Martha's daughters looked at her with startled eyes. They didn't want to know any more.
“Don't look so shocked,” she said angrily. “That's marriage.”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“What's happening now?” asked Jazz.
Josie lit a cigarette with a shaking hand. “Michael's left home for a while.” And then she actually laughed when she caught Jazz's expression. “Don't worry,” she said. “I got him to empty the bins first.”
“How can you be so flippant?” asked Jazz.
“To be honest, this is a relief,” she said so quietly it was almost to herself, an incongruous tear rolling slowly down her cheek. “It's been pure hell to live through, watching him fall out of love with me. It was so much slower than when he fell in love with me.” She laughed a short bitter laugh. “For me, marriage means discovering that men love you most when they know you least. The more they get to know every single part of you, the less passion there is. At the beginning, when they make love to you with their eyes shut, you know it's because they're trying to savour the moment. After a few years of marriage, it means they're trying to pretend it's not you they're screwing.”
Martha's face seemed to go grey.
Jazz couldn't bear it. “Maybe it's just a bad phase. Maybe he'll come back.”
Josie shook her head. “No. He's emotionally dead. He's indifferent. This separation is for him to work out whether or not he can live without me. And I have a sneaking feeling he'll be fine. We've practically been living separate lives anyway.”
They all played at drinking their coffee.
Jazz hated to bring the subject up, but knew it had to be discussed.
“What are we going to do about Gilbert Valentine?” she asked with a tremor. “Once the press finds out - particularly the Daily Echo — they'll have a field day with it.” Her voice nearly failed her.
Josie and Martha had already discussed it. Martha explained that they thought it would be worth a try for Jazz to work on Mo. Surely Mo could convince Gilbert not to go to the papers? Jazz wasn't so sure. She was beginning to realise that Mo was the kind to stand by her man, whatever he turned out to be like.
“And what if that doesn't work?” she asked, dreading the answer.
They all looked at each other.
“We gear ourselves up for the bad press,” Martha shrugged. “Phone the rest of the family, warn them it's going to happen - George, you phone your agent - and prepare ourselves.”
Jazz didn't tell them it was impossible to prepare for something like this. When the press decided a family was worth tearing into, they would stop at nothing. It would be hell. And she only had herself to blame.
It was she who had turned her family into a sitting target with her stupid columns about their virtuous lifestyle. It was she who had introduced Josie to that snake William Whitby. And it was she who had made enemies in high places. The thought of her family suffering at the hands of scandal-hungry hacks who weren't fit to lick their boots wore her down with sorrow. Josie stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and took a deep sigh.
“Sorry everyone,” she said softly.
Jazz was filled with shame.
“No,” she said clearly. “It's me who should be sorry.”
Chapter 24
What would life be like without her career, pondered Jazz. She'd never thought of that before. For the first time she realised just how important her career was to her self-identity. Journalist. It was hardly a respected career. It wasn't the same as Doctor or Firefighter. But to her that one word had always meant Intelligent, Inquisitive, Interested in Others as well as Financially Independent. And she was going to lose it all in one moment. What did George think of herself as Actor? And, more importantly, how did Josie feel being labelled Housewife? And how would Josie feel when she lost all that — due to Jazz? Come to think of it, what did Purple Glasses think of her label as Props Person? Suddenly a lot of things became clearer. No wonder Purple Glasses tried to make herself seem more important, thought Jazz. She was surrounded by people who genuinely believed that they were worth more than her. How appalling. And she'd been one of the worst offenders. Stall, thought Jazz - not quite ready to relinquish her fighting spirit - Purple Glasses was a twat, and no mistake.
She spent many dark moments over the next few days wondering why she had chosen to make Josie quite so famous. Was it really because it was what her Editor had told her to do? Had she sold her family for an Editor's brief for her own meaningless career?
She didn't think so. She had truly believed in Josie. Her younger sister's lifestyle wasn't perfect, but at least Josie seemed to have made sense of the world. She'd made sacrifices but she had seemed happy.
The one thing Jazz did know was that, much as she loved her career, she loved her family more. And she would just have to wait patiently until her career well, until it careered. And then she would be there for her family while the press hounded them.
She wondered idly what else she'd do with her life. She'd always liked the idea of being a Firefighter.
That night, she phoned Mo and they arranged to meet at the flat. Things weren't looking good.
“You do realise that if he goes to the tabloids, I won't be able to talk to you ever again?” said Jazz, her voice shaking with emotion. If only she'd been nicer about Gilbert, she thought desperately, she'd have held far more sway. But surely Mo would do this for her? And for her family, who had been Mo's surrogate family during her early twenties when her mother had died? They all went back such a long way. Far further than Mo and Gilbert.
“I do,” replied Mo quietly. Her reply stung Jazz. “But I just don't think he has a choice.”
Jazz exploded. “Of course he has a choice!”
“He has his career to think of, Jazz. Surely you understand that.”
“He doesn't have to have that kind of career,” said Jazz.
“It's all he knows,” said Mo. “And we need the money now.”
Jazz didn't answer.
Mo was forced to add, “Now that we're getting married.”
Jazz stared at her.
“Who to?” she asked quietly, allowing herself a mad moment of hope.
“To each other,” said Mo firmly.
They looked at each other for what seemed like ages.
“Aren't you going to wish me congratulations?” asked Mo sadly.
“Congratulations,” said Jazz, and walked out of the kitchen before the tears came.
She lay in the bath, her tears falling into the water. What a mess. Her career was on its last legs, she had constantly hurled abuse at a man for whom she now felt powerful emotion, she had caused her family to disintegrate around her ears, she had seen her beloved elder sister lose faith in love for the first time in her life, and now her best friend was marrying a man whose idea of a joke was pronouncing the word meringue "meringooey" . . .
When the front door slammed she was rudely awoken out of her trance. She realised the bathwater was cold and her fingers were more furry than their fruit bowl.
Every morning Jazz waited for the proverbial shit to hit the fan. But for some reason, the papers were full of other people's scandals - footballers and politicians made better copy than actors, thank Christ. Every morning, she'd scan them all, her I breath bated, and every morning, she'd almost cry with relief that Gilbert's piece wasn't there. It was as if, leafing frantically through the papers, she was constantly facing her demons: her arrogance in her own judgements of others, her shallowness in getting her family involved to further her career, and her sheer professional ineptitude.