But rehearsals were now completely different. And it wasn't just because she was ignoring Gilbert and not talking to Mo - who had moved out of the flat now, leaving Jazz living alone in her home - or because she was being pointedly ignored by William.

It was partly because they had now moved to the theatre, which happened to be free for a whole week before the big night. This lent a new excitement and fear to the proceedings. Mrs. Bennet was telling even more anecdotes to anyone who would listen, Mr. Bennet was parading his splendid paunch around the auditorium while staring out into the audience wistfully and the rest of the cast were merely talking quicker and louder than they had in the musty church hall.

But the main reason for the change of atmosphere was down to Harry, who was a man transformed. He chatted to everyone in the cast, was informal and accessible, spending the breaks talking to his actors and finding out how they were feeling about their parts. So now, surrounded by rich Victorian splendour, everyone was feeling far more relaxed than they had done while rehearsing in a dirty church hall.

Harry's mood affected his direction. It was less harsh, the actors were much happier and every single performance was better. The only person who didn't seem to approve of Harry's new style was Sara Hayes, and Jazz rediscovered her talent for loathing, which came to the fore every time she saw Sara look meanly at whoever Harry was chatting to. To her shame though, Jazz was now aware that her loathing of Sara was due in no small part to an overwhelming fear that Sara might actually win Harry over one day. There was no doubting that the woman was beautiful - in a stick-insect sort of a way.

And Harry didn't seem to mind when she needed yet another director's tip on her delivery. He was either extremely patient with her or enjoying her wily ways. Surely he must be able to see through her. Jazz trusted her observations weren't being clouded by her hopes.

But her hopes couldn't hide from her the fact that she was the one person with whom Harry now no longer made an effort. She once or twice caught him looking at her, but the look had changed. It was a far more thoughtful look, almost nostalgic, and it dawned on her that he could well be thinking that he had had a lucky escape. And he always looked away as soon as she caught his eye.

The scenes between the two of them had a new poignancy for her that she found almost unbearable. Harry seemed to be getting more calm the nearer they got to the big night, while Jazz was feeling more and more exposed — and utterly terrified. It was stupid, she knew, but when she stood on the stage she felt as if she was a hundred feet high and suffering from vertigo. She felt naked. The prospect of remembering her lines and moving all her limbs at the same time in front of a paying audience was looming over her like a big black cloud. And there was only a week to go.

“No, no. You can do better than that. What is Lizzy thinking?” Harry asked her at the end of one of their last scenes. Jazz's lines had ground to a stumbling halt.

“She's thinking that. . .” Jazz started to blush “. . . she loves him but he's out of her league.”

Harry nodded. “Which, of course,” he said, “we all know is ridiculous. And what we also know and she doesn't is that he reciprocates her love. So there's a nice piece of dramatic irony there, isn't there?” Jazz nodded.

“Unless, of course,” he continued patiently, “you're not concentrating. In which case, it's a waste of time. Isn't it?” Jazz nodded, humiliated. “As well as a waste of talent,” he continued. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the stage floor. It had lots of marks on it and bits of luminous sticky tape stuck to it to show the production team where to place various bits of scenery in the dark. The rest of the cast was silent, except for a loud, affected cough from Sara that made Jazz want to throttle her.

“Remember Jazz,” Harry said kindly, “this is the worst week. Next week will probably be the best week of your life. Believe me.”

He tried not to look at her for too long. She'd really changed since that business with her sister and William Whitby. It was as if her central nervous system, which had until now been protected by a thick coating of brash one-liners, had been turned completely inside out, leaving each nerve-ending exposed to the wind. Every now and then he caught the fear in her eyes. Her family tragedy had had exactly the effect he had tried to get from her with his stupid Truth Games.

He felt torn. Should he do all he could to help her overcome her fears? Or should he marvel as her acting suddenly found new depths?

Tomorrow was the first run through of the whole play; the night after that, the technical rehearsal; and two nights after that, the dress rehearsal. Then there was one night off before the big night. Jazz could hardly believe it. She had a horrid feeling that Gilbert was going to publish his piece just before the play or even on the day of the production, which would make it much more newsworthy and would mean she'd have to face a double public humiliation in one day. It was too horrid to contemplate.

After Harry had finished working through her scene, she sat down at the back of the auditorium and watched him direct a scene between Jack and George. Was it his strong, Roman nose that lent his face its power, or his granite-hewn cheekbones? She couldn't decide. Then she decided she didn't need to.

She could just watch.

Jack and George hardly needed any help any more, they'd done this scene so many times now. It was the scene in which the young lovers, Jane Bennet and Mr. Bingley, first meet. They were both sharing a joke and Jazz was astonished to see that Harry was joining in. She could tell from George's body language that she was much more relaxed with Jack than she had been since they had finished, and more importantly, she could tell that Jack could hardly stop himself from touching her — not the sort of touch that a confident lover gives, but the short, sharp touches that a man gives when he thinks it's all he's ever going to get.

Had he changed his mind about George? Surely not? How the hell did that happen? How did she miss it? And how was Harry letting it happen?

She decided to cadge a lift off George after the rehearsal - if she was going home, that was - and find out what was going on.

Just then Carrie came over. She was carrying two beautiful dresses and looked beside herself with excitement.

“I think you're going to love these,” she said to Jazz in her small, girlish voice.

Jazz gasped as she took them from her hands and found tears coming to her eyes. Jesus, this was getting ridiculous, she was crying at anything these days.

“Oh, Carrie, they're amazing,” she said in a wobbly voice. Carrie smiled contentedly. “They'll suit your colouring fantastically,” she promised.

“What - red and blotchy?” smiled Jazz. “How perfect.” Carrie laughed and Jazz started touching the intricate bead work at the bust. She didn't notice Carrie's colour heighten as Matt walked over.

“How's it going, ladies?” he asked.

“Have you seen these beautiful dresses Carrie's made?” Jazz showed them to him.

Matt looked at them and then at Carrie. “Nothing less than I've come to expect,” he said mildly, smiling a twitch-free smile at Carrie.

Jazz nodded vehemently, while scooping up the layered skirts. Suddenly she hugged Carrie and started crying for the umpteenth time that week. She didn't even notice Harry watching her this time.

*  *  *

“We are just good friends,” said George with great control in the car. “I'm over him - honest, Jazz.”

Jazz smiled her first proper smile for a while. “Yes, but he's most certainly not over you.” It was so nice not to be talking about sad things for once.

“Yes, he is,” said George, with an impatience Jazz hadn't heard since they were children. “He's just being friendly.”

Jazz turned away from her sister and watched the road.

“Right you are,” she said happily.

George was upset. “That's not good enough, Jazz. You have to believe me. I think he's a great guy, probably one of the nicest I'll ever meet and I really enjoy working with him. But nothing's going to happen. It was nice, but it's over. I'm happy being single for the first time in my life.”

“Right you are,” repeated Jazz, just as smugly.

George sighed and changed the subject.

Chapter 25

The run through of the whole play was a revelation to Jazz. Before, she'd only ever thought of the script as a compilation of separate scenes and had wondered how on earth she could possibly maintain the same level of concentration for two hours, but it proved easy. There was a new electricity running through everyone. It felt as if any of the cast members could electrocute each other simply by touch. It was so amazing it took Jazz's mind off her troubles.

Afterwards, Harry sat everyone down and went through his copious notes on everyone's lines, delivery, speed and focus. He was big on focus. Jazz felt disappointed relief that he didn't have any constructive criticism for her and an hour later, when everyone went to the pub for a well-deserved nightcap, she tried not to dwell too much on the fact that he had disappeared on his own into the night. He'd stopped socialising with everyone, thought Jazz sadly. She and George quietly drowned their sorrows in the corner, while Jack chatted easily to everyone at the bar and William got slowly drunk and flirted happily with all the younger Bennet sisters.