* * * * *
The lunchtime rehearsal the next day between Jack and George turned into an afternoon movie which turned into an evening meal which turned into a nightcap at George's flat which turned into a very passionate night together.
The next afternoon, when they finally got up, they wandered into West Hampstead for some food. They found Mo and Jazz in George's favourite café. Jack seemed genuinely delighted to see them both there and the four of them fell into easy banter. Jazz was overjoyed to see George so happy. And Jack seemed totally besotted with her, as was right and proper. The very air around them sizzled. She hoped to God that he treated her right. Not everyone realised how fragile George was.
Eventually Jazz had to tear herself away.
'A step class? Whatever for?' demanded George.
'To repent for all my sins,' answered Jazz. 'Mo's turned into a fitness freak. She's unbearable, she's––'
'Thin,' interrupted Mo merrily.
'Save me?' implored Jazz.
But George looked far too happy to bother saving anyone today.
Jazz picked up her gym kit. She hadn't worn her trainers since she had played netball with her old school-friends eight years ago. She had borrowed Mo's kit – a skimpy pair of gym shorts and a leotard that split her up the middle. Mo was kitted out in yellow and white Lycra.
An hour and a half later, Jazz was lying on a mat in a position she never thought she'd be in until she gave birth, flexing muscles she didn't know she had.
The step class had been the longest hour of her life. Sweat dripped into her ears and stung her eyes as she lay drenched on the mat.
She hated the aerobics instructor. She'd bounded in, all teeth and tits, with a bottom like two tennis balls wrapped in cellophane and asked them all indecipherable questions, while fiddling with the earpiece round her head.
'Iny anjuries? Beck problems? Inyone prignant? Iny priblems?'
Jazz was too busy staring at her own legs in the mirror to answer, 'I think I'm in the wrong class, is this Oriental Karma?' She'd never realised until this moment just how white she was. She was so white she was blue. Every time she caught sight of herself in the mirror she thought there was a lighthouse in the room.
Then the aerobics instructor put on Pinkie and Perkie's 70's Classics and started marching on the spot.
Oh right, this is easy, thought Jazz, and started to march. After a few moments, she realised this might be a little more difficult than she thought. Somehow, the instructor looked decidedly cool marching on the spot, while Jazz was doing exactly the same movement and yet looked like a complete arse.
Suddenly, with no warning, the instructor yelled: 'Ligs apart, stumech flut, bottom een, knees ovur fit, RELAX!'
Jazz had just got the position when the entire room bounded off to the right. The woman on her left bumped into her and didn't apologise. It dawned on Jazz that those instructions had just been the way to stand correctly. This was the real thing.
The steps Ingrid the Instructor inflicted on them were so complicated and the instructions so inaudible over the noise that Jazz had spent most of the hour looking like she was a contestant on The Generation Game. To Jazz's untrained ears, the instructor was speaking a different language. Thank God there had been a man there. He made her look positively sophisticated. Why had he come? It couldn't be worth humiliating himself so much just to get a look at tight buns in Lycra, surely? Then again, thought Jazz bitterly, he was a man.
Every time Ingrid shouted, 'SWAP LIGS!' Jazz wanted to shout, 'Bagsie yours.' Every time she bellowed 'RELAX!' Jazz looked for the couch. It was hell. Never again.
'Give yourselves a big round of applause,' shouted Ingrid at the end, as Jazz stood, fixed to the ground, panting heavily, wondering if they still burnt witches. Mo came over to her.
'Wow!' she said, looking at Jazz's beetroot face. 'I think you've burst a blood vessel in your head.'
'Don't talk to me – ' breathed Jazz ' – ever again.'
They trudged heavily up to the changing rooms where Jazz took a long shower and then, when she felt barely human again, joined Mo's pink, moist body in the steam room. It was how she imagined heaven would be. All steam and heat. She didn't like the sauna as much but at least in here, without the steam, they could talk. The heat and the silence were wonderful.
'So what are you going to do with this new body of yours?' asked Jazz dreamily.
'Get happy. Get laid. Get a promotion. Dunno.'
Jazz didn't say anything. Sweat was slowly building up on the gentle curve of her stomach.
Mo sighed loudly and put one sweaty arm above her head. 'Jazz, I'm not an idealist like you––'
Jazz interrupted. 'Me – an idealist? Where did you get that from? I'm as cynical as they come. Anyone will tell you that.' She turned over slowly and let the sweat drip down the dip in her back.
'And anyone will tell you that a cynic is a disillusioned idealist,' countered Mo. 'I don't care if the "personal" is the "political", I don't care if I'm setting a bad example to my "sisters". I just want a man. Sorry, Jazz, but that's the way it is.'
'But why diet for it?' asked Jazz gently. 'Don't you want a man who will accept you as you are?' She swung one foot lazily in the air.
Mo got angry. 'I can't find any man who will accept me as I am. Can't you get that into your thick head? They're shallow, superficial scum. And I want one.'
Jazz decided she had to get out of the sauna. It was too hot.
11
The first of many cast parties was due and rehearsals were well under way when Jazz realised that it wasn't her imagination; Harry Noble did keep staring at her. And not just when she was acting. During every break, when she was usually either relaxing with Mo or Wills or trying to escape Gilbert, she could feel Harry's eyes boring into her. It made her feel constantly on trial. She was sure he was just waiting for her to do something stupid, like trip over her shoelaces or giggle at the wrong time or something. Was this his way of intimidating her?
Instead, Jazz would make a point of having a riot with Mo and George to show him that it was much more fun with the plebs than with the top set.
But one time, when Jazz was sitting with Mo and George, she'd felt so annoyed by Harry's surveillance that she'd turned and stared rudely back. It had taken all her self-control not to stick her tongue out at him like a four-year-old. To her extreme frustration, he took this as encouragement and came straight over and joined the threesome. It was unprecedented. The entire room turned to watch.
'Are you checking up on us, Mr Noble?' asked Jazz, looking up at him. Annoyingly, Mo made room for him on the chair next to her and gave him an encouraging smile. Without smiling back, he moved it to face Jazz so the four of them were in an untidy square.
'What would I be checking up on? You're allowed your breaks,' he shrugged, before crossing one beautifully long leg over the other and settling into his usual staring trick.
Feeling responsible for his coming over and spoiling the chat, Jazz started talking in an effort to entertain the girls.
'Well, you can be assured that we're all too exhausted by your rehearsals to have any energy to rebel against your firm leadership,' she said. 'I'm completely pooped. My feet are absolutely killing me.'
There was a pause.
'Perhaps you'd appreciate a lift home then?' asked Harry seriously.
Buggery bollocks. He must assume she'd said that to get an offer of a lift. But she was determined not to accept a lift from him.
'Mo'll give me a lift home, I live with her,' she answered shortly.
'No I can't,' answered Mo. 'Unless you want to go via Sainsbury's and the gym.'
'Well, George only lives a road away.'
George blushed and looked over to Jack. 'I'm – I'm going straight off somewhere else. Sorry, Jazz.'
Jasmin was stuck.
'Well,' said Harry. 'Looks like I'm your knight in shining armour.'
Jazz snorted unattractively. 'Do I look like I need saving?' s
he demanded.
'Hardly,' clipped Harry. 'It was a turn of phrase. It wasn't intended to insult you.'
Jazz felt momentarily embarrassed. 'Thanks,' she forced. 'OK.'
Harry simply nodded and walked away.
Jazz tore into the girls. 'Traitors!' she hissed.
The girls didn't understand.
'I don't want a lift with him, I hate him––'
'For God's sake don't overreact, Jazz, it's only a lift,' said Mo. 'From the most dishy man on the planet.'
'Most arrogant man on the planet, you mean.'
Mo looked at her. 'What is going on?' she asked. 'Possibly the most famous and respected – and gorgeous – actor of his generation is asking for some prime time with you alone. And you're a journalist. Where's your sense of professionalism?'
Jazz looked at her hands in her lap. The girls were right. She should see this as research.
'More importantly, where's your sense of taste?' smiled George. 'He's amazing. I'd get in his car any day, arrogant or not.'
'Yeah, and I'd pay the petrol,' agreed Mo.
'God, listen to you two,' said Jazz. 'Anyone would think your brains turned to jelly in the presence of a man. Does the word emancipation mean anything to you? Women burnt their bras for you, you know.'
'Why?' asked George, nonplussed. 'Were they planning to wear backless dresses?'
'If anyone burnt my Wonderbra, I'd boil their heads,' said Mo.
Jazz put her head in her hands.
The rest of the rehearsal was spoilt for her. Every time she thought about the lift home a knot formed in her stomach. She detested that man, and to have to spend any time alone with him was too long. Also, it meant that she wouldn't be able to hang around chatting to Wills. She wanted to spit. At the end of the rehearsal, she was even ruder to Purple Glasses than usual.
'I didn't see you wearing your shawl in Act Four, Scene Two,' said Purple Glasses as soon as Jazz was alone.
'Really?' asked Jazz innocently. 'Have you had those glasses tested recently? How many fingers am I holding up?' and she held up her middle finger and walked off before Purple Glasses could comment. She wasn't proud of herself, but there was no denying it felt good.
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 though 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.'
Acting Up Page 11
