“Are your opinions always that depressing?”

Jazz shrugged. “Yes. Most of the time. I find most people unlikeable.”

“Such cynicism in one so young,” he half-smiled.

“Ah well, the more people I meet, the more I like my fridge,” misquoted Jazz.

“I think you like to hate. It makes you feel superior.”

Jazz had had enough of the character assassination. “Oh? As opposed to actually being superior — like yourself, I suppose?” she asked.

Harry shrugged. Amazed, Jazz continued. “I've met someone through this play who seems to have a very different opinion on the matter of your natural superiority.”

At first Harry looked uncomprehending, then a realisation struck and to Jazz's delight, he started to look profoundly uncomfortable. Jazz was determined not to be intimidated by the silence that followed. When she thought Harry would not reply, she picked up her bag as thought to leave. It worked. Harry coughed.

“William Whitby has a way about him,” he said eventually. “No woman I have ever met seems able to withstand his charms for very long.”

“You sound jealous,” Jazz said quietly.

Harry seemed angry. “Then you don't know what jealousy sounds like,” he said with ill-disguised scorn.

Jazz ignored that. “Since he's so irresistible, it's bizarre, don't you think, that he hasn't made it in Hollywood? After all, he has the right connections and the right talent.” Harry seemed to be making an effort to control himself. Thinking she might have gone too far, she changed tack. “Anyway,” she countered, “wouldn't you say that you are also pretty confident in your own opinions?”

“Yes, if they're made with sound judgement,” replied Harry.

“Ah. So it's just women who make errors of judgement, then?”

“Those are your words, not mine. I hope I would never be so sexist.”

“How sweet,” smiled Jazz. “You'd be the first man I'd ever met who wasn't.”

“Maybe that says more about the men you meet than men in general,” Harry retorted.

Jazz was furious. “Oh well, of course it would be my error and not men's. Thank you for putting me right after all these years. It must be ever so nice to be perfect.”

“I never said I was perfect, Ms. Field,” said Harry, growing more and more annoyed, “but I would like to think that perception and judgement are not my faults.”

Jazz refused to give up. “But tell me, would you confidently say that you've never let professional rivalry influence your opinion-making?”

Harry stared straight ahead. “I hope I'm bigger than that,” he said shortly.

“Because,” Jazz continued, “when someone holds as much sway over others' opinions as you do, and someone is as sure of their own opinions as you are, wouldn't you agree that it would be doubly important for your opinions about people to be right?”

Harry frowned at Jazz before answering thoughtfully, “It's always important for people's opinions about others to be well-founded. The difference with me perhaps is that once founded, my opinions rarely change.”

Wasn't that one of Darcy's lines from the play? thought Jazz. To both of their surprise, they smiled together suddenly. They couldn't avoid the fact that they were starting to think and behave like the characters in their play. Harry was used to this phenomenon — a few years ago, he had actually felt his back ache and one leg feel weaker than the other when playing Richard III - but to Jazz, this was a new sensation, as if her personality was possessed. Even though it was by the personality of Lizzy Bennet, it was still somewhat unnerving.

“The trick,” Harry continued, “as any good journalist — like yourself— would know, is to go to the right sources instead of — instead of. . .” He broke off, obviously thinking of words to describe Wills.

“Instead of sources which you disapprove of?” helped Jazz.

“Instead of sources that might be misleading,” he finished quietly.

“Well, thanks for the lift,” said Jazz “it's been most educative.” And she leapt out of the car, slammed the door shut and was gone. If he thought she'd be inviting him in for coffee he was very much mistaken.

She threw shut her front door and, feeling very much like Jasmin Field again and very little like Lizzy Bennet, stomped angrily up the stairs. Dripping with sweat, she jumped straight into the shower where she allowed herself to give vent to her hatred for the man who thought he could criticise her writing just because he had given her a lift home. How dare he? How would he like it if she criticised his acting?

Harry meanwhile, was getting lost down a one-way street. His fury at Jazz was soon taking a different direction. When he got home some forty minutes later, he sat in his car for a while, just thinking. He looked at the seat next to him, noticed some drops of sweat on it and, feeling very much like Harry Noble again and very little like Fitzwilliam Darcy, smiled at how crude he could be sometimes.

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.