He came and stood by her side, facing the front of the stage. Then he stretched his arm out towards her, palm-up, as in a dance. The choreographer came over with her copy of the script and Harry, never taking his eyes off Jazz, said: “The dance has to be constrained, correct and elegant, yet at the same time full of chemistry. Darcy and Elizabeth have never touched before and he's already in too deep. She, of course, still thinks he's an arrogant prig.”

Jazz stared at him in astonishment. Was he really asking her to act with him? He eyed her and started flicking his hand up and down impatiently, as if to make her take it.

“You could just tell me what you want me to do, you know,” said Jazz, recovering. “Instead of performing your own rather poor version of the Birdie Song.”

Harry sighed. “We really don't have time for this, Ms. Field,” he said.

They locked eyes. She wouldn't touch him until he asked.

Harry sighed again. “Take my hand, please,” he said impatiently.

Reluctantly, Jazz did so.

*  *  *

Acting with Harry was an amazing experience. Jazz entirely forgot herself. Because he was so utterly convincing as Darcy, her reactions, which had been so tame with Brian, were now highly charged. The rest of the cast stopped talking and started silently watching what was going on. Whenever Harry gave Jazz an idea or suggested trying her delivery a different way, she knew instinctively what he was getting at and what he was trying to get out of her. And they were always both delighted with the result. She was buzzing with excitement. This was thrilling! Jazz loved the way Harry was making Lizzy stronger by the minute. And after a while, he even started accepting her ideas. She managed to convince him to make his Darcy more pained.

“The man's in love, for goodness' sake,” she said at one point.

“Why should that pain him?” asked Harry.

“He still thinks he's superior to her. And is still arrogant enough to assume she would accept his hand.” Jazz answered as if he was an idiot. “Because he still thinks he can't marry her - it would go against every one of his principles. And his principles are his whole identity. He's going through constant inner turmoil every time he sees her. He's fighting himself whenever she's there. This is the only woman he has ever felt so powerfully attracted to. Physically as well as emotionally. He's never even fancied a woman before. Darcy has never been out of control before - it's terrifying, confusing and amazing all at the same time. Lizzy makes all the other women he can get - and let's face it, he can get all of them - pale into insignificance. She's the only woman who has ever answered him back, who has ever made him think twice about what he says, who has ever made him reconsider his lifelong principles. And yet she's from repulsive lower-class stock. It's like a terrible awakening for him. And every time he sees her he is more aware of the increasingly agonising dilemma he is in. He's getting more hopelessly devoted and yet more aware of the impossibility of marriage to her at the same time. It's — it's living hell.”

“And,”Jazz got more and more excited, unaware that Harry was watching her with a new look in his eyes, “at this point, he realises the worst thing yet - that his biggest enemy in the whole wide world has made an impression on her. Maybe already has planned to elope with her - he knows the depths of Wickham's character enough to fear the worst. Yes,” she finished triumphantly, “he's a man in great pain. You're doing him too one-dimensional.”

Harry thought about this and nodded slowly.

From that moment on, Jazz was moved by the intensity of his performance. When he looked at her now, there was so much repressed emotion in his dark eyes that she felt slightly embarrassed.

At the end of the rehearsal, everyone else had gone and it was just her and Harry. She was knackered but looking forward to a walk home to blow out the cobwebs in her head. She wanted to put off going home as long as possible. It would either be empty or full of Gilbert. Just thinking about it spiralled her down into a deep depression.

“Want a lift?” asked Harry.

“No,” said Jazz miserably.

“Are you all right?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Nope.”

“Coming to the party on Friday?”

Jazz thought of Wills. “Yes,” she said, and put her Walkman on.

On her way home, Jazz popped into the newsagent and bought a copy of the Evening Herald. There she was on the middle pages. Where had they got that awful photo from? Agatha must have had it in stock. It made her look like a warthog. But that was nothing. The headline said it all: JUST  CALL ME: "HONEST JAZZ" it screamed. The introduction ran:

Thanks to her perfect little sister, journalist Jasmin Field knows she's gonna make it big. She tells Candida Butterworth why her honesty will win her this year's Columnist Personality of the Year competition.

Jazz stood stock still in the street, re-reading the headline and introduction three times.

Hell, damnation and buggery bollocks, she thought.

Chapter 16

When Jazz turned up at the party, which was held conveniently four roads away from her flat, she was already drunk.

Only the thought that Wills might be there had made her come. Now that Mo would be glued to Gilbert's hip and George to Jack's, there was little else for her to look forward to at this party.

But as she went up the stairs to the flat entrance, she was surprised by the sight of Jack rushing down the stairs and almost colliding with her. He didn't even say hello.

A horrid thought occurred to her and she started running up the stairs.

It didn't take her long to find George. She was sitting, crying, amidst a hundred coats on the bed in the boxroom. Jazz ran to her and George started weeping inconsolably. Jazz shut the door and sat on the bed with her, stroking her hair. George was limp.

“What's happened? Shhh, it's OK now,” Jazz whispered helplessly.

Eventually George wiped her eyes and nose and said weakly, “It's over.”

“I don't understand,”Jazz said. “He was utterly besotted.”

“Was,” said George and started weeping again.

She calmed down in a while.

“He said he's got to take his career seriously. He can't be unfocused. I was bringing him down—” here she broke down again into quieter sobs.

“What sort of crap is that?” asked Jazz.

“It's not crap, it's what Harry says,” George explained tearfully. “Harry told Jack that to be a great actor you have to be focused. And since he's been going out with me, he's failed four auditions. If he fails another one, his agent has started making noises about him trying another career. She suggested teaching,” and at this George started wailing.

“Perhaps he's just not as good an actor as he thinks,” said Jazz furiously, but George shook her head.

“No, he's right. My work hasn't been great since I've been with him,” she sniffed. “But I didn't mind because I thought he was worth it.” She was sobbing silently now.

Jazz started pacing. “Harry Noble,” she whispered, shaking her head.  “I'll bloody kill him.”

“No,” George shook her head. “If Jack loved me enough, he wouldn't listen to him. He just didn't love me.”

“That's bollocks and you know it,” said Jazz hotly. “Jack would do anything Harry tells him to. And unfortunately for him - and for you, sweetheart, Harry is a fuckwit. Of the highest order.”

She hugged George. “Come on, let's get you home.”

“No, I can't go out there looking like this.”

“Georgie, sweetie, you still look ten times better than anyone else in there. And they're all too stoned or drunk to notice anyway. Come on, we'll go back to my flat and have a hot milky drink and lots of hugs and a long talk.”

They stood up and pushed their way through the crowds. It was only when they got home that George realised she'd forgotten her handbag.

“I'll go back,” said Jazz immediately.

“But you'll have to walk on your own,” said George. “I don't need it.”

“I'll run,” said Jazz. “I could do with the exercise.”

George was more than happy to be left on her own for a while. She turned on the telly and watched it, her mind on pause.

The party was much more crowded now. By the time Jazz managed to find George's handbag she was hot and sweaty and in a foul mood. There was no way she was fighting her way through the labrynthine flat full of hot, sweaty people just to see if Wills was there. With a Herculean effort, she forced a passage to the door, only to find herself face to face with Harry.

“Leaving already?” he asked.

Jazz stopped and stared at him. There were so many things she wanted to say to him she didn't know where to start first. So she just stood and stared, wide-eyed and furious. He stared back.

“Want a lift?” he asked quietly.

She didn't notice that he hadn't even come into the party yet. She just thought how much she would rather be driven home than have to run all that way again.

“Yes,” she said curtly, and the two of them went downstairs.

She wasn't going to say a word to him this time. The bastard. First he ruined Wills' chances of a career made in heaven, and then he ruined her sister's life. No wonder he made such a perfect Darcy.

After a silent journey, Harry parked outside the flat.

“See you at the next rehearsal,” said Jazz, and started undoing her seat belt. Before Harry knew what had happened, Jazz was out of the car. He got out too and followed her. He reached her at the door.