Acting Up by Melissa Nathan Page A

kitchen wearing a fresh white tracksuit and gleaming trainers. She looked like a short fat ghost with a perm.
    'I'm going to get fit and slim and beautiful,' announced Mo. 'I'm on a diet as of today and I'm on my way to join the gym. Wish me luck.'
    Jazz was staggered. If Mo had said, 'I'm going to marry a Mormon and help look after his five wives,' she couldn't have been more stunned.
    'Why?' was all she could manage to utter.
    Mo picked up her gym kit and brushed past her.
    Jazz followed her into the hall. 'But you've – you've always said looks don't matter and women only diet for men and life is obsessed with the superficial, and that's why so many people are starving,' she gabbled desperately.
    'Yes, I know,' said Mo, 'but then I thought, Hey, wouldn't it be fun to be sexy?'
    'Mo!' Jazz slammed her hand down on her kit. She couldn't think of one cogent argument that would stop her friend. 'Who am I going to eat chocolate with?' she ended up saying weakly.
    Mo slowly peeled Jazz's hand off.
    'See you later, there's a whole gym waiting for me,' she said, and then she stopped. 'We can go together some time, if you like.'
    Jazz's face showed such unadulterated horror at the idea that Mo simply turned and walked to the door.
    'Life's too short!' shouted Jazz angrily.
    Mo yelled back, 'So am I!' and slammed the door.
    Jazz looked down at her body. Sure, she could probably do with losing a pound or two here and there. But then she could also learn some Greek or go Flamenco dancing. Or have a hot bath, listening to a play on the radio. Or, more importantly, watch telly.
    She went into the lounge and turned on the box before she could notice how quiet the flat was. It was the ads. Skinny women (who were paid to be skinny) eating chocolate. Skinny women (who lived on apples and water) holding products and smiling. Skinny women (with bulimia) laughing into the eyes of adoring men. Skinny women (who were just born that way) confiding about washing powder. Skinny women (who were nicknamed Pinlegs at school) talking about Weight Watchers.
    Jazz turned off the telly and went to run a hot bath and have a look at her script which had been posted to her that morning.
    * * * * *
    At the first read-through of the play, Jazz was already growing fond of the musty smell of the church. As she sat herself down in the circle of chairs in the centre of the hall and settled back to watch everyone come in, it dawned on her for the first time how much more the actors had to lose in this production than anyone else. She was only just beginning to realise how high-profile this affair was going to be. The audience would not only be full of celebs but also stacked to the rafters with casting agents, national theatre directors, top fringe theatre directors, journalists and critics. It could make or break the actors. It was massive. But from a funding point of view, it needed to attract more than just luvvies. The organisers needed all the publicity they could get, in order to persuade the punters to tune in and get out their chequebooks. Which probably explained why two key journalists had been chosen for the main parts, thought Jazz suddenly, as well as giving the tabloid darling, Gilbert Valentine, a look-in. With Gilbert's regular titbits of gossip from the play, her columns about the rehearsals and critic Brian Peters' forthcoming acting début, Jo Bloggs would easily be herded into a frenzy of excitement about the whole enterprise, turning it into the viewing experience of the year. There would hardly be anything for the press officers to do.
    As for worrying about her performance, Jazz just couldn't work herself up to it. What did she care if some bored critic lambasted her? She could always lambast his syntax in her next column. She had never professed publicly to being able to act, and if there was one thing she had never judged in her columns, it was actors' ability or otherwise. But for Brian Peters it was quite a different matter. He was going