There was a big pause.
“Her father's a wonderfully gentle man. And so is she.”
Jazz thought she was going to start weeping.
“And how is she different from all your boys?”
“Well,” said the woman, “she goes through clothes like they're going out of fashion.”
Sheer fatigue made Jazz start giggling.
“I'll have to go now,” said the woman. “She'll be wanting another feed. Can you phone me back the same time tomorrow?”
If my brain hasn't melted by then, thought Jazz. She put the phone down and let out a heartfelt scream and dropped her head onto her desk.
Mark looked up. “What do you get if you cross a woman's magazine and a cat's arse?” he asked through his bacon buttie.
Jazz shrugged without moving her head. She was utterly exhausted.
“Fucking expensive cat litter,” he grinned.
Jazz looked up and frowned at him. “Mark,” she managed, “have you ever thought of becoming an after-dinner speaker?”
He beamed.
The phone went. Jazz hated answering the phone at work.
“Hello, Hoorah!” she said as gravely as she possibly could.
“Jasmin Field please,” said a highly efficient voice.
“Speaking.”
“Oh hello, this is Sharon Westfield at the Daily Echo,” said a person for whom this information was most impressive. “We're looking for a new columnist for our woman's page and read the piece about you in the Evening Herald. I'll be completely honest with you — always am. Loved your attitude. Loved your sister Josie. How different she is from you — married, a young mum with a good sex-life, happy family.”
Jazz mumbled a sort of yes sound. She'd always detested the Daily Echo; it was a shabby tabloid full of horror stories and scantily clad "girls" who wore "panties". But there was no denying that it had the second largest circulation of all the daily papers, and once you've written for the Daily Echo, all sorts of doors start opening for you. Weirdly though, Jazz didn't feel as impressed today as she might have done a week earlier.
“You see,” Sharon Westfield continued, “that's just the sort of new angle we're looking for. Sort of post-Bridget Jones, post-ironic, post-modern, post-post-feminist sort of thing. D'you see? Women being content and capable. It's so new. Very exciting.”
“Ye-es,” said Jazz dubiously.
“We'd like you to write us three provisional columns of twelve hundred words each. And remember, our readers are right-wing bordering on fascist, chauvinistic bordering on misogynistic - especially the women - and, of course, thick as pigshit. These are people who record Jeremy Beadle. Try and remember all that while you write, it'll save you having to do a re-write. That will be, what? Five thousand pounds?”
Jazz couldn't speak.
“OK - call it seven and a half. Fax it to me by Monday. Triple four, double five, double three. For the attention of Sharon Westfield. Ciao.”
Jazz put the phone down, bubbling with anger and excitement in equal proportions — a reaction that was becoming strangely familiar.
“What was that?” asked Mark, intrigued. Jazz rarely remained monosyllabic on the phone.
Jazz told him.
“Jeez, some people have all the luck,” he said.
“You think I should go for it?”
“Are you stark-bollocking mad? Of course you should go for it! A column at the Daily Wacko? You'd be set up for life.”
“Even if it means selling out bigtime?”
Mark frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Never mind.”
Jazz had the rest of the week to consult George and Mo. And, of course Josie. But there were other things on her mind that she had to sort out first.
* * *
Jazz sat on the sofa in her room, the soft sound of monks chanting from her stereo speakers rocking her into a calm state. Now that she had sorted out in her mind why the e-mail had distressed her so much, she realised there was information in it that she should act on. Maybe. She decided she had to speak to George. She needed some advice from someone with strong moral fibre and a heart of gold. She stretched out to the phone behind her.
“Are you going to tell me you can't babysit for Josie tomorrow?” asked George.
In her bewildered state, Jazz had completely forgotten about that. George and she now took it in turns every Thursday night to babysit Ben while Josie and Michael went out together. Jazz was constantly impressed by their marriage. Josie deserved to win an award, whether or not it was under Jazz's name.
“No, that's fine, I can still do tomorrow,” she answered.
“Oh, OK,” said George disappointedly. Then: “Can I come too?”
Oh poor heart, thought Jazz. “Of course,” she said in a jolly voice. “It'll be much nicer with you there.”
“Do you still want to talk tonight?” asked George hopefully.
“Yes, come round,” said Jazz. “I'll make pasta.”
It was a date.
When George turned up, Jazz had to hide her shock at her sister's appearance. She looked almost emaciated, although she was smiling more than she had been for a while.
“I feel fine,” assured George. “I just don't seem to want any food.”
“Well, you'll eat everything I serve you tonight,” said Jazz firmly.
“Yes, Mum,” said George.
George picked at the pasta, but managed nearly all of her salad. Jazz watched her in near despair. She had always thought being single would be good for George but now she wasn't so sure. Her sister was practically wilting away before her eyes. Jazz waited until they were drinking coffee and George could concentrate on the matter in hand completely. Maybe it would do her good to think of something else; be made aware that her brain had to go on for others, if not for herself. Slowly and clearly Jazz told George about Harry's e-mail and, more relevantly, the true story about William Whitby. The shock registering on her sister's wan face made it look more animated than it had in days, but she said nothing.
“What should I do?” asked Jazz at last.
“What do you mean?” asked George back. “Do you want to apologise to Harry?”
“No,” said Jazz, pained. “I mean, what should I do as a journalist? Wills - William — is adored by the public because they think he's like the priest he plays. And I'm a journalist who knows the truth about him. George, he's an alcoholic woman-beater. What the hell should I do?”
George looked dumbfounded. “We-ell,” she started.
“I mean, there's legitimate public interest here,” rushed Jazz. “Should I shop him now and watch his career die — when he's never done anything to me except be positively charming -or do I wait silently, knowing that while the world thinks he's a really nice guy, he's probably beating up his make-up woman?
George frowned deeply. Jazz continued regardless.
“All I have to do is phone any features desk and William Whitby's career is over. And by sick coincidence, mine is made. What the hell do I do?” Jazz was pacing now.
George was beginning to look a little bit more certain. “You sit pretty,” she said fixedly.
“I let him go on beating other women?”
“No, I didn't say that. You don't know what went on behind closed doors between him and Carrie.”
“You mean she might have been asking for it?” asked Jazz crossly.
“No, I didn't say that,” repeated George calmly. “I mean he may never do it with anyone else. Or he may have stopped drinking.”
“But surely it's my duty as a journalist to inform—”
“No, it's not your duty,” George interrupted. “First of all, press coverage — even about something as sordid as this - “might give him more fame than he deserves. Secondly, Harry told you in confidence. And thirdly, it's not even Harry's secret to tell, it's his sister's. And it sounds as if she would hate to have her name brought into anything.”
Jazz was convinced.
“Of
course,” she said finally. “You're right - it would kill her. Who am I to do that to her?” She plonked herself down at the table. “Thanks George,” she said wearily.
They sat in glum silence.
“Of course,” said George quietly, “you could always let William know that you know about him and Carrie. Keep him on his toes a bit.”
Jazz looked at her sister in a new light. “You clever, conniving thing. Of course! What's happened to you? Am I slowly having a wicked effect on you?”
George tutted loudly. “Just because I'm not a cynical hard bitch, there's no need to treat me like I'm Beth from Little Bloody Women!”
Jazz smiled thoughtfully and wondered if that's who she should try emulating from now on.
“I'm afraid there's something else I need your advice on,” she said softly.
George listened to her career dilemma. Should Jazz start writing for the Daily Echo? Could she do that and keep a part-time job at Hoorah! just in case the column wasn't successful? At the end, George asked one simple question: “How will you feel about yourself if you write for the Daily Echo?”
Jazz thought hard. “I suppose I'll feel wretched in one way, but then this is my career. This is everything I've worked for. This is my life, it's who I am. It's me.”
“Then do it.”
“But I hate everything this rag stands for.”
“Then don't do it.”
Jazz looked at George. Her eyes seemed dead.
* * *
By a fluke, Mo was in the flat the next night. And of course, Gilbert was there too. Although Jazz didn't want to talk in front of him, she knew she probably wouldn't get Mo alone for months - if ever again, she thought sourly. Gilbert lived on his own half an hour away and Mo had practically moved in with him. She hardly lived in her own flat any more. For weeks now, there had been none of her underwear airing in the bathroom, none of her mugs left unwashed on the sideboard and none of her shoes lying scattered in the hall. Jazz missed her terribly, especially during this period of monumental self-doubt and depression. Her father had been right. She was desperately jealous of Gilbert.
She didn't suppose it made much difference if Gilbert knew about her work dilemma. He was hardly a rival - being strictly a theatre writer. She just hated having to talk about herself in front of him. Still, it would have to be done. She waited until they were having dinner and joined them for coffee.
Gilbert was still super-smooth with Jazz, but it now took the form of patronising, pitying patter, as if he had done the rejecting and not her.
“Jazzy, sweetie,” he welcomed her into the kitchen. “Join us, we're just having coffee.”
Jasmin wanted to tell him that she didn't need to be invited to join Mo anywhere. Mo smiled pleasantly at her as she sat down.
“How's it going?” said Mo quietly.
“Fine. The bathroom's been clean without you.”
“Only because you don't use it.”
They grinned at each other. Gilbert sat unsmiling.
“You never laugh at my jokes like Jazz does,” Mo said squarely.
Gilbert put his hands up in the air. “Sorry, pussycat, I guess I'm not with you for your jokes.” He tried to make that sound sexy, but Mo just looked at him hard. Jazz could have punched him right there and then.
“It's nothing to get het up about,” he continued with an explanatory shrug. “Everyone knows men are funnier than women.”
“Only to look at,” said Jazz grumpily, an eye on his paunch.
Mo sniggered and Gilbert smiled pityingly.
“You see?” he said to Mo. “That's just not very funny.” He decided to change the subject. “Jazzy, me and Mo wondered if you would like to come to the flicks with us one evening, and maybe for a meal afterwards. What d'you say? Make a night of it?”
Jesus, thought Jazz, he actually thinks I'd rather go out with them than stay in all evening counting my nasal hairs.
“Maybe a nice soppy romantic film,” he was saying, in a voice he thought was endearing.
Jazz looked him in the eye, something she hadn't done since the auditions.
“You mean a film where the man gets to make all the sacrifices, deliver all the funny lines, drive all the cars and go on top?” she asked.
He stared at her.
“No thanks, all the same,” she said with a tight smile. “I've got to stay in. I'm growing my hair.”
She could practically see Gilbert's mind working. Finally, he asked, “You mean you like to go on top?”
Jazz decided it was time to take control of the conversation before she got suicidal. She told Mo her news. Her column's new angle. The call from Sharon Westfield at the Daily Echo.
“That's fantastic!” squeaked Mo. “Well done! I'm so proud! I always knew—”
“But I don't know if I should do it,” interrupted Jazz.
“Why?” asked Gilbert. “Sharon's a bitch, but she's a good boss - as long as you don't annoy her, of course. Do that and you can say goodbye to a career in the popular press. Keep on her right side and you have a very powerful friend.”
“When did you ever work for her?” asked Jazz, intrigued.
“Oh, I've done bits and pieces for her over the years,” he said airily. “She used to be Commissioning Editor on Your Monthly periodical.”
Jazz and Mo tried to be mature and not smirk.
“Not a great Commissioning Editor, to be honest,” continued Gilbert authoritatively. “Waffles in her briefs.”
His perplexed expression at Jazz and Mo's sudden convulsion of laughter grew into a look of repulsion as Mo started snorting. His face only made Jazz laugh more heartily. Perhaps Gilbert wasn't so bad after all, she thought eventually, wiping her eyes.
Feeling happier than she had in ages, Jazz explained her predicament.
“Yes,” nodded Gilbert. “One's self-respect is paramount in these things.”
Jazz and Mo just gawped at him and Jazz wondered if it would be acceptable to start laughing again.
She chose instead to ignore him.
“So what do you reckon?” she asked Mo as if Gilbert hadn't spoken. “You think I shouldn't take it?”
Mo looked doubtful.
“I think you should do what you would be happy with,” said Gilbert.
Mo looked on, almost impressed.
“What sort of an answer is that?” asked Jazz tetchily. “If I knew that one, I wouldn't be asking Mo, would I?” Damn.
They sat there in silence for a while, until Jazz eventually left them to their own company and went to bed. She decided she'd have to talk to Josie. At the Evening Herald Columnist Personality of the Year award ceremony.
Chapter 19
The day of the award ceremony, two days before she was supposed to fax her column to Sharon Westfield, Jazz's nerves were stretched to breaking point. She was daunted by the prospect of winning an award for which her boss had nominated her, for a column she was contemplating selling to a different publication. And she was daunted by the prospect of having to wait weeks before seeing Harry. Every time she thought of him, she felt a deep sense of shame. Seeing his proud, haughty face might just be the perfect antidote to that. And she could do with an antidote to the after-effects of that e-mail.
Josie was to be her guest at the awards. Jazz had wangled it with Michael that if she won the award, Josie deserved a night off from Ben and would go with her sister to the next cast party that weekend and stay the night in Mo's bed. Josie was going to leave Michael the number of the local casualty department if anything went wrong, instead of Jazz's mobile. A girl deserved a night off once in a while. Jazz was praying she'd win, just for Josie's sake.
Then on Saturday there would be the first of several rehearsals without Harry; he was doing a three-week stint at The Pemberton in a one-man play written specially for him by hot new playwright Patrick Clifton. It was already sold out, of course.
Jazz sat in her office frowning at the dailies. The tabloids were full of vitriolic, un-newsworth
y gossip and the qualities were so dry she actually fell asleep reading one. Harry was right. What had possessed her to be proud of her career? Things couldn't get much worse, she thought morosely.
She was wrong.
The next morning she had to carry her new little black number in on the tube.
“Ooh, let me see it,” said Maddie excitedly, as Jazz walked into the office. Jazz could hardly look at Maddie any more for guilt about her conversation with Sharon Westfield.
When she showed her the dress, Maddie's grin froze on her pretty little face.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
“What?” said Jazz. “What could possibly be wrong with that? It's just a mangy little black dress.”
“It's exactly the same mangy little black dress that I've got,” said Maddie.
Jazz looked at her, bemused. “All little black dresses look the same, Maddie.”
“This is a catastrophe,” said Maddie, not hearing her. “One of us is going to have to go and buy another one.”
“Are you joking?” She could hardly believe that Maddie, who coped daily with mad readers, hopeless writers, insane deadlines and a tempestuous Editor, was actually panicking. A line of sweat was breaking out on her upper lip.
“No, I'm not. Where did you buy yours?”
“Paris,” lied Jazz. It was worth a try. “Years ago.”
“Well then, it'll have to be me — I got mine in Covent Garden. I'll be back in an hour. Take my calls, Alison.” And she was gone.
Jazz looked over to Mark and awaited a smart reply, but he was actually looking concerned. Of course, thought Jazz. Women worrying about dresses made sense in his world.
Three hours later, a radiant Maddie wandered in. She showed her dress off proudly and Jazz was amazed. It was stunning. A miniscule red number with, in certain key areas, sequins where there should have been fabric. If Jazz was the kind of woman who hated being outdone by another woman, she'd have been very unhappy. Instead she just marvelled at the dress. As did Mark.
He gave a very long wolf whistle, which delighted Maddie. “You may be my boss,” he said approvingly, “but you know your clothes.”
Maddie was now in a good mood. Alison made her a cup of tea and Maddie sat down to read the papers. Today had been exhausting.
Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field Page 15
