“Jazzy Jazzy Jazzy,” he slurred and then slumped untidily against the wall. Jazz took advantage of the situation and started talking to Mo as if he wasn't there.

“You'll never guess,” she said. “I'm going to see Harry in his play tomorrow.”

“What?” said Gilbert, his eyes glazed over. “Famous Harry Famous Noble's famous play? If you see his bitch of an aunt there — can't miss her, face Like a baboon's arse — would you kindly spit in her eye for me?” He took a swig from a bottle of red wine. Jazz looked at Mo.

“She's stopped sponsoring his magazine. She found out he was in the play with Harry and completely went over the top. Didn't just fire him, she pulled all her money out of the whole magazine,” said Mo.

They both looked dismayed at Gilbert. Gilbert belched. They all knew that without his specialist mag - which was respected by those in the business, even if it was seen as pretentious — Gilbert was as good as on the scrapheap. Without his regular contact with the theatre world, his part-time career would grind to a halt, too. There were always others only too happy to sell sordid little secrets to the tabloids. Respected theatre journalism was notoriously difficult to get into and on the nationals - which would be all Gilbert would be able to tolerate moving to - they were heavily over-subscribed with clever, experienced writers who were far more arrogant than Gilbert could ever aspire to be. Gilbert's only choice would be to end up on some provincial paper, which would lower his profile, ego and reputation beyond repair. A future of bitterness beckoned.

“In fact, you can tell her from me that her acting stinks,” Gilbert was slurring. “Just like her nephew's.”

When she realised that Mo wasn't going to leave Gilbert's side all evening, Jazz eventually extricated herself from them and watched from a safe distance as Mo tried to pull the bottle out of her boyfriend's weakening grip.

She noticed that Sara Hayes was absent from the party. Of course, she thought. Why would she waste her evening with the likes of us if Harry Noble wasn't going to be there? And then she checked herself glumly. Maybe Sara had a hospital appointment or something, who was she to know? She wasn't always right.

As for the cast, the only people she could be bothered to talk to were Matt, -who was always lovely, and Jack, who was now out of bounds. She suddenly found the rest of the cast oppressively wearisome. And even though she had just won a prestigious award, achieved her professional goal and had got tickets for Harry's show that no one else there had managed to get, she was vaguely aware that there was something lacking in the evening's entertainment. Her bubble had silently burst. With growing horror, she realised why. The truth was she'd become very used to being watched by a certain Harry Noble. Hell, damnation and buggery bollocks.

She managed to make dull social chitchat until midnight, when she decided to call it a day. She couldn't find Josie anywhere. Maybe she was already back at the flat, she thought. She'd given her a spare key. When Jazz finally got home, the flat was silent but she assumed that Josie was in Mo's room and went straight to bed.

The next morning, she found Josie dressed and up in the kitchen.

“Nice evening?” she asked, pouring herself a coffee.

Josie grinned sheepishly. “Fabulous. You didn't tell me what a dish William Whitby was.”

“There's a good reason for that,” said Jazz. “He's a shit. Of the highest order.”

Josie's face fell. Then she looked sheepish again. “Who cares?” she said, and was off home.

Chapter 22

Jazz was very, very happy. Her first column had appeared in the News, lots of her friends and family had phoned to tell her they loved it and there had been no come-back from Agatha since Maddie had convinced their boss that it would help their circulation having the News's top columnist as their exclusive celebrity interviewer. Maddie had decided, since her interview with Jazz, that Jazz should still work for them on a freelance basis.

When her phone went for the umpteenth time, she picked it up happily. “Hello, Hoorah!”

“I thought we had a deal!” barked a terrifying voice at the other end of the phone.

“S-sorry?”

“What the fuck do you mean giving the News your column when I was there first?” It was Sharon Westfield and she was spitting blood.

Although taken aback, Jazz was firm. She knew she hadn't promised them anything.

“I'm sorry Sharon, but—”

“Sorry? I'll show you sorry, young lady. Think you can do the dirty on me, do you? After we ran a spread on your cosy family picture—”

Jazz didn't think now was the time to mention that her family hadn't enjoyed being duped and misquoted.

“Who do you think you are?” the woman ranted on. “You wouldn't have got that stupid award if I hadn't tipped the wink. Believe me, young lady, if there's dirt to be had on you, I'll find it. Consider yourself dropped.” And she hung up.

Jazz was mind-blown. She had done nothing wrong. She could go to whatever paper she wanted. Sharon Westfield was quite obviously barking mad.

And she was now Jazz's enemy.

When she told Maddie about her call, Maddie was philosophical. A friend of hers worked with Sharon so she knew all there was to know about her.

“Forget it,” she said simply. “Sharon won't remember your name next week. Apparently she's going through a really difficult divorce at the moment - it was just bad timing. Anyway, you're not allowed to be worried tonight, we're going to see Harry Noble act. So cheer up and that's an order.”

By the time Maddie and Jazz walked into the foyer of the Pemberton Theatre that evening, Jazz was in a bad way. There were so many knots in her stomach, she could have joined a Boy Scout group. The theatre was packed with beautiful, famous people. Jazz didn't know where to look first. She and Maddie squeezed their way through the crowd and up the staircase to their seats in the front row of the dress circle. Jazz knew this theatre well and it looked as stunning as ever. But never before had she felt so in awe of the stage. It was enormous, and Jazz suddenly felt terrified for Harry. How could he put himself on the line like this? Regularly?

All these people waiting for him to make their evening go with a bang. All these people expecting him to give them their money's worth. If he fluffed even one line, hundreds of people would be disappointed. For the first time, Jazz grew numb with terror at the prospect of acting. In only one month's time, she would be doing the same thing as Harry, albeit in a smaller, less grandiose theatre.

She looked up at the ornate plasterwork and painting on the ceiling above her. The workmanship was breathtaking: it must have taken years to complete — decades even. But no one would be looking at that tonight. She stared hard at the red velvet curtain on the stage. What would Harry be doing now? She knew that he would have no problem focusing himself; unlike her, who was always so easily distracted. God, he must have been frustrated by her in rehearsals. She forced herself to think of something else before the familiar depression took hold.

Maddie was beside herself with excitement. “Ohmygod, there's whatsisname,” she squeaked. Jazz followed the direction of Maddie's indiscreetly pointed finger with her eyes. So it was. The place was full of actors and directors, critics and celebs. She spotted Brian Peters who, to her enormous surprise, gave her a big smile from his circle seat. And a hush came over all of them when the Noble family entered their box. Jazz saw that Harry had his mother's colouring and his father's strong features. They smiled at everyone regally.

Then the lights dimmed, and Jazz was overwhelmed by excitement, terror and an incongruous sense of empathy with Harry.

The set was the interior of a 1950s house, complete with kitchenette and plastic covers on the couch.

The detail was amazing. She could see the gold lettering on the book spine by the drinks cabinet. A door slammed in the distance and in walked Harry. Or rather, in slouched Harry. At first Jazz didn't recognise him and wondered if there was some mistake. He was wearing the unflattering trousers of the day, which belted high in the waist, making his legs look shorter and his stomach look larger. His shoulders were rounded with fatigue, his neck was tense and his head hung as if bowed by misery. His hair was Brylcreemed into an unattractive, slick style. He called out a woman's name and when he got no reply, he went to the fridge, took out a bottle of beer and slumped down on the couch.

Jazz was transfixed. With supreme confidence, Harry flipped the lid off his drink and slowly drank half the bottle. He even belched, which got a snigger from the audience. Then he pushed his hand through his hair - a gesture that brought a confusing squirm to Jazz's stomach - and looked wistfully into the auditorium. She could have sworn he was looking right at her. She blushed in the dark.

He spoke in a Texan drawl, but his voice was the same. It had such depth, such quality. For two and a half hours, he spoke of his life, his desires, his sacrifices. Every little movement he made was entrancing. He could transform his entire audience's emotions with the smallest change of expression, make them laugh with the slightest shift of his eye. He had such control over them, such power. He turned them into one conscious being, instead of hundreds of separate people. When Harry cried, unmanly sobs that came from the pit of his stomach, Jazz thought her heart would break. He was intoxicating.