“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.
The technical rehearsal was the most boring, frustrating day of Jazz's life. She spent hours at a time standing on the stage reciting one line while the lighting crew got their act together. Purple Glasses, who had shown only glimmers of pomposity up until now, was finally in her element. This was her day to shine. She kept yelling, “Elizabeth Bennet is requested on stage IMMEDIATELY,” while standing next to Jazz, looking at her. It was only Jazz's determination to impress Harry with her maturity that stopped her from punching the woman in the mouth. Harry was in his old foul mood and seemed preoccupied all day. It was as if the acting was tedious now and he had far more important things to think about.
Afterwards, everyone went to the pub again and Harry was once more conspicuous by his absence. So was Sara, and Jazz started to feel real fear in the pit of her stomach. Mo and Gilbert hadn't bothered to join the rest of the cast tonight either, even though it would be one of their last evenings together as a team. William was getting drunk again, although Jazz had to admit he did even that with a certain boyish charm. Everyone except Matt and Carrie seemed to find him highly amusing. Jazz couldn't concentrate on any of the inane cast gossip and didn't care. They could all go to hell.
She had taken the week off work and used the two days before the play to write a couple more columns for the News. It kept her mind off everything. After intense pressure from her family, Jazz had agreed to continue writing her column from the angle of what it's like to see two people you love divorce each other. Martha had been fervent in her belief that readers should read about this sort of thing. And it was also a damage limitation exercise. If Jazz made all those involved sympathetic, it would help them when the scandal broke.
To Jazz's surprise, Brigit had been only too happy to accept this new twist in the subject-matter. “Of course, I'm sorry for you,” she had said politely over the phone, “but as far as we're concerned, divorce is always a safe subject, especially if there's a toddler involved. To be honest, it was much more of a risk taking you on when you were talking about their successful marriage than a failed one. Especially as Josie's such a well-loved character. People will be desperate to know how she's coping.” Jazz hoped to God she was doing the right thing.
Of course she wasn't going to write anything about the fling with William Whitby. The readers didn't need to know about it and she couldn't deal with the scandal encroaching into her work just yet. She was hoping against hope that if she won herself a devoted readership at the News, they might just keep her on when that sordid detail became common knowledge. Although, deep down, she feared that Josie's Choice would be cut immediately. The News was a serious paper and didn't like being involved in scandal.
So she just pretended it wasn't going to happen. She'd deal with the play first, then Gilbert's piece second. One trauma at a time. And she'd keep writing her columns until she was told to stop. For some reason, Gilbert was taking his time over publishing his story. Either he was in a price war with the papers - he had so many tabloid contacts he was probably auctioning it - or he was waiting until the morning after the play, so that the piece would be newsworthy. Either way, Jazz was living on borrowed time.
She began to notice over the next few days that her writing style had changed. She was far less brash now. Her columns had a moving humility that she just couldn't shake. And she had to admit, it added resonance to her writing that had never really been there before. Within days, Jazz and Josie started getting fan mail from readers of the News.
The dress rehearsal was crap. Jazz was beginning to find everything about the play nightmarish. Everyone had made their own spaces in the changing rooms - narrow rooms with naked bulbs round the vast mirrors - and she had thought it would help if she went in the far corner with George. She couldn't have been more wrong. Everyone was hysterical with nerves and excitement, and she was stifled by it all. She felt suffocated. She could hardly dress herself, her hands were so cold. And the first time she looked at herself in the mirror in her costume, she hardly recognised herself. In the low-cut Empress-style dress she could actually see the palpitations of her heart.
Backstage was suddenly a dark, terrifying place. As were Jazz's bowels. She wondered if she could hide a toilet under her petticoat.
When all the women had finished putting on their beautiful dresses and putting up their hair, they sat on their make-up desks, chewing gum or drinking bottled water and laughing boisterously. Weirdly enough, everyone felt far more comfortable in their soft, easy-flowing costumes than in tight modern dress. And, to Jazz's delight, everyone with tans looked decidedly odd. Her paleness looked most becoming, she thought with a tired smile. Everyone was too impatient and excited to listen to Mrs Bennet's anecdotes any more, but she still insisted on delivering them. Every time she realised no one was listening, she pretended she'd lost a hairclip or something. Jazz found everyone pointless and ridiculous.
There was a knock on the door. Harry's voice sounded from the corridor. “Are you all decent?”
Jazz and George were the only two who didn't try and say something funny to this. George was sitting staring at herself in the mirror, focusing. Jazz was staring at herself in the mirror, feeling nauseous.