Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field

Chapter 3

“Anyway, thanks for the mango, George,” said Mo and they all started chortling weakly. Jazz could still taste toffee at the back of her teeth and Mo had just eaten most of a packet of chocolate eclair sweets. George, who had polished off the marshmallows, joined in guiltily.

They all looked at the unpeeled mango that Georgia had brought round. It lay on the coffee-table, surrounded by lots of brightly coloured sweet wrappers. They just couldn't be bothered to peel it.

“A mango is like a man,” decided Mo.

“Why?” asked George.

“Because it's too much effort to open up and has a heart of stone.”

Jazz smiled. “You forgot "And it tastes like shit to swallow and it's always you who has to wipe up afterwards".”

Mo snorted the remains of the last eclair up her nose.

“I love mangos,” smiled George happily.

They all turned to watch the mute TV for a moment.

The flat in West Hampstead belonged to Mo. It was bright, cosy and well-worn. She'd bought it five years ago, just before the latest boom, when her mother had died and left her a substantial amount of money.

Jazz loved living there. She could be in the heaving metropolis of central London in fifteen minutes and in Brighton in half an hour on the Thameslink. And she could be with Mo when she needed good company or stay in her room with its sofa and heaving book shelves when she needed space. What's more, George lived five minutes away in the next road. Jazz was delighted with her home.

George pulled her face away from the TV screen.

“Did you see that gorgeous blond bloke at the auditions?” she asked.

Mo shook her head. “Nope. I was too busy wondering when, how and where I was going to be sick.”

Jazz knew exactly who George was talking about. Maybe Action Man was on his way out, she thought hopefully. She turned her gaze away from a tap-dancing tube of toothpaste and a happy set of sparkling white teeth doing a Busby Berkeley number. It wasn't easy. She looked at her sister.

“Why don't you chuck Simon?” she suggested bravely.

George grimaced. “I'm too scared.”

“Of what?”

“I don't want to hurt him.”

Jazz wasn't sure if that was an answer or a new thought. She suspected the latter.

“How many bastards have hurt you?” demanded Mo.

“Exactly,” said George. “I'll know how awful he'll feel.”

“George,” interrupted Jazz. “How long have you been going out with him?”

“Three and a half months.”

Only Jazz's sympathy for her sister could have stopped her from laughing out loud.

“Chuck him, girl,” she said firmly but kindly. “I know he'll probably never find anyone as lovely again, but he will get over it.”

George's large white-blue eyes looked at the carpet. “I'll wait until he chucks me,” she said quietly.

Mo and Jazz erupted.

“Chuck him!” they both shouted.

“OK!” shouted George back, shutting them up.

She pulled her long legs under her little bottom, as if making herself smaller would somehow improve things. Jazz watched her. Her naturally fair hair suited her highlights so well and her skin went a stunning honey colour after just one sun-bed session every six weeks. She had no hips to speak of, a pretty bust, a concave stomach and the rest of her was golden skin and delicate bones. Perfection. Very occasionally when Jazz looked at her, for a split-second it was like looking at her reflection, only in technicolour and on a thinner, taller scale. Jazz's hair was much darker than her sister's and her figure more rounded. Whereas George had the kind of tall, androgynous body that the media and fashion world adored, Jazz had what was known as The Winslet Body - that is, a body that the media and fashion world trumpeted as obese but that men seemed to like well enough. Jazz also had their father's translucently pale skin and his deep chestnut eyes. She often wondered wistfully if, had she been born with George's vivid colouring, she'd also see the world in bright primary colours. But as for envying George's figure, Jazz wouldn't have known how to. That was one thing Martha — mother to George, Jazz and their younger sister, Josie - had taught her girls. With her splendid bosom, gloriously rounded bottom and shapely ankles, Martha had given each one of her very different daughters a priceless gift - the gift of loving their bodies. By example alone (and some very choice words at sensitive, adolescent times), she had taught them how to celebrate their own shape. She'd left it up to the world around them to present it as something to be ashamed of.

They all stared at the telly in silence, Jazz wondering how she could open up the conversation again. But within seconds her concentration was diverted by the images on the screen.

George sat up and pointed. “Oh look — it's Andrew! I was in Lysistrata with him in Cardiff!”

“Have you had him?” asked Mo.

George smiled a confessional smile. Jazz shook her head in amazement. Was no actor safe?

Before yesterday's audition, all Jazz and Mo had wanted to know about the Gala charity play was the address of the audition and the measurement of Harry Noble's inside leg. Now they had both, they wanted more information.

“It's a one-off, one-night play in aid of breast cancer research, to be performed at the King George Theatre in the West End,” explained George, in an excited rush. “Part of a massive theatrical bonanza-type thingy. The Pride and Prejudice part is semi-professional, with a complete range in the cast from unknowns to working actors, journalists, novelists and artists. Then the next night there'll be a pantomime with soap stars and on the last night they'll be doing It's A Knockout with all the country's news presenters. They say they're going to get Jeremy Paxman in a Daffy Duck outfit. So our bit is the only bit that's serious acting. But what makes it so different from all the other charities is that the audience will be full of celebrities and the cast will contain some ordinary working people for a change. Get the celebs to actually pay the money this time - that's the twist. They'll edit the highlights for a TV programme and the cameras will be on the audience as much as - if not more than - the stage.” George ignored Mo's gasp of terror. “And the way to get such a star-studded audience was to ask Harry Noble to direct. Every actor wants to see his work. It's a massive coup. Apparently they managed to get him because his great-aunt died of the disease.”

“And his Great British Public want to see him doing something good,” added Jazz. She told them how she had heard the producer, Matt Jenkins, telling Harry that this would enhance his reputation in Hollywood and the tabloids.

“Are you going to put that in your piece?” asked Mo eagerly.

Jazz shook her head. Much as she detested Harry's hypocrisy, that wasn't her style. She was a journalist and columnist for the popular women's weekly Hoorah! The women's magazine with a difference. She didn't waste her time writing celebrity gossip, although that didn't stop her being fascinated by it.

Jazz had the perfect personality for a columnist. Where George was ready to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, Jazz was happy to give them the benefit of her wisdom. She was highly judgmental of everything and everyone. She could spot bluff at a hundred paces. She couldn't help it, it was like a sixth sense. But most importantly for a columnist, Jazz was very emotional and easily riled. Her weekly tirades were a unique blend of heartwarming tales about her perfect family and home life, mixed with apoplectic opinions about society's foibles. Her columns were highly popular with the . readers. She felt fairly sure she had a future, with or without Hoorah! It was just a case of waiting to be snapped up by a broadsheet and never having to do a proper day's work again.

“Is Harry Noble always going to be that terrifying?” asked Mo.

“No more than your average pretentious, egocentric actor,” grinned Jazz at George. Jazz had interviewed so many celebs over the years that she wasn't remotely in awe of them any more. Apart from the odd one or two who showed a genuine interest in the stranger to whom they were pouring out their one-dimensional hearts, she had found that most of them were self-obsessed and pathetic. But she'd never interviewed anyone nearly as famous as Harry Noble; he was way out of her league. He was A-list, while she had only ever done strictly B- and C-list actors. And of course, he was a member of the famous Noble dynasty - a whole family of celebrated Shakespearean actors and part of England's heritage. Harry though, had been the first Noble to break into Hollywood.

Jazz had been impressed by every performance he'd done; even the cameo role he'd performed in a tacky American sitcom had had class. And he had shone at the Oscars. She thought he was a truly wonderful actor. And she'd been delighted to discover that in real life, he was every bit as abominable as she'd expected.

The next morning, Jazz sat at her computer in Hoorah!'s features department, her eyes unfocused and her mind freewheeling. She'd finished “I married my poodle!” in only two hours and was trying desperately to think of a way into this week's column.

Miranda, the junior researcher, was tapping away furiously at her wretched keyboard and Mark was pretending to be John Humphreys over the phone to a woman who had eloped with her husband's son by his first marriage. He had now asked her the same question four times. She imagined the woman was probably close to tears at the other end.

Maddie Allbrook, their boss, was reading her horoscope.

“Ooooh,” she said excitedly. “I'm going on a long journey. Maybe that's my summer holiday?”

“Crikey, how do they do that?” said Jazz, shaking her head. “Genius.”

Maddie pouted happily. It was impossible to upset her; God knows, Jazz had tried over the years. Maddie had creamy white skin and long, wavy black hair. She was petite and always wore little mini-skirts. She loved her job, her colleagues, her life. If she had been a house, she'd have been a little country cottage, complete with beams, log fires and creeping clematis up the front wall.

Mark slammed the phone down.

“Hopeless. Fucking hopeless,” he shouted dramatically. Maddie and Jazz looked at him as he wiped his hand over his eyes and over his head. “Woman had a brain the size of a split pea,” he went on. “I've gotta get out of this place.” And with that he strode out of the room, off for a fag no doubt.

Mark had long since stopped intriguing Jazz. By now, she had him pretty well sussed. With his saucer-shaped, dazzlingly blue eyes, angular cheekbones and high forehead, he had obviously been a beautiful baby and child. Which explained why he compensated by being a total dickhead to work with. He used every macho trick in the book to hide the fact that he was actually a rather sweet bloke. He had worn his thick curly, golden hair - the sort of hair any self-respecting woman would have grown as long as possible and nurtured with loving care — cropped close to his head for as long as she'd known him. If he knew that it actually made him look more vulnerable, he would no doubt have grown it. And he moved his body - which, she guessed, had only shot up and broadened in his late teens, long after the insecurity had set in - with a studied aggression.

Jazz's desk was opposite Maddie's; Mark sat in the far corner of the room facing them both. There was an empty desk opposite Miranda, but Mark had astutely chosen not to sit there when he joined almost a year ago. Jazz could see why. Miranda was about as interesting as varicose veins, although not quite as attractive. Over the past few months Jazz had begun to get the oddest feeling that she was being watched whenever things went quiet in Mark's corner. And his bolshie outbursts had grown more and more unpredictable. She hoped to God he wasn't starting to fancy her. She tried not to think about it. Just like she tried not to think about the depths to which her principles had sunk.

When she'd started at Hoorah! it had been one of a dying breed, a magazine that was interested in the higher qualities of life; relationships that lasted instead of those that collapsed spectacularly, people who were an inspiration, not an example. Unfortunately the readers were leaving in their thousands. “Nice” just wasn't a seller any more. People wanted short, they wanted snappy, they wanted dirt. Agatha Miller was brought in as the new Editor and she changed everything. Hoorah! became Hoorah! the women's magazine with a difference - the difference being that it had readers. The writing style went downmarket, the morals stooped, the storylines stooped lower still and the circulation hit the roof. Jazz found herself working on a trashy women's magazine instead of the last remaining decent one.

Agatha had brought with her a few colleagues from her previous magazine and Mark was one of them. Thankfully though, Agatha had liked Jazz's column and hadn't wanted it changed too much. Just a few more exclamation marks - known in the business as screamers — put in here and there to alert readers to the fact that they had just read a joke. Each screamer cut Jazz like a knife, but she was grateful that her column hadn't been axed completely.

“Oh look, another one bites the dust,” said Maddie happily. She read out the first few paragraphs in the tabloid she was holding about another highly regarded columnist's descent into infamy. His skeletons had finally struggled out of the cupboard after years of being locked away in the dark. It was always the same. After this gleeful character assassination, no one would ever read his criticisms of others, his comments on the world and his observations of human nature, without thinking, You're a fine one to talk. However brilliant he was. And this one was brilliant.

Jazz was eternally grateful that her personal life was so straightforward. She had a family that would make the Waltons look like the Kennedys, and a track record that was neat and uncomplicated. She knew it had to stay that way. You couldn't be respected as one of society's critics if you stepped off the straight and narrow yourself. Society loved to hate a hypocrite. Especially a famous one.

She sighed a deep sigh. She just couldn't start her column. The longer it took to get going, the worse the column was. Why couldn't she focus her mind?

There was a squeal from the corner of the open-plan office, followed by some raucous laughter.

“Listen to this, it's priceless . . .”

It was Sandra, the agony aunt, reading another of her letters out to the eager office. Usually Jazz would tune in, but with a monumental effort she stared at her screen. Focus, focus, focus. She spread her fingers out on the keyboard as if about to plunge into a piano concerto . . . and stared hard at the blank screen. She started her favourite daydream puzzler, wondering which Baldwin brother she'd most like to get stuck in a lift with.

Her machine bleeped. Excellent, an e-mail.

She scanned her messages. The one at the top said Stop Press. She double-clicked it.

AARRGGH!! I've worked out how to use the e-mail. I'm so excited, I can't write

any more. Write back NOW. My address is Maureen-Harris @ loughborough.co.uk.

But if you ever call me Maureen to my face you're a dead woman.

Mo.

Excellent! It had only taken one year. Mo must be using the one staff computer. Maybe one of her four-year-olds had showed her how it worked. She started tapping.

Gold star!! Ten out of ten!! Etc!!

Jazz.

PS. What's for dinner?

Then she tried to concentrate. Another bleep on her computer. Bloody hell. She double-clicked.

AARRGGH!! I've worked out how to use the e-mail. I'm so excited, I can't write

any more. Write back NOW. My address is Maureen-Harris @ loughborough.co.uk.

But if you ever call me Maureen you're a dead woman.

Mo.

Oh dear. She'd write back and then she'd start her work.

Mo hon, you just sent me the same message twice. You've managed to do what some

people can never do. Be boring on e-mail.

Love, Jazz.

Another bleep. Mo again.

I know I sent it twice. I didn't think you were listening the first time.

PS. It's your turn to cook tonight. I cooked last month.

Jazz smiled. Thank God for modern technology.

Maddie had finished reading the papers. She was now standing up, sorting through her filing tray.

“Mark, your 100 Things You Didn't Know About Wicked Willy piece is outstanding.”

Jazz saw Mark grin widely, his eyes warm with pleasure. “Cheers, babe.” He winked at her.

“No, Mark,” said Maddie. “It's outstanding. It's late.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, you see, there's a bloody good reason for that.”

“Yes?”

“Bloody good . . .”

Maddie and Jazz watched him try and get out of this one.

Jazz's phone rang. “Bloody hell, I can't get a thing done,” she muttered before picking it up.

“I'm going to do it,” said a voice that sounded as if it was in a mangle.

“Do what?”

“Chuck Simon, like you told me,” said George almost inaudibly.

“Jesus,” whispered Jazz in awe. “When? Where?”

For the first time she realised that a single George was as unknown territory to Jazz as it was to George herself.

“Do you think that blond bloke at the audition really liked me?” asked George.

“I'm sorry, I fail to see the significance,” said Jazz in her favourite pompous tone.

“Never mind,” answered George. “Will you come round tonight? We can talk tactics.”

“Of course,” said Jazz sincerely. She just stopped herself from saying, “It will be my pleasure.”

“Thanks,” whispered George.

“We'll be nasty about Simon together,” promised Jazz. “It'll be fun.”

“There isn't anything nasty to say about him,” said George pathetically, remembering his broad shoulders and forgetting his broad rump.

“Oh, I'm sure we'll find something,” said Jazz. “I seem to remember he only has one eyebrow. I always meant to ask you if it goes all the way round his head.”

Jazz could hear her sister smile. “See you tonight,” she said.

Jazz put the phone down and started her piece. Title - Taking Control. She finished it forty minutes later, and then read the dailies.