Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field

Chapter 22

Jazz was very, very happy. Her first column had appeared in the News, lots of her friends and family had phoned to tell her they loved it and there had been no come-back from Agatha since Maddie had convinced their boss that it would help their circulation having the News's top columnist as their exclusive celebrity interviewer. Maddie had decided, since her interview with Jazz, that Jazz should still work for them on a freelance basis.

When her phone went for the umpteenth time, she picked it up happily. “Hello, Hoorah!”

“I thought we had a deal!” barked a terrifying voice at the other end of the phone.

“S-sorry?”

“What the fuck do you mean giving the News your column when I was there first?” It was Sharon Westfield and she was spitting blood.

Although taken aback, Jazz was firm. She knew she hadn't promised them anything.

“I'm sorry Sharon, but—”

“Sorry? I'll show you sorry, young lady. Think you can do the dirty on me, do you? After we ran a spread on your cosy family picture—”

Jazz didn't think now was the time to mention that her family hadn't enjoyed being duped and misquoted.

“Who do you think you are?” the woman ranted on. “You wouldn't have got that stupid award if I hadn't tipped the wink. Believe me, young lady, if there's dirt to be had on you, I'll find it. Consider yourself dropped.” And she hung up.

Jazz was mind-blown. She had done nothing wrong. She could go to whatever paper she wanted. Sharon Westfield was quite obviously barking mad.

And she was now Jazz's enemy.

When she told Maddie about her call, Maddie was philosophical. A friend of hers worked with Sharon so she knew all there was to know about her.

“Forget it,” she said simply. “Sharon won't remember your name next week. Apparently she's going through a really difficult divorce at the moment - it was just bad timing. Anyway, you're not allowed to be worried tonight, we're going to see Harry Noble act. So cheer up and that's an order.”

By the time Maddie and Jazz walked into the foyer of the Pemberton Theatre that evening, Jazz was in a bad way. There were so many knots in her stomach, she could have joined a Boy Scout group. The theatre was packed with beautiful, famous people. Jazz didn't know where to look first. She and Maddie squeezed their way through the crowd and up the staircase to their seats in the front row of the dress circle. Jazz knew this theatre well and it looked as stunning as ever. But never before had she felt so in awe of the stage. It was enormous, and Jazz suddenly felt terrified for Harry. How could he put himself on the line like this? Regularly?

All these people waiting for him to make their evening go with a bang. All these people expecting him to give them their money's worth. If he fluffed even one line, hundreds of people would be disappointed. For the first time, Jazz grew numb with terror at the prospect of acting. In only one month's time, she would be doing the same thing as Harry, albeit in a smaller, less grandiose theatre.

She looked up at the ornate plasterwork and painting on the ceiling above her. The workmanship was breathtaking: it must have taken years to complete — decades even. But no one would be looking at that tonight. She stared hard at the red velvet curtain on the stage. What would Harry be doing now? She knew that he would have no problem focusing himself; unlike her, who was always so easily distracted. God, he must have been frustrated by her in rehearsals. She forced herself to think of something else before the familiar depression took hold.

Maddie was beside herself with excitement. “Ohmygod, there's whatsisname,” she squeaked. Jazz followed the direction of Maddie's indiscreetly pointed finger with her eyes. So it was. The place was full of actors and directors, critics and celebs. She spotted Brian Peters who, to her enormous surprise, gave her a big smile from his circle seat. And a hush came over all of them when the Noble family entered their box. Jazz saw that Harry had his mother's colouring and his father's strong features. They smiled at everyone regally.

Then the lights dimmed, and Jazz was overwhelmed by excitement, terror and an incongruous sense of empathy with Harry.

The set was the interior of a 1950s house, complete with kitchenette and plastic covers on the couch.

The detail was amazing. She could see the gold lettering on the book spine by the drinks cabinet. A door slammed in the distance and in walked Harry. Or rather, in slouched Harry. At first Jazz didn't recognise him and wondered if there was some mistake. He was wearing the unflattering trousers of the day, which belted high in the waist, making his legs look shorter and his stomach look larger. His shoulders were rounded with fatigue, his neck was tense and his head hung as if bowed by misery. His hair was Brylcreemed into an unattractive, slick style. He called out a woman's name and when he got no reply, he went to the fridge, took out a bottle of beer and slumped down on the couch.

Jazz was transfixed. With supreme confidence, Harry flipped the lid off his drink and slowly drank half the bottle. He even belched, which got a snigger from the audience. Then he pushed his hand through his hair - a gesture that brought a confusing squirm to Jazz's stomach - and looked wistfully into the auditorium. She could have sworn he was looking right at her. She blushed in the dark.

He spoke in a Texan drawl, but his voice was the same. It had such depth, such quality. For two and a half hours, he spoke of his life, his desires, his sacrifices. Every little movement he made was entrancing. He could transform his entire audience's emotions with the smallest change of expression, make them laugh with the slightest shift of his eye. He had such control over them, such power. He turned them into one conscious being, instead of hundreds of separate people. When Harry cried, unmanly sobs that came from the pit of his stomach, Jazz thought her heart would break. He was intoxicating.

There was only one moment when she allowed her mind to meander from the play. It was when Harry took his shirt off. That beautiful smooth, olive-brown torso, those gently curved shoulders, the width of his forearms and the vulnerability of the back of his neck . . . His body was probably the most beautiful one she had ever seen and its natural grace made her think for the first time how nice it would have been to have walked into a party with him by her side. She had never looked at him properly before, and now that she was safely in the dark, she drank him in. And she was in awe. I could have had that, she found herself thinking in wonder. I could have been mistress of that. And she made herself smile and find it funny.

When the play finished, and Harry bowed fully and slowly, as if trying to take in each and every member of the audience, Jazz stayed in her seat, clapping. She wanted everyone else to disappear, she wanted it to be just him and her. She wanted to be up there on stage with him. She wished the spotlight would fall on her now, and reveal her sitting in the audience. She felt a sudden, intense jealousy of everyone whose eye Harry caught as he bowed. She wanted to own him. And, as she glanced quickly at the rapt faces of the audience - not taking her eyes off him for too long - she experienced, for the first time, a deep sense of gratitude for the attraction he'd once felt for her.

She had told Maddie beforehand that they were to leave before the curtain went down, but there was no way she'd do that now. She just sat there, soaking in the atmosphere. When had he found time to learn his lines, to rehearse, focus? And he'd done all this while keeping P&P going. She was staggered.

Eventually, the heavy curtain dropped to the floor and wasn't going to go up again. People reluctantly began to leave and she heard snippets of their conversations:

“This generation's Olivier” . . . “mesmeric” . . . “hypnotising” . . .

She and Maddie took ages to get through the crush. They seemed to get caught behind everyone and, of course, they both had to queue to use the Ladies. Maddie re-did her make-up, but when Jazz looked in the mirror and saw her puffy eyes and red nose, ravaged by forty minutes of intermittent crying, she knew she was past helping. It always took a day or two for her face to recover from sobbing. By the time they left the theatre, only a few people were still around.

When they finally got to the door, Jazz stopped and closed her eyes at the delicious night breeze on her hot and sticky body.

“Jasmin!” called a shocked voice.

She opened her eyes. To her horror, there stood Harry, dressed in a crisp white shirt and narrow-legged, flat-fronted dark trousers, his jacket slung over his shoulders, about to enter the foyer. It was only a fortnight since she had last seen him, but so much had happened since then that it felt like months ago.

At first they were both so astonished and uncomfortable, neither could think of anything to say. Jazz's awareness of their shared awkwardness kept overcoming her in waves. Why had she let Maddie force

her to come. What would Harry think of her? It was unbearable.

Harry wasn't coping too well with the situation either.

“Congratulations on your award,” he said eventually.

How did he know about that?

“Congratulations on your performance,” managed Jazz back. She was suddenly feeling so shy that she hardly noticed he was even more tongue-tied than her.

There was a painful pause.

“How are you?” asked Harry eventually.

“Fine, thanks. You?” replied Jazz.

“I — I didn't know you were coming,” he continued. “You could have had drinks in the interval backstage.”

“Oh,” said Jazz intelligently, forcing herself to look him in the eye, like an adult. She noticed for the first time that his upper lip was probably his nicest feature. And his cheekbones were amazing.

“How is George? And Mo?” he asked, as if he hadn't seen them for years.

Jazz couldn't find a suitable reply. George is catatonic? Mo is moronic? Her brain seemed to have stopped working.

Maddie interrupted. “Mr. Noble, my name is Maddie Allbrook. I'm Jazz's boss. We were very lucky to get tickets.”

Harry looked at Maddie and stunned Jazz by giving her a big smile and putting his hand out to shake hers.

“Any friend of Jasmin's is a friend of mine,” he said simply. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Maddie let out a very unfeminine noise that expressed yes. “You were — you were ay-mazing,” she finally managed to say.

Harry grinned at her warmly. “It's very kind of you to say so. Thank you very much, it means a lot.”

Then he looked back to Jazz, who was having considerable difficulty believing her eyes or ears. This was a completely different Harry from the one she knew. This must be his post-performance persona. It was the only possible explanation.

Suddenly she remembered that her nose would still be red and she said accusingly, “You made me cry.” She wished she could read the expression in his eyes.

But Harry made no comment. He turned to Maddie.

“You're from the press?” he asked her. “Oh dear - I hope you're not going to be too harsh on me?”

Maddie looked shocked and hurt. “Not all journalists are out to knock, you know.”

“I think your magazine is splendid,” Harry answered sincerely.

“Well,” said Maddie. “It was once.” She looked at Jazz. “Its staff are certainly splendid, it's just the readers who've gone downhill. Present company excluded, of course,” she gushed.

Harry assured her that no offence had been taken.

Then he suddenly remembered something and looked at them both.

“Will you come inside and meet my family?” he invited them.

Jazz didn't know what to say.

“They'd love to meet you,” he went on. “You already know my sister Carrie, Jasmin. They're inside. It'll only take a minute.”

All helpful information, yet Jazz still didn't know what to say.

Maddie answered for her. “How wonderful,” she breathed and took Jazz's arm, pushing her back into the foyer.

There stood Carrie and their parents. People were walking round them, transfixed, nodding and smiling as if they were royalty. Jazz was fascinated. From the impression she had always got from the press and indeed from Gilbert, she believed Harry's parents to be highly principled, yet cold people who had never given him any affection. So she was very surprised when Harry's father hugged him and the two of them stood like that for a while. His father didn't say anything - he couldn't, he was too close to tears. When Harry bent down to embrace his mother, her grin almost split her face and tears ran happily down her cheeks. Carrie gave him a big hug and then smiled a shy yet proud smile over at Jazz. Jazz smiled back, ashamed that she'd never given Carrie a moment's thought.

“Mum, Dad, this is Jasmin Field, my Elizabeth Bennet.”

Both his parents pretended to know exactly who she was and smiled at her warmly, shaking her hand.

His mother actually took Jazz's hand in both of hers while she shook it. They must have been on an amazing high.

Jazz made some noises to indicate she thought that the fruit of their loins had done them proud and that she really ought to leave them to their evening. With that she said goodbye to Harry and walked Maddie out.

But Harry followed her. “Are you coming to the next rehearsal?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe and looking at Jazz intently. If there is a noise that accompanies the act of swooning, Maddie made it.

“Well,” said Jazz slowly. “As long as you don't mind the fact that I can't act.”

Harry's smile was so full of affection that Jazz momentarily missed the fact that he didn't contradict her.

“Now that the previews are over I can start coming back to them,” he said. “I thought we should concentrate on the last scene when Darcy proposes the second time, so it'll just be you, me and maybe Matt. Oh, and Carrie will come later to discuss costumes with you. She thought it would be a good time to get you alone. Perhaps we could all go for a drink afterwards?”

Jazz didn't think she'd ever heard Harry use such long sentences. She nodded. “Lovely,” she said softly.

And they both separated.

“So that's the "bastard", Harry Noble?” Maddie said dreamily. “Jasmin, he is gorgeous. He is a god. He's so tall. And broad. And those eyes. The man has teeth that were made in heaven.” She started an impression of The Wicked Witch of the West. “I'm melting, I'm melting . . .”

Usually Jazz would have found this highly amusing, but tonight she wasn't listening.

“I can't believe you made me go,” she said, almost in tears. “It's all your fault, Maddie.”

Maddie stopped and frowned. “What did I do wrong?” she asked incredulously. “He was delighted to see you.”

Jazz shook her head as if trying to get something out of her brain. “He's just trying to prove me wrong,” she said despairingly. “He's laughing on the other side of his face.”

“Well, it's a drop-dead gorgeous face, whatever side it's being laughed on,” said Maddie. She wanted to ask Jazz if she was blind as well as stupid, but realised Jazz was in no mood to be criticised. She decided instead to discuss Harry's merits, rather than Jazz's shortcomings, but stopped after half a minute, when she realised Jazz was not only not listening, but was in some sort of private hell.