Gilbert chuckled, “I made a mistake,” he said. “I didn't make my move. Go in for the kill.”
“Oh, how exquisitely put. Look, Gilbert, how can I say this nicely?” She pretended to give it a second's thought. “I'm not remotely interested. OK? Is that clear enough? Perhaps you'd like me to show you the hand signals that go with that? And the facial expression? Or I could get someone to come over and translate?” The crowd made it impossible for Jazz to actually move away.
Gilbert smiled. “Ooh, you've really learned the art of playing hard to get, haven't you?”
Jazz was exasperated. It was impossible trying to get a message across to someone you couldn't bear looking in the eye. “Look,” she started. “What can I say? It was a long time ago. My sense of taste wasn't fully developed. Whereas you had peaked in every way. Life's sad but there you go. Face reality, Gilbert. I know it's tough, but it's ever so rewarding in the long-term.”
“Mmm,” he whispered, pretending to smell non-existent perfume on her neck.
Desperately, Jazz swiped his head with one of her cans of beer.
“Ow! That bloody hurt!” he said angrily, finally moving away. He looked at her like she was a harpie.
“It was meant to!” she shouted. “Now piss off before I pour the contents down you.”
Gilbert stared at her in disgust. “Jesus, no wonder you're alone, Jasmin,” he said, eyeing her now as if he wouldn't sell her body to a tramp. “You always had a foul temper on you.”
And with that he fought his way out of the room towards the door where Mo stood patiently waiting for her drink.
Daniel, the host, appeared at the sink, washing a stain off his shirt. Only slightly shaken, Jazz tried the subtle approach. “Where's Wills then?” she asked.
“Oh, he's not coming,” Daniel told her. “Didn't care to share an evening with You Know Who. Actually, he asked me to say sorry to you particularly.”
Jazz was devastated. She tried to smile and started to drink Mo's beer absent-mindedly.
Half an hour later, George came over, grinning like a fool. Jazz had now started to drink her own beer. George looked gorgeous in her little black number. Jack's hand seemed to be glued round her waist and Jazz thought her sister had never looked so happy.
Jack went to get George a drink. Jazz always found it sweet the way men assumed that the second a woman became their girlfriend, she forgot how to do everything for herself -except cook, of course.
“Gilbert's a shit and Wills isn't coming,” she shouted in George's face, not caring who heard. “But even worse, Wills isn't coming.”
“Oh no,” said George, trying very hard to look sad.
“And it's all because of your - your nice Mr. Harry Noble,” said Jazz.
“He's not my Mr. Noble.”
“No, but you think he's nice. And . . . nice,” she finished weakly.
“I think everyone's nice,” beamed George. “I'm in love.”
“That's nice,” said Jazz, opening another can that was lying near the sink.
When Jack came over with George's drink, he beamed at Jazz with exactly the same happily dazed expression on his face as George. He whispered something to George and she giggled. Jazz felt lonely in a room full of so many people she couldn't move.
She finished her third beer in no time and decided she was getting drunk. So she had a glass of wine instead and stopped thinking about her own troubles. She began to feel truly happy for George. Her sister had finally found her Mr Right. This was worth celebrating.
Six hours later, she found herself sitting in a small, select group playing Fuzzy Duck, a peurile drinking game, the sole purpose of which was to make people so drunk they couldn't get their words round the title and would end up swearing. It was absolutely hilarious. She thought she'd die laughing. She had even managed to forget that Harry was there, or at least not care less that he was watching, as usual.
“Where's the ashtray?” asked someone suddenly.
Jazz thought this was very funny.
“Where's the ashtray?” she copied and started laughing.
“We've lost the ashtray,” said someone else urgently.
“We've lost the ashtray!” spluttered Jazz. It just got funnier and funnier.
“Spot the ashtray!” commanded someone else, and a few people duly started scanning the furry carpet.
Jazz collapsed in loud hysterics. She thought she might be winded she laughed so much.
“Fido the plant!” she squealed.
There was a pause, while Jazz laughed so much that no noise came out. Then gradually, the others started to join her. Soon everyone was laughing till it hurt.
“Ferdinand the television,” roared Jazz, tears running down her cheeks.
There was an explosion of laughter.
“Digbert the Sofa,” whinnied someone else, and Jazz laughed so much she forgot to breathe in.
As Fuzzy Duck came to a rather unusual end, Harry Noble realised he was in danger of becoming seriously unfocused professionally.
Chapter 13
Jazz woke up feeling very fragile indeed. Somehow, someone had come into her room in the night and placed a throbbing headbrace over her skull and a dead yak in her mouth. She prised her eyes open.
Without moving her head any more than was completely necessary, she managed to heave herself out of bed and into the hall. She had no idea what she was wearing, what the time was or who she was, although the name Tamsin seemed strangely familiar. But when she came face to face with a smirking pyjama-clad Gilbert Valentine in her hall, she knew something was terribly wrong.
“Ooh, nasty,” he beamed when he saw her.
The word "Likewise": struggled to mind but didn't make it to her mouth. Suddenly, the night before hurtled back to her with some force. Oh God, no. She managed to run into the kitchen.
Mo was sitting at the table with a coffee, toast, the papers and a big grin. Jazz came in, slammed the door shut and leant against it.
“You have to help me,” she whispered, putting her hand to her forehead and starting to whimper.
“Why?” asked Mo.
Jazz started pacing the kitchen, distressed beyond belief. Surely she couldn't have? Not with Gilbert? She could never live with herself again. She was actually wringing her hands.
“For God's sake, Jazz, what's wrong?” asked an increasingly concerned Mo.
“There's been a horrendous - hideous - heinous - horrendous mistake,” whispered Jazz dramatically.
“You've been offered a job in the Diplomatic Corps?”
Not hearing, Jazz stopped pacing suddenly and froze on the spot, ashen-faced.
“Jazz, what is it?”
“I think I'm going to be sick,” she mouthed and rushed to the sink.
Mo went straight to her side and started rubbing her back. She was starting to get really worried.
Just then Gilbert's voice came from the hall. “I'm just having a shower, pussycat!”
Jazz retched. She was ice cold yet covered in sweat.
The retch seemed to do the trick. She didn't think she was going to be sick any more. Slowly she turned away from the sink and walked to the table where she sat down heavily. Mo joined her. They sat there in silence for a while.
“Well?” said Mo gently, her hand stroking Jazz's arm.
Not really, thought Jazz.
“I - I - I -” Jazz didn't think she could form the words out loud. “I think I,” she whispered, “may have just . . . just . . . just... ”
“Yes?”
Jazz was almost inaudible. “Slept with . . . Gilbert Valentine ... a bit ... last night.” And with a gasp at hearing the words out loud, she laid her head on the table and pulled her face into an extremely ugly expression of self-loathing.
“Well now,” said Mo crisply, taking her hand off Jazz's arm. “That would be impressive,” and she stared at her open paper.
“Oh God,” whimpered Jazz, her head still lying next to Mo's paper. “I'm going to have to commit suicide, it's the only way I can live with myself.”