Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field

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 said 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.”

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.