“That was amazing. He's going to be a brilliant director,” she beamed. “Tough, though. God, I hope I get a part.” And with a quick glance over at the blond rabbit in the headlights, to check that he was still looking, she sat down next to Jazz to dissect the audition.
Jazz's stomach was starting to feel as tense as the rest of her body, but she was determined to stay until the end. It would give her more to write about.
After Gilbert had come out of his audition, he had spent some time chatting to all the hopefuls he knew and loved. Quite a while later, he came to say goodbye to Jazz.
“How did your audition go?” she asked, with a healthy vested interest.
“Oh, you know,” said Gilbert, affecting indifference, though looking rather shaken, “I'm only doing it for the work possibilities. Couldn't miss an opportunity like this.”
“Are you a spy for Dame Alexandra?” gasped Jazz.
“Hush, my dear,” said Gilbert, suddenly nervous. “Good Lord no. If she knew I was here, I'd be out of a job in no time. Oh no,” and a slow smile appeared on his lips, “she has no idea, lives in her little cottage, happily filling her scrapbooks and feeding Revenge and Sweet.”
“Eh?” said Jazz, her eyes wide.
Gilbert sat down next to her again, unable to hide a grin. This time he was so close that his thigh was pressed against hers, and his mouth was so near that if Jazz turned round too quickly they would, in some parts of the world, be technically married. She decided the best policy was to freeze rigid and keep her eyes down.
“That's the best part of the whole story,” he whispered urgently, his breath ice cold on her neck. “The part that nobody else knows but me. Alexandra hasn't spoken to the Noble family for twenty years. And she has fifty scrapbooks of cuttings on them all, starting with the infamous letter from twelve-year-old Harry. She won't let anyone mention their name in her presence and has called her two Persian cats Revenge and Sweet.”
To Jazz's relief, Gilbert inched away so that he could register her shock and awe.
“Twenty years,” he repeated. “Fifty scrapbooks. Fifty.”
Ooh, thought Jazz. That was almost worth having to sit through. Cats and scrapbooks - spooky. However, if she didn't get up soon, she would lose sensation in the leg Gilbert was practically sitting on.
“Right, well. I suppose I'd better go in soon,” she said and leapt up away from him. “Just going for a walk, get rid of my nerves. Bye then.” It didn't work. Gilbert sprang up to give her a big, wet kiss very near her lips. “Ciao, honey. Break a divine leg.”
She watched him walk away and sat straight back down to finally give her script a proper read. Eventually she and George were the only ones left, except for Purple Glasses, who was by now tidying the scripts.
George was finally ready to leave. “I must go — I'm seeing Simon tonight,” she said, working up to a smile.
Jazz looked at her sister. “What, Action Man? Swivel hips, roving eye, no genitals?”
“I wish you wouldn't call him that, Jazz.”
“Sorry. How about Fuckwit?”
“Jazz. That's not funny.”
“I know,” sighed Jazz loudly. “Sorry. I'm just nervous,” she lied. She'd rather eat her own heart than hurt George intentionally.
George didn't reply. Jazz studied her sister. Tragic, she thought sadly. Congenitally unable to enjoy life without a boyfriend.
They both stood up and smiled the short, wistful smile they used when they disagreed about something. As George walked out, Jazz walked silently to the audition door. It was ajar. She was about to knock to remind them she was still there, but for some reason decided not to.
The soft sound of conversation came from inside.
Matt Jenkins, the producer, a short man in a bulky anorak and sneakers, had joined Harry halfway through the auditions and Sara Hayes had never come out since her audition. Her staccato laughter had punctuated the intervals between each victim.
“Dross of the highest order,” boomed Harry's voice. “The only cast this lot could play is a plaster cast.”
“Really?” Sara's voice, genuinely hurt.
“Come on, Harry, it can't be that bad.” Matt's voice.
“It's worse. I've seen better acting from sitcom sets. The nearest thing we've got to Darcy is a five-foot-four actuary - unless I succumb and give it to that poisonous hack they call a theatre critic - and not a single Lizzy in sight.” He threw his pencil on to his desk. “It would damage my reputation to be seen at the same nightclub as most of these people, let alone direct them in a play.”
Jazz shut her eyes tight and committed everything he'd said to memory. This was too good not to use one day.
“Think of what this charity work would do for your reputation, Harry. Something like this is sure to make you the golden boy in Hollywood, as well as our tabloids, for ever. Hollywood loves London actors at the moment. Put that together with fundraising and they'll want to make you President.”
“I don't want to be President, Matt.”
Matt wasn't listening. “It's just a shame their golden boy Tim Shanks couldn't take a break off filming to be Darcy. Everyone loves him. We'd have had them queuing as far as the Finchley Road if we'd got him. We'd have bloody cured cancer with that! But if you play your cards right, Harry, we could get the nearest thing: someone everyone hates. Poison Pen Peters has more enemies than he has blackheads. People will be longing to see him fail - they'll come in their droves. And, as a nice little bonus, Harry my boy, if you give him Darcy, you need never worry about a first night again in your life. It couldn't be better.”
During the pause that followed this impassioned speech, Jazz found herself thanking her lucky stars that Matt and Harry hadn't been referring to Gilbert when they mentioned the word "hack", but of course, were talking about the most feared man in theatre, critic Brian Peters.
“Anyway,” continued Matt, after he'd let all that sink in, “you haven't seen everyone yet.”
“Who else is there?” sighed Harry.
A pause indicated that the three of them had caught sight of Jazz, who was by now standing just outside the door, facing away from them. She froze and tried to pretend she was invisible, which seemed easy with her eyes half-closed. They had no idea she could hear every word they were saying.
After a moment, the voices started up again.
“More of an Ugly Sister than a Lizzy Bennet,” said Harry laconically, at which Sara burst out into a loud and delighted laugh. “I wouldn't give her a lift in my car, let alone a part in my play,” he went on, warming to his theme. Laughing again, Sara shushed him so loudly that for a moment Jazz thought the Thameslink had entered the church.
Jazz opened her eyes wide and found herself staring at a noticeboard with some Psalms pinned up next to an advert for a charity cake sale.
Too stunned to move, too angry to breathe, she was still there when Matt Jenkins opened the door wide and stood grinning at her.
He was still wearing his anorak. He was about one inch shorter than Jazz, with thin, tufty hair, small, blinking eyes, no neck and a long, thin nose that twitched nervously. He looked like a Womble.
“I'm afraid I'll have to be your Darcy,” he said, his earlier confident tone now somewhat diminished.
“Oh,” she said, and followed him in. If he can do Darcy, she seethed silently, I can do Lizzy. Hell, if he can do Darcy, I can do Elvis. Her spirits rallied.
The room was the size of a small shopping mall. She strode up to the desk where Harry was perched, with his back to her, looking out at the view of rooftops. She crossed her arms and waited for him to turn round, her breathing shallow from the sudden shock of discovering what he thought of her. Sara was staring at her with an infuriatingly knowing smile. Infuriatingly, Jazz knew why. Eventually, with a monumental sigh, Harry turned round.