As Harry unhurriedly moved his eyes around the room, disdain oozing from every pore, he gave a running commentary of his thoughts in a clipped, upper-class accent. It was, as Gilbert would have said, a living, breathing Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“How utterly vile they all are.” (Jazz had never realised the word "vile" could be so descriptive.) “With their vulgar clothes and their dizzgusting habits. I shall have to ask Brown to draw me a bath when I get home.” (Everyone laughed.) Harry looked at Jazz who was in place as Lizzy on a chair by a makeshift table. His eyes bore into her. “Tolerable,” he clipped, visibly sizing her up, staring rudely at every bit of her anatomy as if she were a pig up for auction. “But certainly not enough to tempt the likes of me.”
Jazz looked back at him, furious, humiliated. She found herself thinking “Thank Christ for that.”
Staring at Jazz's expression of disgust for perhaps a little bit longer than was necessary, Harry dropped the act.
“Perfect, Jasmin,” he said quietly. “Perfect.”
Jazz stared him out. “I wasn't acting,” she replied, just as quietly, and turned her face away.
For a moment Harry didn't seem to know what to say. “Well, you should have been,” he said finally. “This isn't a free show,” and he slowly walked back to his place.
Once there, he clapped his hands loudly, making everyone jump. “Now try again man, and don't waste any more of my time.”
Brian stood up slowly, looking as happy as if he was about to be burnt at the stake.
His performance was no better but Harry didn't seem to mind as much this time. In fact, he didn't even seem to be watching this time. He called a break immediately afterwards.
Wills, it turned out, had forgotten to bring any food or coffee, and Jazz was only too happy to share some of her flasked coffee with him and a precious Hobnob or two. That's how much I like him, she thought to herself.
Harry was sitting in solitary splendour, as ever, one hand through ruffled hair, a pencil in the other, eyes in the distance. The director never lowered himself to actually mix with his cast. Only Sara and Jack Hayes, Matt and sometimes Purple Glasses (who always carried her clipboard and spoke too loudly at him in a failed attempt to cover her nerves) went up and talked to him, and Jazz was convinced that a silent fame hierarchy was at work. There was no one there on the same level of fame as Harry, so he couldn't be seen to make the first move and talk to anyone. Jazz wondered briefly if he ever got lonely.
Just now, Sara was approaching him. Jazz and Wills loved to eavesdrop on this daily exchange while they pretended to do the crossword together - it was a ritual that happened every time Harry sat down. This afternoon it was particularly interesting.
It started as usual with Sara smiling at Harry with what she thought was her prettiest, most innocent-looking smile.
Harry raised his chin to show he was all ears.
Sara then sighed a very loud, girlish sigh, sat down next to him and asked him how it was all going.
“Fine,” Harry told her. Then: “How can I help?”
Wills and Jazz both smirked at his curt reply, their eyes focusing on the Down clues.
“Well actually,” said Sara, as if it was painful to bring up the subject, “since you ask, I wouldn't mind your professional opinion.” Then she lowered her voice as if it was all very sensitive. Jazz and Wills had to really concentrate hard to catch this. “Between you and me, I'm finding it rather hard in the scene with - with — oh, whatshername?”
“Jasmin.”
Sara tinkled a laugh. “Yes, that's right - Jasmin. How did you guess? Oh dear,” she laughed, “I'll never remember that funny name.”
Harry said nothing and she was forced to keep going.
“I'm just finding that I can't get enough emotion in my reactions to her and I think it might be because . . .” Sara fought hard to find the right words “. . . there isn't enough emotion coming from her.”
Wills' shoulders were beginning to shake. Jazz grinned, but couldn't help feeling angered and hurt by Sara's cunning performance that would have made even Miss Bingley proud.
Harry still said nothing.
“I know she's your protegee, Mr. Noble, and I don't want...”
“We'll work on the emotion again after the break,” said Harry. “Maybe I need to have a rehearsal with Jasmin alone. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
And with that, he started to pore over the script, leaving Sara no option but to leave him alone, wishing she hadn't said anything. Wills pretended that Jazz had said something funny and the two of them laughed loudly. Eventually they looked back over to Harry. He was now gazing thoughtfully at his fingernails.
“If only his Oscar-winning public could see him now,” hissed Jazz.
“Oh, I'm sure they'd love him all the more for it,” Wills said gently. “He can do no wrong.”
“Yes, I've noticed that. But do I detect some bitterness in your voice?” Jazz had meant it as a joke, but Wills was serious.
He stared at Harry as he spoke. “It's because of him that I didn't get the part of Maurice in It's Nearly Over.”
Jazz was stunned. “How? Why? How do you know?”
“Harry knew Howard Fleaback, the producer, from working on Heart of An Englishman, and Howard asked Harry what he thought of me because they considered me perfect for the part. I'd already auditioned for another film that never saw the light of day. It turned out that Harry told him I was immature, self-obsessed and unfocused as an actor. He also said I had a drink problem.”
Jazz gasped.
Wills continued, “My agent knows Howard and when I didn't get the part, she phoned him up and asked why. He said he'd been told on the best authority that I wasn't cut out for Hollywood. When pressed, he explained it more fully.”
Jazz couldn't believe her ears. She needed to be sure. “So Harry ruined any chance you may have of a Hollywood career?” she asked incredulously.
“Yup.” Wills drained his coffee cup and dripped the dregs on the church floor.
“Why on earth would anyone do something so mean-spirited? Especially someone who's made it themselves?”
“Oh, no actor ever makes it for good,” replied Wills. “That's the cruelty of the profession. You can win an Oscar one year and be passe the next. Even Harry Noble. And remember, for him there's more to lose because all his family are so well-respected in the business.” Wills shrugged and made an effort to look as if he didn't really care. “Harry and I go back a long way. We were in a very bad production of Waiting for Godot together years ago and he detested me then. Made no bones about it. I've never got another job with that director either.” He paused. “The great Harry Noble just doesn't like me and that carries a lot of weight in this profession.”
But something didn't fit for Jazz. “So why did he give you this part?”
Wills laughed good-naturedly. “I have absolutely no idea. Maybe he wanted me to see him now he's an Oscar winner. Maybe he gets a kick out of directing me, a lowly TV actor when he's a Hollywood star, when we were once on the same level. Who knows the way his mind works?”
He looked across at her, his eyes open just a little bit too wide and his smile just a litde too forced. “Anyway, I might never have made it in Hollywood. Who knows? Maybe Harry Noble saved my pride.”
His brave humility hurt her more than the story. How dare Harry Noble get away with something like that! And to think he was so universally respected!
“Have you ever told him you know what he did?”
Wills shook his head. “What would be the point? It would make me look as immature and self-obsessed as he said I was. No. It's enough that I know.”
Boiling with anger at the injustice of it all, Jazz looked over at Harry. He was staring right at her.