She knew he was hungry, but hadn't realised how hungry. Another one on his way to the tabloids. Alison the secretary had put the coffee on and was already replying to readers' letters, while humming a Tammy Wynette number. Two years previously, when Jazz had started at Hoorah! she had been horrified to discover that Alison was only three years older than her. It was enough to make her want to cry. Alison wore little knitted cardis and put her long hair in a bun. Her stockings were never laddered and her eyeshadow was always blue.

  “Good weekend?” Mark asked Jazz before she'd even taken her coat off.

  “Oh, you know,” said Jazz, pouring herself a coffee. “Shite.”

  She sensed Alison bristle in the corner. Tammy Wynette took a pause.

  “Mine was amazing,” said Mark, leaning back from the desk and stretching out as if yawning. Jazz noticed he always did this when he was trying to hide the fact that he was feeling self-conscious. She cupped her coffee and watched him do his act.

  “Got laid,” he smiled, and stopped suddenly when he realised he was starting to blush.

  He looked at Jazz for a reaction. Jazz looked back at him for signs of a brain. Eventually, they both looked away, feeling lonely. Mark started typing again. God, he wished he worked at Loaded.

  Jazz closed her eyes and started taking slow sips of her coffee. Suddenly, a voice interrupted her messy thoughts.

  “Jasmin?”

  Jazz opened her eyes to find Paul, the Art Editor, standing so near to her, he was actually blowing on her coffee. How did he always do that? She checked his feet for wheels.

  “Hi,” she smiled, taking a small step back. Coffee was always better hot. And without an Art Editor's saliva in it.

  “How's it going?” He cocked a lazy smile at her. He was feeling good today. He was wearing a new taupe shirt.

  God help me, thought Jazz. One day I'm going to kill him.

  “It's your My Breast Enlargements Didn't Work! piece. Um . . .”

  Ah yes, my finest hour, thought Jazz. She raised her eyebrows encouragingly.

  “Agatha wants to add a column of copy, so I'm afraid you're going to have to cut five hundred words.”

  “OK,” she said. She didn't bother asking what the column was. She'd find out soon enough.

  “I've got a purple head this week.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “A purple headline. Well, mauve actually.”

  “Good.”

  “Make a bit of a change. Wake the readers up.”

  “Mm.”

  “You know me, I like my colour.”

  “Mm.”

  “And if the head brings them in, they'll read your brilliant words.”

  Jazz smiled weakly.

  “Right,” said Paul, and then vanished as quietly as he had come in. Jazz looked at Mark and Alison to see if they'd also seen him. They didn't seem to have.

  Half an hour later, Maddie, their boss, came in.

  “Hi guys!” she said. “Good weekends?”

  Mark sighed
loudly. “Well, if getting laid counts in this creche of a features department, then yes, I had a good weekend.”

  Maddie looked at him in surprise. “How lovely,” she said in a strained voice. “I went to IKEA. It was marvellous.”

  It didn't happen often, but when Maddie was annoyed, you knew it. Her rosy red lips pursed together and she frowned very determinedly. Jazz was always surprised at how much Maddie hated it when anyone got too personal in the office.

  “Jazz, can you come into the Editor's office, please?” The Editor's secretary bobbed up over the partition.

  Jazz looked at Maddie questioningly but Maddie just shrugged. Jazz knocked on the Editor's door.

  “Come in!”

  Jazz always wondered what it was about the Editor's office that made her so nervous. Maybe it was the hundreds of vapidly smiling faces on the magazine covers spread all over the wall that made her feel ugly. Or depressed. Or invisible. Or something.

  “Sit down Jasmin, we have some very nice news,” smiled Agatha.

  Jazz sat down.

  “You will be delighted to learn that your column has been shortlisted for the Columnist Personality of the Year Award,” announced Agatha. “We're all very proud.”

  Jazz frowned. “Columnist Personality of the Year? I've never heard of that.”

  “It's a new award, sponsored by the Evening Herald. Would you like to hear what they say about your column?”

  The Evening Herald was massive and its assessment of Jazz was nattering. But she was confused.

  “I didn't even know I'd been put forward for it,” she said.

  “Well, I didn't want you to be upset if you weren't shortlisted,” said Agatha. “But you have been — so well done!”

  “But I'm not a personality.”

  Agatha smiled her fresh, immaculate smile. “No, but Josie - the character -who's your sister in it - is hugely popular,” she said, picking up the readers' survey. “It appears Josie is our readers' all-time favourite part of the magazine. Seventy-five per cent of the readers want to know about her happy, uncomplicated, family-based life. That's more than any other page, even cookery. Josie fits in with our readers' idea of the young, modern mother. She's got it all. Husband, sisters, parents, child, work, sex and happiness. She is the epitome of what our readers aspire to. In fact,” said Agatha suddenly, scribbling something illegible down on a scrap of paper, “we might make it her diary,” - as if Josie was a features idea that had come out of her head instead of Jazz's very real kid sister.