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 luwies. 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 debut, 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 to have a lot to prove in his one-off reincarnation as one of the most romantic fictional heroes in English literature. Jazz smiled. This was going to be fun.
Mo had come straight from work and George would be coming straight from doing a play on Radio 4. Jazz didn’t think she’d tell Mo that she was the only person there not involved in the arts. She’d only end up in the toilet throughout the entire rehearsal interrupting herself with offers of Mintos.
She barely noticed that Sara Hayes and her friend Maxine were there, but she instantly recognised their friendly, blond companion - George’s next conquest - who seemed to recognise her and greeted her with a warm smile. She didn’t know anyone else. There were lots of ridiculously handsome people taking their seats and hiding their nerves behind self-conscious airs of indifference or weariness. Jazz watched them all keenly.
Mo came and sat next to her. As the seats filled up, Jazz realised that William Whitby wasn’t there. How could he not have been given a part? He was so … watchable. Just as her stomach was deflating with disappointment, the door opened and there he was. Maybe it was because she was so obviously aware
of him, maybe it was because there was a spare seat next to her and their eyes had met as soon as he
had walked in, she didn’t know why, but he saw her, grinned and came to sit down next to her.
‘Hi,’ he smiled, proffering his hand to be shaken ‘I’m Wills.’ Jazz nodded. It would have looked stupid to pretend she didn’t know his name. His openness of expression and large, brown eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled, were even more endearing in the flesh than on television. Jazz almost had to stop herself from bear-hugging him.
‘Hi,’ said Jazz, shaking his hand vigorously and grinning like a moron. ‘Jazz.’
‘Short for?’ he questioned.
‘Men over
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 luwies. 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 debut, 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 to have a lot to prove in his one-off reincarnation as one of the most romantic fictional heroes in English literature. Jazz smiled. This was going to be fun.
Mo had come straight from work and George would be coming straight from doing a play on Radio 4. Jazz didn’t think she’d tell Mo that she was the only person there not involved in the arts. She’d only end up in the toilet throughout the entire rehearsal interrupting herself with offers of Mintos.
She barely noticed that Sara Hayes and her friend Maxine were there, but she instantly recognised their friendly, blond companion - George’s next conquest - who seemed to recognise her and greeted her with a warm smile. She didn’t know anyone else. There were lots of ridiculously handsome people taking their seats and hiding their nerves behind self-conscious airs of indifference or weariness. Jazz watched them all keenly.
Mo came and sat next to her. As the seats filled up, Jazz realised that William Whitby wasn’t there. How could he not have been given a part? He was so … watchable. Just as her stomach was deflating with disappointment, the door opened and there he was. Maybe it was because she was so obviously aware
of him, maybe it was because there was a spare seat next to her and their eyes had met as soon as he
had walked in, she didn’t know why, but he saw her, grinned and came to sit down next to her.
‘Hi,’ he smiled, proffering his hand to be shaken ‘I’m Wills.’ Jazz nodded. It would have looked stupid to pretend she didn’t know his name. His openness of expression and large, brown eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled, were even more endearing in the flesh than on television. Jazz almost had to stop herself from bear-hugging him.
‘Hi,’ said Jazz, shaking his hand vigorously and grinning like a moron. ‘Jazz.’
‘Short for?’ he questioned.
‘Men over
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