Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field

Chapter 1

The tube train was stifling and packed. Jasmin Field - Jazz to her friends - couldn't read her book because someone's entire body was in her private space. Pinned to the door, she shut her eyes and imagined a cool breeze gently nudging a weeping willow as she swung lazily in her hammock. Somewhere in the distance a wood-pigeon cooed and the smell of freshly cut grass wafted by. She smiled drowsily and hoped she wouldn't have to move a muscle ever again.

Then the man next to her farted and the moment was lost.

“It's Harry Noble!” shrieked someone suddenly and the squash eased as a mass of sticky bodies shot to where the words had come from. Jazz was grateful for the extra room. The train had been stuck in the station now for ten minutes - some poor bastard had fainted in the front carriage apparently. Jazz was certainly no Harry Noble groupie, but she was grateful to him because now at least she could move her book up into the right position and start reading again.

Then, as one, the entire carriage moved to the windows. Not a word was spoken, of course - this was the London Underground — but a silent, almost mystic power of understanding bound everyone together. It's a common enough phenomenon when a mass of people all repress the same emotions - in this case, exhaustion, resentment and fascination - and it's one that happens every second of every day on the tube. But this time it was increased to the nth degree and you could almost hear it buzzing. Jazz looked up from her book and watched in wonder.

And then there he was.

Unbelievably, Harry Noble strode past them all, just a foot away, down West Hampstead Station's now empty platform. It was like being in a film. No one made a sound, they all just stared at him as he walked, elegant and tall, his neck straight, his eyes fixed ahead, to the exit. He was beautiful. Jazz was sure his lips were moving, as if he were talking to himself. He could have been on a desert island he was so wholly unaware of his audience. So this was the real reason the doors were still shut, surmised Jazz. No fainting passenger, just a famous one, who expected star treatment wherever he went. Suddenly, one young woman could hold back no longer - even if she was on the London Underground. She didn't care, dammit. She banged on her bit of the window and screamed, “HARRY!” in a voice full of longing and heartache.

He didn't even turn his head. His eyes kept staring straight ahead, as if no one was there.

“HARRY!” came more voices, plaintive and hoarse.

Eventually, ever so slowly, he turned his majestic head and smiled a curt smile. And then everyone forgot their reserve. Now every carriage took its turn shouting, banging on windows and squealing as he passed them by. It was like a Mexican soundwave of passion and loss. It was quite moving, thought Jazz. And Harry Noble, of the illustrious Noble theatrical dynasty, heart-throb English actor who had gone to Hollywood and got an Oscar for his troubles, had the decency to look touched. He even winked at one girl who caught his dark, brooding eye.

And then he was gone.

There was silence for a moment and then, miracle of miracles, commuters actually started talking to each other.

“Oh my God, he's even more gorgeous in real life!”

“He winked at me! He winked at me!”

“I think I'm going to faint!”

“My daughter won't believe this!”

“He winked at me! Did you see him wink at me!”

Jazz marvelled that these people, who had unwittingly been kept in a stuffy, enclosed space for fifteen hellish minutes just so that one man could get out faster and easier than them, could make such fools of themselves. He's just a man, thought Jazz. A man who has to go to the toilet like them, who gets headaches, verrucas and wind.

Her smile widened as she wondered what these people would say if they knew she was actually about to meet the pompous twat. And with that thought, she returned to her book. Ten minutes later, the doors finally opened and the train haemorrhaged its dazed and sweaty passengers onto the platform.

Once out of the Underground, Jazz walked to the monstrous Gothic church at the end of a nearby road. She was meeting Mo, her flatmate, and Georgia, her elder sister, at the audition, and couldn't have moved fast in the hot, airless atmosphere engulfing north London if she'd wanted to. There was no sign of the famous Harry Noble. He must have been picked up by a limousine, she thought. Shame she hadn't been able to catch up with him - she'd have cadged a lift.

Much more of a shame, though, was the fact that she wasn't in the least bit nervous about doing this stupid audition. It would have made excellent copy for her column: she always wrote well about suffering from nerves. But she just couldn't work up a sweat about performing in front of the great Harry Noble, the director of what was intended to be the celebrity fundraising theatrical experience of the millennium — Pride and Prejudice, An Adaptation. She'd tried, but it was all too ridiculous. So there would be no self-deprecating humour about sweaty palms and a faltering voice. Damn. Not for the first time, Jazz cursed the fact that she could never write what wasn't true.

She was glad that she wasn't going to tomorrow's audition, which was for the steaming masses. Today's was for specially selected actors, writers and personalities as well as anyone lucky enough to be personally invited by one. As a journalist, Jazz fitted into the second category, and had chosen to invite her best friend and flatmate, Mo, to see if she could get herself a small part. Georgia, a budding actress whose career filled Jazz with sisterly pride, had also been invited along. Jazz wondered if tomorrow was purely a publicity stunt and today was the real thing. Would they really let complete unknowns work with the great Harry Noble? Seeing as they wouldn't let the great unwashed share an Underground platform with him, it seemed unlikely.

As she approached the church, Jazz could see about 100 people cordoned off outside it and she tried to ignore the thrill it gave her to force her way through and show her pass to the bouncers. The crowd didn't even look at her; they were too busy scrutinising the streets for signs of their idol.

Jazz opened the heavy door and was instantly assailed by a musty church smell. She walked down the darkened corridor and wondered if Mo and George were here yet. She hoped not — it would give her more time to watch everyone else.

She turned the corner and came face to face with a pair of glasses.

“Did we know you were coming?” asked the glasses. They were amazing. Big purple frames that almost covered their wearer's entire face. Tragically, not all of it.

“Sign your name and then go to the end of the corridor where you'll be given a script,” instructed the glasses — which, Jazz noticed, were in the company of a chunky metal brace on the top row of their wearer's teeth. Jazz blinked, fascinated. The woman looked as if she had suddenly woken up one day and thought, How can I make myself as unattractive as possible? and had come up with a damn fine answer.

Jazz signed quickly. At the end of the corridor was a trestle table peppered with piles of scripts, each one entitled Pride and Prejudice, An Adaptation. Jazz picked one up. She tried reading it but couldn't concentrate. She sat on one of the chairs by the wall and waited for more people to arrive. Some knew each other and there were various luwie air kisses and much affected affection. She watched intrigued, trying to guess who was an actor and who was a fish out of water. It wasn't too difficult to make the distinction.

An actress entered. She wore a beautiful big brown fur-lined leather jacket and had a commanding presence. Her jet-black hair fell to angular shoulders, her long legs seemed to go on for ever and her eyes were like bullets. Jazz recognised her from a recent three-part thriller, in which she'd played a malicious killer. She was surprised to see that she actually looked even harder off-screen than on. The actress's name was Sara something - Jazz couldn't quite recall. Jazz watched her pick up a script and read it intensely, while pacing the floor. She seemed to desperately want a part.

A group of impossibly attractive people entered the hall and one of the men among them stood out from the rest. Jazz knew him instantly — he was a household name. He was the actor William Whitby, famous for his role in the popular series The Trials of Father Simon. In it he played the eponymous Father Simon, a warm, loving priest who brought peace to a rough inner-city housing estate. He had sandy-coloured hair and a handsome, easy, round face, but the most attractive thing about him, Jazz decided, was that he chatted to nearly everyone in the room. He was obviously well-liked, and Jazz could see why. Although he made a lot of rather unnecessary body contact with people, he seemed sincere and likeable. He stood with his head inclined towards them, a hand gently touching their elbow while they spoke to him, or he nudged them before saying something that he followed with a big, loud, warm laugh. He seemed delightfully unaware of the effect he had on everyone he talked to. No wonder he made such a perfect priest, thought Jazz.

She found it almost impossible to tear her eyes away from the actors. How did they manage, so instinctively, to make themselves so interesting to watch? It was compelling viewing. She wanted to know everything about them, and yet oddly enjoyed this temporary stage of not knowing anyone well enough to be able to fix any significance to their actions. It was like watching a foreign film in glorious technicolour Without the subtitles. She didn't want to miss a moment of it. Her eyes were everywhere. She kept trying to turn her attention to the wallflowers like herself, but couldn't do it. The butterflies were too entrancing.

A tall, blond man wandered in, looking keenly at everyone, reminding Jazz of a big golden Labrador looking for a stick. He had twinkly blue eyes and rosy cheeks. She couldn't remember what play or programme she'd seen him in, but she knew his face well. He sat down on a chair by the wall opposite her and quietly studied a script. To her surprise, the woman in the brown jacket went over and joined him. She noticed that they were intimate enough not to need to talk to each other. The woman in the jacket was then joined by a shorter, less stunning friend, who was in turn accompanied by a man whose face had had a fight with gravity and lost.

What made the whole exercise so enjoyable for Jazz, was that for the first time ever, she was able to watch people without them minding. Usually, when she people-watched, she had to do it subtly - with quick sideways glances -otherwise people started to stare back. But these actors seemed to expect her stares; in fact, some of them were happily giving Jazz her own private performance. She wondered whether, if she got up and left the room, they would, en masse, collapse in a silent, audience-less heap on the floor, waiting for the next observer to come in so that they could start again. Naturally, not one of them was wasting any time looking at her unknown face.

Eventually, she tore her eyes away from them and looked towards the door. There she saw a face that made her innards shrink. It certainly wasn't an unpleasant face; in fact, Jazz could still see its charms, although now they left her cold. It was a smiling, unctuous face that she could now barely tolerate. Yet at the same time, by some obstinacy she didn't understand, she couldn't take her eyes off it. It was incongruously feminine, with pale skin and full red lips and cheeks, topped with a crop of dark hair, slicked forward into the newest French style with thick Brylcreem. Of course the mouth was upturned into a forced smile, but those eyes she knew so well were darting here and there; it was only a matter of time before they alighted on her. Still she couldn't look away. All too soon, the bright eyes met hers and Jazz only detected a nano-second of consideration before they were filled with careful warmth.

“Jasmin Field, I might have guessed you'd be here,” said Gilbert Valentine, ex-colleague and now self-important theatre journalist for a small, exclusive, self-important theatre magazine. Gilbert, she knew, always liked to think of himself as a superior sort of journalist - and, indeed, as a superior sort of person - but it was common knowledge that he used his privileged position, one that enabled him to get into previews and cast parties, to supplement a spin-off career as the tabloids' primary source of luvvie gossip. He didn't do it for the money, although the money was good; he did it because it gave him the kind of fame he craved. To be famous within the most desperate circle of fame-hunters was quite an achievement.

Gilbert Valentine was dangerous. When he had first entered the theatrical world, he had, chameleon-like, adopted a camp manner to endear him to his victims. He had never been able to shake it since. Gilbert was the only 100% straight man who minced like a true thespian. And like his manner, nothing about him could be trusted. He was the sort of journalist who gave journalists a bad name, and he put all actors in a no-win situation. If they didn't invite him to their parties, he got the gossip on them anyway, through fellow-actors anxious to get on his right side. So actors were forced to treat him as a friend, which for many of them was the most successful performance of their lifetime. However, it wasn't really difficult to butter Gilbert up. All one needed to do was natter his writing. Gilbert's Achilles' heel was his genuine insecurity about the quality of his work. He was the sort of man who couldn't wait until his obituary was published and all the quality newspapers would beat their chests for never utilising his genius themselves. It didn't occur to him that his obituary was already written and filed under T for Tosser.

“I didn't know you were an actor manqué!” he oozed patronisingly, as if Jazz's presence at the auditions was somehow more revealing than his. He came over and sat down next to her.

Jazz always found herself in the unhappy position of wanting to say to Gilbert, “Likewise”, but knowing that it would only belittle her. It was incredibly frustrating.

Instead she smiled and said simply, “Well, now you know everything.”

“Oh, hardly everything,” he simpered. “How are things at your lovely little women's mag?”

Jazz decided not to mention the trivial fact that Hoorah! her "little women's mag" had roughly three-quarters of a million more readers than his. Instead, she took a big breath and answered composedly, “Lovely thanks.”

“Oh good, good,” he smarmed.

“And how are things in the artistic world of theatre journalism?”

Gilbert sighed heavily, rubbed his eyes with his podgy, pale hands and just remembered in time not to brush them through his Brylcreemed hair. Jazz began to worry that he might be auditioning for the part of Darcy.

“Extremely harrowing. Nobody appreciates the work we do. But,” he admitted bravely, “I love it. Couldn't be without it.”

“Of course you couldn't.”

“Yes, you know me so well.”

Jazz nodded sadly.

He patted her hand. She moved it to scratch a suddenly itchy cheek.

“So tell me, what part do you want?” he asked.

Jazz laughed. “Oh, I'm just here for the experience.”

“Aha!” exclaimed Gilbert, pointing an accusing finger at her. “You're using it for copy in your column! "Working with Harry Noble." Like it! Well done, that girl! I did exactly that for a piece last year when they opened up auditions to the public for Where's My Other Leg? at the Frog and Whippet. It was a very, very funny piece. Very funny.”

Jazz impressed herself by managing a smile. She knew she didn't need to ask Gilbert why he was here. Just sitting in this church hall he had surrounded himself with people who were scared of him and could make him money at the same time. And she knew that deep down he had always wanted to be an actor, like so many arts journalists before him, and doubtless many after him.

“Of course,” said Gilbert silkily, “you do realise I almost know Harry Noble personally.”

Jazz raised her eyebrows questioningly and Gilbert needed no more prompting.

“Well, you know that his aunt, Dame Alexandra Marmeduke,” here Gilbert cast his eyes downwards as if she were dead, or a saint or something, “is the patron of our magazine? Without her, my life would have no purpose. No other publication, as you well know, has quite the same reverence for the theatre as we.” Jazz winced. “I owe her my livelihood and therefore my life. She's a spectacular woman. And her 1930s' Ophelia . . .” he closed his eyes as he savoured the memory “. . . was an all-time great. No one has ever surpassed it,” he whispered in hushed reverence.

Jazz nodded, wondering if that was the version where Ophelia wore a wig that looked like a dead octopus.

“But of course,” continued Gilbert, when he had quite recovered, “she and her nephew” - he paused for effect -“Do Not Speak.”

Jazz's eyes lit up. Inside information! “How come?” she asked.

“Didn't you know?” said Gilbert, delighted. Strictly speaking, he was aware that he shouldn't impart such a valuable piece of gossip to a fellow journalist without consulting terms first, but the temptation to impress Jazz proved irresistible. And anyway, it had always frustrated him that he could never actually make any money on this one - he couldn't risk Dame Alexandra finding out that he had been the source of such information. But, one day, who knew? He could receive payment of another kind from Jazz . . .

“Well, strictly entre nous,” he began, as he always did when about to sell a gem to a hack, “they had a furious family row years and years ago. That part's common knowledge within the theatrical world, but nobody - and I mean Nobody - knows the details quite like myself. Not many have had to visit Dame Marmeduke's Devon cottage. If I didn't work for that wonderful woman, I'd have sold this for a fortune, my dear. A fortune.”

Jazz started to grin mischievously and her eyes twinkled. She'd never heard this one.

Gilbert was just about to launch into the story when, to Jazz's extreme frustration, he sat back and stared at her, much in the same way one would eye a painting.

“You know, it's an absolute living, breathing joy to see you again,” he said, emphasising each word as if someone, somewhere, was writing down everything he said. “You look ravishing.”

Just when she thought she was going to have to get up and run out screaming, Jazz caught sight of her smiling sister George, coming towards her. She introduced George to Gilbert, hoping that somehow she could get him back to spreading malicious gossip and away from "joy", "ravishing" and, indeed, breathing.

“Ah yes, the working actress,” cooed Gilbert, standing up and kissing George on both cheeks. He was obviously impressed by what he saw, although he did manage to say the word "working" as though it was an insult.

Jazz explained to her sister how she knew Gilbert and hoped that George would have forgotten the many midnight conversations she had bored her with over her crush on him at her first job on a local paper. She also hoped George would vanish until her work here was done. Gilbert, luckily, adamantly refused to move from Jazz's side, leaving a polite George no choice but to sit down next to him, rather than edge past him to the free seat on her other side. Gilbert seemed to have no idea that he was in any way unwanted company for George. Instead he made lots of comments to the purpose of being a thorn between two roses, a comment he felt sure would delight Jazz.

Jazz winked at George and worked on Gilbert.

“So,” she said, forcing herself to look him in the eye, “it would be worth a fortune, would it, this piece of gossip?”

Gilbert smiled. It was rather charming having Jasmin Field's attention. Made him feel rather warm, rather nostalgic. He decided he didn't want to let go of it just yet.

He pretended to look at her afresh. “You know, I can't believe it's been so long,” he said, shaking his head at her.

“You should have called me. We could have done lunch.” A pause. “Or something.”

With a fixed smile on her face, Jazz turned to the church door while racking her brains for a way to get the subject back to Harry Noble and his aunt. She knew that it probably wasn't ever going to be usable in her magazine, but she couldn't quell her natural journalistic instinct to try and get to the bottom of this. She loved to know more about people than they supposed she knew.

Just then, she saw her flatmate Mo walking towards her, looking unusually sullen. It was only when Mo got nearer that Jazz could see that it was, in fact, terror written all over her face, and not moroseness.

“Hi,” grimaced Mo, when she reached Jazz. She didn't notice Gilbert, who had in any case turned his attention to George. Mo squeezed herself past Gilbert and George and sat down heavily next to Jazz. She looked awful. After a long, deep sigh, she turned to Jazz.

“You haven't got a Portaloo on you, by any chance?”

“I knew I'd forgotten something,” smiled Jazz. “You'll be fine. Just pretend you're teaching.”

“Oh — and that doesn't terrify me?”

Mo got up immediately and went to find the toilet. Jazz started to read the script, intrigued to see how Pride and Prejudice had been transformed into a play. The Jane Austen classic had been her all-time favourite book as a schoolgirl, and the young heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, was, without doubt, one of her favourite fictional heroines. Like many a sensitive, intelligent teenage girl, she had spent countless oppressive afternoons in a stuffy English classroom, dimly aware that a teacher was explaining Austen's use of plot, while fantasising that she was Lizzy Bennet - feisty, pretty, proud and poor.

They just don't write 'em like that any more, she thought to herself wistfully as she read the scene.

The excerpt chosen for the auditions was the explosive scene in which the hero, Mr Darcy, stuns Elizabeth by proposing to her for the first time. Jazz read it through and started to feel her heart pound against her ribcage: it was very well-written.

“It's a classic tale of intrigue, money and notorious family pride,” said a voice next to her. Jazz tried to look up, but couldn't tear herself away from her script.

“I said it's a classic tale of intrigue, money and notorious family pride. And it's yours for one smile.”

Gilbert was back on-line.

With an effort, Jazz looked up and gave him her best "I'm listening" smile. It worked.

He inched closer. “There was this massive Marmeduke and Noble family row years and years ago. Aunt Alexandra wanted our Harry to leave home and live with her instead of his parents when he was a child.”

Jazz frowned. “Why?”

Gilbert paused. It was the first time he'd ever considered this to be an unusual thing for an aunt to do. Eventually, he shrugged. “Because she's barking. Wealthy luvvies, you know,” he enlarged, gaining in confidence enough to start philosophising about something he knew nothing about, “do bizarre things like that.”

Jazz nodded briefly.

“Anyway,” said Gilbert, “she offered to pay for the best tuition in the country, give him everything money could buy - everything that his parents couldn't give him.”

Jazz was beginning to enjoy this.

“Wow,” she said quietly.

“Yes,” smiled Gilbert, “it's good, isn't it? You see, Alexandra had made her fortune as an actress and she'd always hated the fact that her little sister, Katherine - Harry's mother - had given up her career to become Wife and Mother. Alexandra was an early feminist. Told you she was barking.” He corrected himself. “Wonderful, of course,” he said quickly, “but eccentric, shall we say.”

Jazz's teeth began to grind.

“And she resented Harry's father Sebastian even more for being an excellent actor,” continued Gilbert, in full flow, “but one who was never in anything that made him or his family any money. Alexandra felt he should have provided better for her baby sister - accepted TV ads as well as RSC roles, that sort of thing - but Sebastian would never stoop to it. So, she thought they were irresponsible parents and she'd do a much better job of bringing up their child.”

“What made her so amazingly arrogant?” asked Jazz, fascinated.

“Well,” sighed Gilbert sympathetically, “she was almost fifteen years older than Katherine and had rather mothered her during her childhood. Katherine had always idolised her older sister, and had gone into acting to be like her. Alexandra couldn't quite get used to the fact that little Katie could give it all up - and hence, give up idolising her - for a mere man. Took it as a big rejection. Never forgave Sebastian — never.”

He paused dramatically.

“Minto, anyone?” came a voice from behind Jazz.

Jazz turned to Mo and shook her head impatiently. Mo was nervous, she knew the signs. Frequent trips to the loo, witless interruptions and offers of Mintos. She should try and calm her down, but Gilbert's story was getting good. She loved a good yarn.

When Gilbert had her attention again, he explained: “Adopting little Harry would have been a way for Alexandra to recapture control of Katherine's life, you see. She was a complete control freak - still is.”

“And did it work?” asked Jazz.

“Nope. Sadly, it had exactly the opposite result. It sounded the death knell for Alexandra and Katherine's relationship.”

Jazz nodded. That made sense.

By the time Mo had returned from another trip to the toilet, Jazz was so engrossed in Gilbert's story that the distant sound of female screams from outside the church made no impact on her.

Harry Noble had arrived.

By the time she'd noticed the hush and looked up, Harry Noble had already walked past her and was on his way to a big black door leading to the audition room. Every head in the room was turned towards him. Jazz didn't get much of a chance to watch him go, but she caught a quick glimpse and it was enough for her to spot the same manner of striding past his fans, the same jeans, the same jacket. It made her feel she knew him somehow. He put his hand on the door handle, turned round to the room and spoke in a deep, clear, velvety voice.

“The first two in five minutes,” he said. And with that he was gone.

There was silence for a moment and then everyone started talking at once.

“I think I need the loo again,” said Mo.