“Extremely harrowing. Nobody appreciates the work we do. But,” he admitted bravely, “I love it. Couldn't be without it.”
“Of course you couldn't.”
“Yes, you know me so well.”
Jazz nodded sadly.
He patted her hand. She moved it to scratch a suddenly itchy cheek.
“So tell me, what part do you want?” he asked.
Jazz laughed. “Oh, I'm just here for the experience.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Gilbert, pointing an accusing finger at her. “You're using it for copy in your column! "Working with Harry Noble." Like it! Well done, that girl! I did exactly that for a piece last year when they opened up auditions to the public for Where's My Other Leg? at the Frog and Whippet. It was a very, very funny piece. Very funny.”
Jazz impressed herself by managing a smile. She knew she didn't need to ask Gilbert why he was here. Just sitting in this church hall he had surrounded himself with people who were scared of him and could make him money at the same time. And she knew that deep down he had always wanted to be an actor, like so many arts journalists before him, and doubtless many after him.
“Of course,” said Gilbert silkily, “you do realise I almost know Harry Noble personally.”
Jazz raised her eyebrows questioningly and Gilbert needed no more prompting.
“Well, you know that his aunt, Dame Alexandra Marmeduke,” here Gilbert cast his eyes downwards as if she were dead, or a saint or something, “is the patron of our magazine? Without her, my life would have no purpose. No other publication, as you well know, has quite the same reverence for the theatre as we.” Jazz winced. “I owe her my livelihood and therefore my life. She's a spectacular woman. And her 1930s' Ophelia . . .” he closed his eyes as he savoured the memory “. . . was an all-time great. No one has ever surpassed it,” he whispered in hushed reverence.
Jazz nodded, wondering if that was the version where Ophelia wore a wig that looked like a dead octopus.
“But of course,” continued Gilbert, when he had quite recovered, “she and her nephew” - he paused for effect -“Do Not Speak.”
Jazz's eyes lit up. Inside information! “How come?” she asked.
“Didn't you know?” said Gilbert, delighted. Strictly speaking, he was aware that he shouldn't impart such a valuable piece of gossip to a fellow journalist without consulting terms first, but the temptation to impress Jazz proved irresistible. And anyway, it had always frustrated him that he could never actually make any money on this one - he couldn't risk Dame Alexandra finding out that he had been the source of such information. But, one day, who knew? He could receive payment of another kind from Jazz . . .
“Well, strictly entre nous,” he began, as he always did when about to sell a gem to a hack, “they had a furious family row years and years ago. That part's common knowledge within the theatrical world, but nobody - and I mean Nobody - knows the details quite like myself. Not many have had to visit Dame Marmeduke's Devon cottage. If I didn't work for that wonderful woman, I'd have sold this for a fortune, my dear. A fortune.”
Jazz started to grin mischievously and her eyes twinkled. She'd never heard this one.
Gilbert was just about to launch into the story when, to Jazz's extreme frustration, he sat back and stared at her, much in the same way one would eye a painting.
“You know, it's an absolute living, breathing joy to see you again,” he said, emphasising each word as if someone, somewhere, was writing down everything he said. “You look ravishing.”
Just when she thought she was going to have to get up and run out screaming, Jazz caught sight of her smiling sister George, coming towards her. She introduced George to Gilbert, hoping that somehow she could get him back to spreading malicious gossip and away from "joy", "ravishing" and, indeed, breathing.
“Ah yes, the working actress,” cooed Gilbert, standing up and kissing George on both cheeks. He was obviously impressed by what he saw, although he did manage to say the word "working" as though it was an insult.
Jazz explained to her sister how she knew Gilbert and hoped that George would have forgotten the many midnight conversations she had bored her with over her crush on him at her first job on a local paper. She also hoped George would vanish until her work here was done. Gilbert, luckily, adamantly refused to move from Jazz's side, leaving a polite George no choice but to sit down next to him, rather than edge past him to the free seat on her other side. Gilbert seemed to have no idea that he was in any way unwanted company for George. Instead he made lots of comments to the purpose of being a thorn between two roses, a comment he felt sure would delight Jazz.
Jazz winked at George and worked on Gilbert.
“So,” she said, forcing herself to look him in the eye, “it would be worth a fortune, would it, this piece of gossip?”
Gilbert smiled. It was rather charming having Jasmin Field's attention. Made him feel rather warm, rather nostalgic. He decided he didn't want to let go of it just yet.
He pretended to look at her afresh. “You know, I can't believe it's been so long,” he said, shaking his head at her.
“You should have called me. We could have done lunch.” A pause. “Or something.”
With a fixed smile on her face, Jazz turned to the church door while racking her brains for a way to get the subject back to Harry Noble and his aunt. She knew that it probably wasn't ever going to be usable in her magazine, but she couldn't quell her natural journalistic instinct to try and get to the bottom of this. She loved to know more about people than they supposed she knew.
Just then, she saw her flatmate Mo walking towards her, looking unusually sullen. It was only when Mo got nearer that Jazz could see that it was, in fact, terror written all over her face, and not moroseness.
“Hi,” grimaced Mo, when she reached Jazz. She didn't notice Gilbert, who had in any case turned his attention to George. Mo squeezed herself past Gilbert and George and sat down heavily next to Jazz. She looked awful. After a long, deep sigh, she turned to Jazz.
“You haven't got a Portaloo on you, by any chance?”
“I knew I'd forgotten something,” smiled Jazz. “You'll be fine. Just pretend you're teaching.”
“Oh — and that doesn't terrify me?”
Mo got up immediately and went to find the toilet. Jazz started to read the script, intrigued to see how Pride and Prejudice had been transformed into a play. The Jane Austen classic had been her all-time favourite book as a schoolgirl, and the young heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, was, without doubt, one of her favourite fictional heroines. Like many a sensitive, intelligent teenage girl, she had spent countless oppressive afternoons in a stuffy English classroom, dimly aware that a teacher was explaining Austen's use of plot, while fantasising that she was Lizzy Bennet - feisty, pretty, proud and poor.
They just don't write 'em like that any more, she thought to herself wistfully as she read the scene.
The excerpt chosen for the auditions was the explosive scene in which the hero, Mr Darcy, stuns Elizabeth by proposing to her for the first time. Jazz read it through and started to feel her heart pound against her ribcage: it was very well-written.
“It's a classic tale of intrigue, money and notorious family pride,” said a voice next to her. Jazz tried to look up, but couldn't tear herself away from her script.
“I said it's a classic tale of intrigue, money and notorious family pride. And it's yours for one smile.”
Gilbert was back on-line.
With an effort, Jazz looked up and gave him her best "I'm listening" smile. It worked.