She didn't suppose it made much difference if Gilbert knew about her work dilemma. He was hardly a rival - being strictly a theatre writer. She just hated having to talk about herself in front of him. Still, it would have to be done. She waited until they were having dinner and joined them for coffee.

Gilbert was still super-smooth with Jazz, but it now took the form of patronising, pitying patter, as if he had done the rejecting and not her.

“Jazzy, sweetie,” he welcomed her into the kitchen. “Join us, we're just having coffee.”

Jasmin wanted to tell him that she didn't need to be invited to join Mo anywhere. Mo smiled pleasantly at her as she sat down.

“How's it going?” said Mo quietly.

“Fine. The bathroom's been clean without you.”

“Only because you don't use it.”

They grinned at each other. Gilbert sat unsmiling.

“You never laugh at my jokes like Jazz does,” Mo said squarely.

Gilbert put his hands up in the air. “Sorry, pussycat, I guess I'm not with you for your jokes.” He tried to make that sound sexy, but Mo just looked at him hard. Jazz could have punched him right there and then.

“It's nothing to get het up about,” he continued with an explanatory shrug. “Everyone knows men are funnier than women.”

“Only to look at,” said Jazz grumpily, an eye on his paunch.

Mo sniggered and Gilbert smiled pityingly.

“You see?” he said to Mo. “That's just not very funny.” He decided to change the subject. “Jazzy, me and Mo wondered if you would like to come to the flicks with us one evening, and maybe for a meal afterwards. What d'you say? Make a night of it?”

Jesus, thought Jazz, he actually thinks I'd rather go out with them than stay in all evening counting my nasal hairs.

“Maybe a nice soppy romantic film,” he was saying, in a voice he thought was endearing.

Jazz looked him in the eye, something she hadn't done since the auditions.

“You mean a film where the man gets to make all the sacrifices, deliver all the funny lines, drive all the cars and go on top?” she asked.

He stared at her.

“No thanks, all the same,” she said with a tight smile. “I've got to stay in. I'm growing my hair.”

She could practically see Gilbert's mind working. Finally, he asked, “You mean you like to go on top?”

Jazz decided it was time to take control of the conversation before she got suicidal. She told Mo her news. Her column's new angle. The call from Sharon Westfield at the Daily Echo.

“That's fantastic!” squeaked Mo. “Well done! I'm so proud! I always knew—”

“But I don't know if I should do it,” interrupted Jazz.

“Why?” asked Gilbert. “Sharon's a bitch, but she's a good boss - as long as you don't annoy her, of course. Do that and you can say goodbye to a career in the popular press. Keep on her right side and you have a very powerful friend.”

“When did you ever work for her?” asked Jazz, intrigued.

“Oh, I've done bits and pieces for her over the years,” he said airily. “She used to be Commissioning Editor on Your Monthly periodical.”

Jazz and Mo tried to be mature and not smirk.

“Not a great Commissioning Editor, to be honest,” continued Gilbert authoritatively. “Waffles in her briefs.”

His perplexed expression at Jazz and Mo's sudden convulsion of laughter grew into a look of repulsion as Mo started snorting. His face only made Jazz laugh more heartily. Perhaps Gilbert wasn't so bad after all, she thought eventually, wiping her eyes.

Feeling happier than she had in ages, Jazz explained her predicament.

“Yes,” nodded Gilbert. “One's self-respect is paramount in these things.”

Jazz and Mo just gawped at him and Jazz wondered if it would be acceptable to start laughing again.

She chose instead to ignore him.

“So what do you reckon?” she asked Mo as if Gilbert hadn't spoken. “You think I shouldn't take it?”

Mo looked doubtful.

“I think you should do what you would be happy with,” said Gilbert.

Mo looked on, almost impressed.

“What sort of an answer is that?” asked Jazz tetchily. “If I knew that one, I wouldn't be asking Mo, would I?” Damn.

They sat there in silence for a while, until Jazz eventually left them to their own company and went to bed. She decided she'd have to talk to Josie. At the Evening Herald Columnist Personality of the Year award ceremony.

Chapter 19

The day of the award ceremony, two days before she was supposed to fax her column to Sharon Westfield, Jazz's nerves were stretched to breaking point. She was daunted by the prospect of winning an award for which her boss had nominated her, for a column she was contemplating selling to a different publication. And she was daunted by the prospect of having to wait weeks before seeing Harry. Every time she thought of him, she felt a deep sense of shame. Seeing his proud, haughty face might just be the perfect antidote to that. And she could do with an antidote to the after-effects of that e-mail.

Josie was to be her guest at the awards. Jazz had wangled it with Michael that if she won the award, Josie deserved a night off from Ben and would go with her sister to the next cast party that weekend and stay the night in Mo's bed. Josie was going to leave Michael the number of the local casualty department if anything went wrong, instead of Jazz's mobile. A girl deserved a night off once in a while. Jazz was praying she'd win, just for Josie's sake.

Then on Saturday there would be the first of several rehearsals without Harry; he was doing a three-week stint at The Pemberton in a one-man play written specially for him by hot new playwright Patrick Clifton. It was already sold out, of course.

Jazz sat in her office frowning at the dailies. The tabloids were full of vitriolic, un-newsworthy gossip and the qualities were so dry she actually fell asleep reading one. Harry was right. What had possessed her to be proud of her career? Things couldn't get much worse, she thought morosely.

She was wrong.

The next morning she had to carry her new little black number in on the tube.

“Ooh, let me see it,” said Maddie excitedly, as Jazz walked into the office. Jazz could hardly look at Maddie any more for guilt about her conversation with Sharon Westfield.

When she showed her the dress, Maddie's grin froze on her pretty little face.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“What?” said Jazz. “What could possibly be wrong with that? It's just a mangy little black dress.”

“It's exactly the same mangy little black dress that I've got,” said Maddie.

Jazz looked at her, bemused. “All little black dresses look the same, Maddie.”

“This is a catastrophe,” said Maddie, not hearing her. “One of us is going to have to go and buy another one.”

“Are you joking?” She could hardly believe that Maddie, who coped daily with mad readers, hopeless writers, insane deadlines and a tempestuous Editor, was actually panicking. A line of sweat was breaking out on her upper lip.

“No, I'm not. Where did you buy yours?”

“Paris,” lied Jazz. It was worth a try. “Years ago.”

“Well then, it'll have to be me — I got mine in Covent Garden. I'll be back in an hour. Take my calls, Alison.” And she was gone.

Jazz looked over to Mark and awaited a smart reply, but he was actually looking concerned. Of course, thought Jazz. Women worrying about dresses made sense in his world.

Three hours later, a radiant Maddie wandered in. She showed her dress off proudly and Jazz was amazed. It was stunning. A miniscule red number with, in certain key areas, sequins where there should have been fabric. If Jazz was the kind of woman who hated being outdone by another woman, she'd have been very unhappy. Instead she just marvelled at the dress. As did Mark.

He gave a very long wolf whistle, which delighted Maddie. “You may be my boss,” he said approvingly, “but you know your clothes.”

Maddie was now in a good mood. Alison made her a cup of tea and Maddie sat down to read the papers. Today had been exhausting.

“Ooh,” she suddenly piped up. “You didn't tell me Harry Noble was on at the Pemberton!” The theatre was a five-minute walk from their offices. Jazz said nothing.

“Oooh,” swooned Maddie with a silly grin on her face. “He's fabulous. I could watch him in anything.”

“Yes, I bet,” said Jazz. “Particularly the shower.”

Maddie gasped at Jazz's comment and then giggled at the truth of it. Then she made a boss's decision. “We have to go,” she commanded.

The sound of a newspaper being furiously rustled came from Mark's corner.

“No way,” said Jazz, before thinking.

“Why not?” asked Maddie. “He'll never know you're there.”

“He might,” said Jazz. “I'd kill myself if he ever knew.”

“Why? It would be research. Oh, I've got to see him,” and with that, Maddie phoned the box office, told them she was from the press and was immediately promised two tickets. Jazz watched her, frozen. She knew she would be fascinated to see Harry on stage yet mortified if he discovered she'd been there. Maddie put the phone down with a flourish and let out a little yippee.

“Research, darling!” she exclaimed.

Mark tutted from behind a paper. “Research, bollocks!” he said. “You're there to watch the man's crotch so you've got something to think about when you jerk off tonight.”

Maddie and Jazz both turned to him in disgust as he twitched his paper violently. Infuriatingly, Jazz couldn't think of anything to say to him that would crush him enough.