Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field

Chapter 8

The room was dark and warm. The only sound was of everyone's breathing and Harry Noble's deep, mellow voice, which seemed to float through the heavy air. Jazz was aware that he could bring out different depths of his voice for different words. It was a language in itself.

“You're feeling sleepier and sleepier and sleepier,” he lulled. “Your limbs are like lead and your head is floating on a cloud. You're in a garden. Somewhere in the distance you can hear a dog barking. You are sitting in your favourite part of the garden, enjoying the feel of the sun on your face.”

Despite herself, Jazz was relaxing - on a floral hammock wearing a matching summer dress.

“Now I'm going to go round asking you nice, simple questions that you must answer without a pause. Any pause and it will be ruined.”

Lying on the floor, Jazz started drifting off. Her Doc Martens made her feet so blissfully heavy, Harry's voice seemed to be inside her head.

“What's your first memory, Jasmin?”

Why did he always start with her?

She spoke quietly so as not to wake herself too much out of her trance. “I'm not sure whether this is from my memory or from a snapshot I once saw,” she told him, keeping her breaths deep and slow. “I'm in the garden shed in my pram and I'm crying because I want to come in.”

“You must have been very young.” Harry's voice was inside her head.

She half-smiled. “About fifteen.”

Drowsy laughter went round the room.

There was a big sigh from Harry and then a very different voice. “Ha Ha, Ms. Field.”

“Yes, I must have been very young,” said Jazz quickly, realising she had spoilt the whole ambience.

His voice was now coming from her level. It was as if there were only the two of them in the room.

“What scares you most about dying?”

Bizarrely, Jazz felt a quick welling up of emotion.

“Not being able to talk about it afterwards.”

“Who to?”

Slight pause.

“You paused,” said Harry impatiently.

“I have to think. These are big questions.”

Harry hid a smile.

“Mo. George. Dad. Mum.”

“Did you have a happy childhood?”

Tiny pause.

“Most of the time.”

“What made you unhappy?”

How was this going to make her acting better?

“Is this really necess—”

“Yes,” said Harry wearily. “If you can't be honest now, how can you be honest on stage?”

“I'm hardly being honest on stage — I'm reading a script. I hate to be the one to break it to you but I think the audience knows that.” It was so much easier arguing with him with her eyes shut.

She could almost feel him frowning at her, without having to see him. Isn't this emotionally naked enough, she thought? Lying with my eyes shut being watched by you while you ask me stupid questions?

There was a long pause. What was he doing?

She opened her eyes and fixed him with a questioning gaze. He was sitting next to her, elbow on knee, hand in hair, frowning intently at her face. She rested herself on her elbows and frowned intently back.

“Would it save time if I just sent you my autobiography?” she asked.

“I didn't know you'd written one,” he said.

“I haven't yet.” She lay down again.

She thought he'd gone and so started a slow, secret smile.

“Why are you so scared to let go?” he almost whispered from next to her. Then he jumped up and walked quickly to the other side of the room.

Wazzock, thought Jazz.

The truth was that no sooner had Harry told everyone that he had given himself his biggest challenge yet in casting an unattractive Lizzy Bennet than he began to realise that he had in fact made life very easy for himself. When he'd first set eyes on Jasmin Field, he had marvelled that her sister could have all the lucky genes while she had none. Then during her impressive audition piece he had realised that while Jasmin didn't have her sister's easy prettiness, she could be beautiful. Then at that first rehearsal, when she had proved to be such a concentrated pain in the backside, he had begun to notice just how well cast she was. Her face was indeed rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. If eyes are the window of the soul, Harry found Jazz's soul compelling.

But she was such a bloody challenge. She was so emotionally retentive - what was she scared of? If only he could tap into her depths, he was sure she could be a fine actress. And he was determined to, both for his reputation, and for his own growing interest in her. She could be a stunning Elizabeth Bennet. Yep, the more he looked at Jasmin Field - and he found himself looking longer and longer - the more he was struck by his uncanny knack for casting. Was there no end to his talents?

He walked slowly to the other end of the hall.

“What makes you unhappy?” He was walking round, looking for a likely candidate. “Sara?”

Sara's voice was ever so husky at that angle.

“Poverty. People dying alone unloved. Homeless people make me weep. War. Famine—”

“Jasmin?”

Oh, not again. Was this punishment for snorting?

“Um. Finishing a bar of chocolate.”

Because her eyes were shut, she couldn't see how a full smile warmed Harry's chiselled features. “You see, Sara,” he said, “there's no point in playing this if you're not going to be honest. At least when Jasmin gives up, she does it honestly.”

Oh good, thought Jazz. I need an enemy.

The "game" continued for forty minutes. People were saying staggeringly honest things about themselves, most of which Jazz had no desire to know. The whole thing, she was convinced, was to feed Harry's need to feel in control. Yet couldn't he see that most of the cast were only saying things to impress him? On the other hand though, it had been fascinating to discover that Mo wished she had been able to cry about her mother's death, but was unable to — except in her dreams. Jazz thought she knew everything about Mo.

She had noticed that Wills got particularly short shrift from Harry. In fact, Harry never asked him one question and Wills didn't seem surprised by it at all. He seemed happy enough to be ignored. But why should Harry ignore him? Jealous probably, she answered herself confidently, vaguely aware that that didn't make much sense.

One hour later, Lizzy, Jane, Kitty, Lydia, Mary and Mr and Mrs Bennet were reading through Scene One.

For the first half an hour, the mood was so buoyant that no joke was too small for a hearty laugh from all. Mrs Bennet in particular was very hyped. She kept telling awful anecdotes that began with, “That reminds me,” and ended with punchlines so weak that Jazz had to stop herself from saying, “So what happened next?” and were filled with such total irrelevance to what had preceeded their telling that Jazz wondered whether the woman was in fact deaf. It wasn't long before she found it wearing to be with so many over-excited adults in one room.

“You know, that reminds me,” chuckled Mrs Bennet, a propos of nothing, “of a very amusing story.” And with that, she interrupted herself by starting to laugh silently and shake her head, as though she didn't trust herself to tell the said tale.

Harry interrupted. “Right people, let's try again from "While Mary is adjusting her ideas . . .", shall we?” Mrs Bennet didn't seem to mind at all, chuckling happily to herself and shaking her head as if it was just as well she'd been stopped. It seemed Jazz was the only one who even noticed Harry's rudeness.

Three hours later they were still doing the opening scene. It was approaching midnight. Jazz was tired, hungry and utterly bored. As she sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by the others, waiting for Harry to stop reading the script and tell the actress playing the part of Kitty what to do next, Jazz's stomach growled so loudly it actually frightened her. There was an embarrassed silence.

“I am officially starving,” said Jazz solemnly. “Please call Comic Relief.”

The others laughed and added meaningful little quips like "me too". Harry didn't seem to hear any of this, he was too absorbed by the script.

“What do you mean by those words, Kitty?” he asked instead.

Kitty looked at the script as though if she looked hard enough the words would appear. She was so terrified of saying the wrong thing that she said nothing at all.

“Does anyone know?” said Harry painfully.

Jazz knew she might as well answer before he asked her anyway. “She means "It's nearly midnight, you'd better let us go home now if you want us to ever come to another rehearsal".”

Harry looked at his watch.

“Jesus! Yes, of course,” he said quietly, as if only addressing himself. It apparently didn't matter to him that other people might find it late, only that it was late for him. He rubbed his eyes. “Right then,” he clapped his hands. “See you all Wednesday. Good work.” And he picked up his coat and walked out. He didn't even notice Purple Glasses who had been waiting for them all to leave so she could lock up.

Jazz and George dawdled getting on their coats and chatted outside the church door.

“That was absolutely knackering,” yawned Jazz.

“I know, he's brilliant.”

“Is he? Wills doesn't think so.”

“Wills?”

“William Whitby. He's playing Wickham.”

“Oh him. Well, he's not an Oscar-winner, is he?”

“No, but he's got a very nice arse.”

“Oh, and Harry hasn't, I suppose?”

“No, Harry has. There's no denying that. It's just one of my principles not to get involved with a man who talks out of it.”

“Want a lift home?”

“No, I need the fresh air, I'm completely shagged.”

“Well, phone me when you get home then.”

“Yes, Mum.”

The night air was deliciously fresh. Jazz loved being up when most people weren't - it was the closest she felt to nature, especially in West Hampstead.

“Want a lift?”

She looked over to the car at the end of the road. It was a clapped-out old MG with its roof down and Harry sitting in it. Despite the appealing picture, Jazz felt no urge to go any nearer. How long had he been sitting there? Had he heard anything they'd said? Did he think she needed a pep-talk already?

“No, thanks. I need the air.”

“You never know what's out there,” he said gravely. “Could be dangerous.”

“No less dangerous than getting into the car of a strange man, I shouldn't wonder.”

“You think I'm strange to you, Ms. Field?”

Jazz mulled this over. “Well, put it this way,” she said. “I'm still making you out, Mr Noble.”

“Well, have a lift,” he said with a touch of impatience, leaning across to the passenger door and opening it wide, “and you'll get some extra material for your work.”

She managed a smile. “I think I've done enough work for today, don't you?”

Instead of answering the question, Harry simply said, rather dramatically Jazz thought, “I won't bite, Ms. Field,” as he started to put his key in the ignition.

Jazz walked up to him slowly.

“Look, since you like honesty without any pauses, here goes. I would prefer to walk through the midnight streets of West Hampstead on my own than have a lift in your car.” She shut the car door and smiled at him. “Thanks all the same.”

And she strolled into the sweet night air.