Chapter 15

Jazz had only changed her outfit four times, which was not bad going, considering. Would the Evening Herald like her Smart and Understated, Humble and Alluring or Intimidatingly Sophisticated? She had briefly considered Intimidatingly Humble before wearing her favourite chic, smart suit. She walked into the hotel foyer and stopped still. Now what?

“Ay saiy, hailo,” called a voice from her side. She turned to face an amazing body. Long muscular legs, a bust that strained at the tight halter-neck over it and strong round shoulders. It was the body of a strong, glossy colt. Unfortunately, on top of it was the face of one. Jazz took one quick up-and-down glance and knew instantly that she'd seen the type before. High heels, high cheekbones, high bustline, low morals. They always went far. “Candida Butterworth, Evening Herald, we spoke on the phone.” Candida stretched out a long arm and they shook hands.

Impossibly, Jazz felt she was shrinking.

“Hello,” she said quietly.

They perched on a sofa, ordered coffees and Candida got out her dictaphone. “Can't do shorthand, takes longer than my bloody longhand,” she said and laughed like a braying donkey. Her teeth were enormous. How did they all fit in her mouth? Didn't she have problems getting food in? Maybe that was why she was so skinny. And how did she breathe? Was that why her nostrils had to be so flared?

Jazz had been worried enough about what to say before meeting Candida. Now that she had met her in the flesh she was terrified. There was no way Jazz could take her seriously. The Evening Herald had a massive circulation and she knew that this interview could make or break her. Her career was in Candida's hands. And Candida's hands were now in Candida's Wonderbra, hoisting herself up to newer, even better, heights.

Jazz stayed calm. She was not going to be duped into thinking Candida was dumb just because she looked like a horse. She was as determined not to babble and make a fool of herself as she had been before she met her. She would make sure she understood any complex questions before answering them. She was not going to be frightened of pauses. She was not going to be fooled. This was going to be fine.

“Now,” said Candida, getting out sheets of questions, which were written in large round letters. “Where were you born?”

Oh shit.

Two hours later, Jazz had a headache from talking so much. She hadn't let Candida ask any more questions after her astounding, “Do you think lady journalists are as good as real journalists?” So she'd talked nonstop, without a pause, about herself. That was always dangerous, because usually when that happened Jazz's brain couldn't keep up with her tongue. This was no exception. Candida sat and nodded silently for two hours. Jazz hoped to God her dictaphone was bust and she'd have to re-interview.

It wasn't.

*  *  *

George and Jazz were nattering during a particularly boring part of the rehearsal. This part was meant to be the complicated dance scene between Darcy and Lizzy where he actually asks her to dance and she forces him to talk about his relationship with Wickham. As usual, Brian needed some extra attention and everything else was being put on hold while Harry fought to control his temper. The choreographer was eating a Mars Bar while reading the gloriously tacky women's magazine Would You Believe It! After an hour, Brian was finally mastering his imperious frown, but so fiercely that his face reminded Jazz of a bad Picasso painting.

“Jack wants to be a great actor more than anything,” whispered George to Jazz, as Brian knocked a chair over and Harry started making strange, choking noises.

“Well,” she smiled, “apart from settling down and having a family.”

Jazz grinned at her affectionately. God, she hoped George was right. She didn't know anyone who deserved to be happier.

“I hope Mum and Dad like him,” said George wistfully.

Jazz was brought out of her thoughts. “My God, George,” she said. “This sounds serious.”

George looked at her. “I know Jazz.” She half-smiled. “This is it.”

Matt Jenkins was making his way over to them both and they stopped happily to talk to their producer. By now, Matt was everybody's friend, from the junior props assistant to the great Harry Noble. When he wasn't on stage, twitching with terror, Matt was a supremely organised, efficient man, who had a wonderfully calming, balming effect on the entire proceedings.

As Matt asked the sisters how they were, Harry started bellowing insults at poor Brian so loudly they could no longer hear themselves talk.

Jazz turned to Matt, who, like most people in the room, was now watching Harry and Brian.

“Is there no end to Mr. Noble's professionalism?” she asked loudly, as for the first time, Brian was actually bellowing back.

Matt tried to smile and give Jazz his full attention. “He's under a hell of a lot of pressure,” he replied equally loudly. “He's all right when you get to know him.”

Jazz smiled ruefully. “And why would anyone want to do that then?” she asked.

She assumed Matt didn't hear her over the furious row now going on between Brian and Harry.

George was trying to avert her eyes from the embarrassing fight. “You've worked with him before, haven't you?” she asked, as Brian stumbled off the stage and Harry stood silently, in a world of his own.

Matt nodded briefly, his eyes back on Brian. “Years ago now. It was just a small production. We were both a lot younger. Harry doesn't let a lot of people get close to him.”

Tragic loss for mankind, thought Jazz as Matt quickly gave them both some rehearsal dates.

Just then a flushed Harry came over and loitered uncertainly near them, giving Matt a short, defensive glance.

Jazz looked up at Harry. “Nice to see you have the full vocal range,” she said, referring to the row. “You never know when that might come in handy.”

Harry almost grimaced and ruffled his hair distractedly.

Jazz decided to make the most of his unusual reticence.

“Are you sure you're allowed to come over and talk to the plebeians, Hazza?” she asked in a tone that was so rarely used on him that even Matt seemed a bit surprised.

“Meaning?” Harry answered shortly.

“Well,” said Jazz, “I'm so honoured that you've actually graced our humble company, instead of merely beckoning us to come to you, that I think I may have to lie down with the shock of it.”

Matt gave a warning smile. “I think you've met your match, Harry,” he said, before realising to his horror that Brian was slowly packing up his belongings.

Jazz turned to Matt with a big smile. “Do you know that Harry never so much as deigns to talk to us during any breaks? He only ever shouts at us and orders us about? It's fearsome.”

Harry was so determined to defend himself that he was distracted from what was happening behind him.

“It's the only way to get anything done around here,” he snapped. “And when we're not rehearsing, I don't mingle well. I leave that to other people who seem to have a knack for it.” The words "mingle" and "knack" were said like they were well beneath him.

Jazz looked him steadily in the eye. He held her intense gaze with a look of defiance that concealed how much he was enjoying the experience.

“I don't find it as easy as some to act, Mr. Noble, but I'm trying my hardest.” With a wide smile, she finished, “I see it as my limitation, not other people's.”

Harry simply nodded his head. “Well, perhaps you'd like to do some of that now,” he said. “We have work to do.”

Jazz turned to Matt. “Wish me luck,” and he smiled at her.

“I don't think you need any,” he said. Unlike himself, he thought sadly, as he wondered how on earth he was going to placate Brian.

Jazz got up slowly, just as the costume girl approached George with a nervous smile and a large sketch pad. The truth was, Jazz was bored by this. Brian was hopeless on stage. She was no actress, but even she could tell. But when she took her place for her scene with him she realised Brian was putting on his coat and picking up his bag. Was he going out for chocolate supplies?

“Where's Darcy going? Was it something I said?” she asked Harry.

Brian started to walk majestically to the door.

“We've - um, we've . . . come to an agreement,” said Harry, taking off his jumper and revealing for a moment a smooth, broad chest before his thin white cotton shirt fell back down again.

“What agreement?” asked Jazz, her attention caught for a split second by the sight of Harry's chest, so that she was completely unaware of Matt flat-footing it after Brian.

“He's leaving.” Harry was now rolling his arms around from the shoulders in odd circular movements while walking towards Jazz.

Jazz couldn't take it in. “He's not playing Darcy any more?”

“Well done, Ms. Field, your mental agility is most encouraging,” he said.

“So who's playing Darcy now?” said Jazz stupidly.

Harry coughed. “I will be playing the part of Darcy from now on,” he announced loudly, so that the entire cast could hear. “Brian has other commitments.”

At this, Matt stopped doing his rather feeble impression of someone running and turned round to Harry with a big, satisfied grin on his face. The door slammed and Brian was gone.

“Right,” said Harry decisively. “Where were we?”

As he walked towards a shocked Jazz, he glanced over to the side of the hall and did a sudden double-take. Jack was standing very close to George and, what was more, George was letting him. Worse than that, Jack's mouth was inches away from hers and her eyes were half-closed. Jazz watched Harry stare at them, frowning. Eventually he turned away from them and apologised to her. He seemed very preoccupied.