Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field

by Melissa Nathan

  Maddie was grinning from ear to ear. “A happy one,” she said.

  “Well, go and give your employee a full de-briefing. It's way overdue.” Maddie gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and grappled her way to the dance-floor. Mo came over. “Finished?” she asked. “I'm just sorting out everyone's love-life,” Jazz told her. “Because I'm so good at sorting out my own, ha ha.”

  Mo followed her eyes to where Harry was now dancing with Mrs. Bennet. The latter was pretending to do a striptease, starting with her scarf, which she had draped over Harry's smiling face. Sara was standing next to him, taking the scarf off and giving it back to its owner, pretending - badly - to find the lark as funny as he did. Harry didn't seem to mind. “He spent the whole week saving your life,” said Mo. Jazz sighed. “Yes, but only because his reputation rested on it,” she said in a hollow voice.

  She was so angry with herself she could cry. She'd always scoffed at George for getting so involved in a part that she regularly fell for her co-stars, and yet she had done exactly the same thing. In the past few months, she had felt so empowered by Lizzy, so strengthened by her that she had managed, for a few foolish hours, to get carried away and convince herself that she too could have Lizzy's happy ending.

  She looked miserably over to Harry as he laughed and joked with Mrs. Bennet, and she felt too melancholy to look away when his eyes met hers. Had he said he was in love with her merely to bring

  out the best in her performance? He was probably that much of a perfectionist — and he was also a convincing actor. If that was the case, had she been that easily readable?

  She was drowning in self-pity and humiliation. This is real life, she thought unhappily. This is not some stupid play.

  “Listen, give the guy a break,” said Mo. “Remember how terrifying you are. He's probably scared stiff of you.”

  “Oh, don't be ridiculous,” said Jazz.

  “I am not. You can be truly terrifying. Remember that Scout and Guide camp we went on when we were fourteen? You fancied Jonny Smith.”

  Jazz frowned at her. What did that have to do with anything?

  “Jazz,” said Mo slowly, “you set fire to his rucksack. And then wondered why he didn't ask you out.”

  Jazz smiled in amazement at the memory. She'd forgotten about that. Had she really done something so dangerous? At the time, she'd thought her heart was going to break.

  “Well,” she said stubbornly, “that certainly taught him to ogle Melanie Margate instead of me during exercise.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mo. “It also taught him how to extinguish a burning T-shirt while still wearing it, and how to sleep on his stomach for the next six months.”

  Jazz grimaced and put her head in her hands. It felt heavy. “I didn't think it would take so well,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “Face it, Jazz,” said Mo kindly but firmly. “You don't realise how scary you can be sometimes.”

  Jazz faced it. “So what do I do? I've already apologised for being a bitch. If he doesn't want me, he doesn't want me. Fact. I'll just kill myself. It's the simplest thing for all.” Somehow just saying that out loud made her feel better.

  Mo sighed and put her hands on Jazz's burning cheeks. “I have two things to ask you. One: will you be my Best Woman at my wedding? And Two: when you start going out with Harry Noble, will you still remember me?”

  “You're getting married!” Jazz whispered, as though this was the first time she'd been told. “I haven't even asked about the proposal. Tell me everything.”

  Mo's face went all dreamy. “It was wonderful,” she confided. “He took me to lunch at the Pont de la Tour. And then afterwards, when we were standing by the Thames at dusk, he proposed.”

  They both sighed together. “And what was it like?” asked an enraptured Jazz.

  “Well,” started Mo, “for hors d'oeuvres, we had the most amazing—”

  “Not the food, Mo, the proposal.”

  “Oh.” Mo went all dreamy again. “He got down on one knee — I had no idea he was going to—”

  As Mo went on, Jazz maintained her smile, while marvelling that at the turn of the new millennium, intelligent, educated, responsible women still relied on men to decide when, where and how the most important decision of both of their lives was to be made.

  “You'll have to help me diet for the big day,” said Mo, when she'd finished her story. She wasn't smiling any more - she had come crashing back to reality.

  “Bog off,” retorted Jazz. “Why would I do that? I love you.”

  “I mean it,” said Mo. “I've put on loads of weight since I started going out with Gil.”

  “I mean it too,” said Jazz equally sincerely. “He doesn't know how lucky he is.” Then she added, as an afterthought, “I'm so happy that you're happy, Mo.” It was the nearest she would ever be able to get to saying “I'm happy you're marrying Gilbert.”

  Mo looked at her and gave her a long, slow smile. “Thanks, Jazz,” she said quiedy. And then she returned to her diet stories. “It's not so much a case of how much I eat,” she pondered convinced, as all dieters are, that other people gave a flying fig-roll about their diet tales “but how short a time I do it in. If I only had more time to eat what I want to eat, I'd be fantastically slim.”

  Fascinated though Jazz was by the conversation, she noticed Harry come over to the bar near where they stood and get himself a drink. Her palms started to sweat. Mo noticed too and without so much as a glance at Jazz, she rushed headlong on to the dance-floor. Jazz almost wished she hadn't gone. Almost.

  Harry was standing just too far away for Jazz to be able to speak to him without moving, yet too near for her to pretend she hadn't seen him. He took long, slow gulps of his beer. Jazz watched his Adam's apple as he gulped. She'd never noticed before how masculine an Adam's apple was. She looked at it in the mirror behind the bar for a while and then realised he was watching her. She felt herself go crimson with embarrassment. She forced herself to smile at him. He tried to smile back while still drinking and beer dribbled down the side of his mouth.

  “Nice!” mouthed Jazz at him in the mirror. His shoulders started shaking with laughter and he wiped his face with his hand. He looked so much nicer when he smiled.

  She picked a napkin off the counter and handed it to him. She was now standing next to him. “Still a bit of work to do on the old hand-to-mouth co-ordination, eh?” she asked with a grin.

  He laughed again. “And I thought I'd just got that sorted,” he said, using the napkin.

  He ran his hand through his hair and coughed. Jazz's insides tried valiantly to steady themselves. She just stood there, leaning against the bar, looking up at him. How long did she have before Bambi-legs appeared by his side? She'd better get her apologies out as fast as possible.

  “Listen,” she started, “I'm really sorry my family weren't very warm to you.”

  “You can stop saying sorry any time now,” he said.

  “No, I mean it. I must explain. You see, they have no idea how much they owe you. The only thing they know about you is that you once called me The Ugly Sister. Naturally, they feel protective.”

  Harry looked at her blankly. "When did I call you that?”

  “At the audition.” She looked a bit sheepish. “I was standing outside. I overheard you.”

  Harry clapped his hand to his head. “Jesus, no wonder you acted like I'd raped your mother.”

  “Well, something like that, yes,” said Jazz, recoiling from the image. Had she been that bad? Was she really as terrifying as Mo had said? She'd had no idea. Perhaps Mo was right. Perhaps Mo should have the column instead of her. It was becoming more and more obvious to her that whereas she thought she knew everything about people, she did in fact know less than nothing.

  Harry leant his elbow on the bar, turned to face her and tried not to make too much fuss of sitting down on the stool behind him. It lowered him enough to make their faces almost level. Smooth, thought Jazz, and started playing with the napkin that
was now lying between them.

  With a look of intense concentration, Harry started speaking.

  “I'm sorry I called you an unknown hack,” he said very slowly. “It was a stupid, insensitive, arrogant thing to say. Will you ever forgive me for being a prize dickhead?”

  “Of the highest order,” completed Jazz.

  “Of the highest order,” he repeated obediently.

  “Well,” she said, heaving her shoulders. “On one condition.”

  “Hmm?” He tried not to smile. He failed.

  “You forgive me for all the horrendous things I said to you that night.”

  “I deserved every single one.”

  “No, you didn't!”

  “I did. You were absolutely right - I was an obnoxious prat. I deserved all of it. Although perhaps the shoving part was a bit hard. I still have a bruise.”

  They grinned briefly at each other then both seemed suddenly fascinated by their footwear. Jazz was about to thank him for saving her career when he started talking.

  “You see, even when I was a little boy, my parents were already famous. We'd get stopped in the street by people asking for their autographs,” he said gravely. “You can't help but think you're superior, and in all honesty, my parents loved the adoration they got and never taught me how to keep it in perspective. I suppose they never really got anything else out of acting — certainly not any money - so they saw it as their payment.” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Then at drama college, I was treated like a star in the making, by teachers and students, and that did my head in. And if that wasn't enough, the media then put me on a pedestal. By the time I got to Hollywood I didn't stand a chance.”

  Jazz was nodding. It was a miracle he remembered how to talk to normal people at all.

  He kept going.

  “I'm not trying to make excuses - well, I suppose I am - look, all I'm trying to say is,” he paused and looked at her intently. “I had totally lost my perspective. Until I met you.”

  Jazz's body went hot. She stared at the napkin. It was white and square.

  “And you taught me in no uncertain terms that I would have to earn your friendship. Jazz, this may sound big-headed, but I can honestly say that no one has done that for years. That's why I try to only mix with people I really know well, like Matt, my sister Carrie, and Jack. Anyone else I have always treated with downright suspicion and contempt. Which I'm bloody ashamed of now.”

  “What about Sara?” said Jazz.

  Harry grinned foolishly. “Ah, Sara,” he nodded. “Or Pinprick as I call her.”

  Jazz tried not to grin too widely. Life just got better and better.

  “The fact is, you've given me back my faith in human nature,” he went on. “I really enjoyed directing the play, once I started treating everyone as individuals and not just as hangers on. I came to realise that the more you treat people like equals, the less they expect of you, so you can be more fallible — and the more confident they are in themselves, so the more interesting they are. It's so simple really. And,” he gave her a minuscule bow with his head, “it's all down to you.”

  “And all because you called me ugly. Aren't I something?” Jazz smiled.

  “No, it's not just because of that. It's because I was such a complete and utter idiot. And I'm truly sorry. You'll probably never know how sorry.”

  “Oh, I think I will,” she said, thinking of how crap she'd been feeling for the past month. “I've learned a lot recently, too,” she told him.

  Harry looked at her keenly.

  She gave out a long, loud sigh. “I've spent my life judging everyone. That's a far worse crime than just ignoring them, as you did. You may not have liked people much but you didn't constantly criticise them, as I did. And what's more, I've learned that I'm very often wrong in my judgements, too.” She paused. “I was wrong about you.”

  Harry shook his head. “No, there you were right. And it's entirely down to what you said to me that we're even having this conversation. What did you call me? "Repulsively arrogant and self-obsessed . . ."”

  “Oh no, don't,” cringed Jazz. “I'm so sorry.”

  “Please don't be sorry,” he said, giving her an eloquent look. “I'm not.”

  They were both static, staring at each other, for what seemed like a couple of light years. OK, now this is getting embarrassing, thought Jazz.

  Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. “By the way,” she asked quickly, looking briefly away from him while inching nearer. “How come Jack has suddenly decided that focus is one thing but George is quite another?”

  Harry smiled. “Well,” he inched closer. “I - I sort of - reminded him that work is work but love is love,” he said. “And I've never heard him talk about anyone the way he talks about George. She is definitely The One for him.”

  Jazz just raised her eyebrows at him, amazed and rather concerned at how easily influenced Jack could be by Harry.

  “We'll see,” she said simply, too scared to hope. “We'll see.”

  Jazz looked round the room as a slow track started. Jack and George were slow dancing, their eyes shut and dreamy smiles on their faces. Maddie was leading Mark confidently by the hand to their first slow dance together. William had cornered Watery Eyes. With one hand leaning against the wall at her back and the other casually on her waist, she was well and truly stuck. He was whispering in her ear and she looked like the cat who'd got the cream. Jazz watched with distaste. She didn't like the woman, but she certainly wouldn't wish that on her.

  Not far from them, Mo was shouting at Gilbert and he was making a great show of surprise at her anger. Near the door, Josie and Michael were standing motionless, hugging each other. Michael's lips were touching the top of Josie's head and his arms were squeezing her tight. Her face was hidden in his chest, but from the movement of her body, Jazz could tell she was sobbing. And Jazz gasped and prodded Harry as she saw Matt shyly put his arm round a smiling Carrie.

  “Excellent!” said Harry. He looked at Jazz with an enormous grin. One of his teeth had a tiny chip in it. “He's been in love with her for years.”

  Jazz raised her eyebrows. Of course he had. That's why she'd missed it.

  They smiled happily at each other. They were so close now, she could feel his breath on her cheeks. The sentimental lyrics were beginning to get to her. Oh God, this was excruciating. What to do? What to do?

  Jazz put her life in her hands. “I lied to you actually,” she said quietly.

  Harry looked at her questioningly.

  “I - I don't prefer blonds.”

  He smiled. Please please please, she thought, do something. Anything.

  “Thank God for that,” he said, and looked at her seriously.

  Tell me I'm beautiful, she thought. You think I'm beautiful.

  He spoke so slowly that each word could have had a sentence spoken around it.

  “I think you're . . .”

  Jazz held her breath. Beautiful. You think I'm beautiful.

  “. . . beautiful,” he whispered.

  TADA! went Jazz's stomach. Open Sesame! went her heart.

  She beamed and, unable to stop herself, she leaned over slowly and whispered in his ear: “You can kiss me now.”

  Harry laughed but didn't move away. “I'm afraid I can't,” he whispered in hers.

  Jazz's body locked. Oh God, why? I'm not beautiful enough? I'm not the right kind of beautiful? I'm too beautiful? Terror gripped her. I'm not as beautiful as Sara?

  “Oh,” she said simply. “OK.” She wanted to die.

  Just before she started to move away, he whispered quickly, “I'm too scared.” His cheek was now touching hers and his eyes were closed. The faint trembling sensation coming from his legs convinced her he wasn't lying. “I've tried before, remember?” Jazz smiled as she felt his soft, uneven breath on her neck.

  “Well, we'll have to work at getting over that fear, won't we?” she whispered.

  As she edged her body fractionally closer to him, he
slowly moved his long legs apart so she could get nearer. His arms tentatively enveloped her as she softly kissed his perfect lips for the first time.

  He was delicious.

  Remember this feeling, she thought, as her body melted and her stomach fizzed. Remember this feeling. It doesn't get any better than this.

  Chapter 28

  “So when did you realise just how tasty I really was?” asked Jazz, stretching out, making herself comfortable.

  Harry smiled at the memory and leant up on the pillow, his head resting in his hand. He put his other arm round her bare waist.

  “I don't know,” he prevaricated.

  “I do,” grinned Jazz. “It was when I was so rude to you all the time. You like a challenge. Otherwise you wouldn't be such a stunningly successful actor.”

  He looked into her eyes and kissed her gently on her forehead. She had never noticed that it was an erogenous zone before.

  “It wasn't just because of that,” he said. “It was also your — your . . .” He thought hard, picturing her at rehearsals. Her eyes, her smile, her strength, her vulnerability, her humour, her gravity, her passion, her indifference, her . . . her. Her.

  “I think I realised just how tasty you were moments before I realised I was in love with you,” he said as calmly as he could. Could she tell he was trembling?

  Jazz was too moved to ask when, exactly, that was. She'd ask another time. She was too busy adding earlobe, neck, collarbone and shoulder to forehead in a new list she was compiling.

  * * *

  Harry had turned out to be a whizz at cooking. Which made up for his complete lack of ability at DIY. “It's all right,” Jazz had said. “We can get a man in.” But it meant that Sunday brunches were a gas.

  “Do you need any help in the kitchen?” called Mark from the patio. Mark probably wouldn't have asked anyone else, but seeing as it was Harry Noble, he didn't mind. Kitchens were strictly out of bounds for him, usually. Luckily Maddie loved to cook. Anyway, Jack and Harry were enjoying themselves too much in there together to need any help.