George pulled her face away from the TV screen.
“Did you see that gorgeous blond bloke at the auditions?” she asked.
Mo shook her head. “Nope. I was too busy wondering when, how and where I was going to be sick.”
Jazz knew exactly who George was talking about. Maybe Action Man was on his way out, she thought hopefully. She turned her gaze away from a tap-dancing tube of toothpaste and a happy set of sparkling white teeth doing a Busby Berkeley number. It wasn't easy. She looked at her sister.
“Why don't you chuck Simon?” she suggested bravely.
George grimaced. “I'm too scared.”
“Of what?”
“I don't want to hurt him.”
Jazz wasn't sure if that was an answer or a new thought. She suspected the latter.
“How many bastards have hurt you?” demanded Mo.
“Exactly,” said George. “I'll know how awful he'll feel.”
“George,” interrupted Jazz. “How long have you been going out with him?”
“Three and a half months.”
Only Jazz's sympathy for her sister could have stopped her from laughing out loud.
“Chuck him, girl,” she said firmly but kindly. “I know he'll probably never find anyone as lovely again, but he will get over it.”
George's large white-blue eyes looked at the carpet. “I'll wait until he chucks me,” she said quietly.
Mo and Jazz erupted.
“Chuck him!” they both shouted.
“OK!” shouted George back, shutting them up.
She pulled her long legs under her little bottom, as if making herself smaller would somehow improve things. Jazz watched her. Her naturally fair hair suited her highlights so well and her skin went a stunning honey colour after just one sun-bed session every six weeks. She had no hips to speak of, a pretty bust, a concave stomach and the rest of her was golden skin and delicate bones. Perfection. Very occasionally when Jazz looked at her, for a split-second it was like looking at her reflection, only in technicolour and on a thinner, taller scale. Jazz's hair was much darker than her sister's and her figure more rounded. Whereas George had the kind of tall, androgynous body that the media and fashion world adored, Jazz had what was known as The Winslet Body - that is, a body that the media and fashion world trumpeted as obese but that men seemed to like well enough. Jazz also had their father's translucently pale skin and his deep chestnut eyes. She often wondered wistfully if, had she been born with George's vivid colouring, she'd also see the world in bright primary colours. But as for envying George's figure, Jazz wouldn't have known how to. That was one thing Martha — mother to George, Jazz and their younger sister, Josie - had taught her girls. With her splendid bosom, gloriously rounded bottom and shapely ankles, Martha had given each one of her very different daughters a priceless gift - the gift of loving their bodies. By example alone (and some very choice words at sensitive, adolescent times), she had taught them how to celebrate their own shape. She'd left it up to the world around them to present it as something to be ashamed of.
They all stared at the telly in silence, Jazz wondering how she could open up the conversation again. But within seconds her concentration was diverted by the images on the screen.
George sat up and pointed. “Oh look — it's Andrew! I was in Lysistrata with him in Cardiff!”
“Have you had him?” asked Mo.
George smiled a confessional smile. Jazz shook her head in amazement. Was no actor safe?
Before yesterday's audition, all Jazz and Mo had wanted to know about the Gala charity play was the address of the audition and the measurement of Harry Noble's inside leg. Now they had both, they wanted more information.
“It's a one-off, one-night play in aid of breast cancer research, to be performed at the King George Theatre in the West End,” explained George, in an excited rush. “Part of a massive theatrical bonanza-type thingy. The Pride and Prejudice part is semi-professional, with a complete range in the cast from unknowns to working actors, journalists, novelists and artists. Then the next night there'll be a pantomime with soap stars and on the last night they'll be doing It's A Knockout with all the country's news presenters. They say they're going to get Jeremy Paxman in a Daffy Duck outfit. So our bit is the only bit that's serious acting. But what makes it so different from all the other charities is that the audience will be full of celebrities and the cast will contain some ordinary working people for a change. Get the celebs to actually pay the money this time - that's the twist. They'll edit the highlights for a TV programme and the cameras will be on the audience as much as - if not more than - the stage.” George ignored Mo's gasp of terror. “And the way to get such a star-studded audience was to ask Harry Noble to direct. Every actor wants to see his work. It's a massive coup. Apparently they managed to get him because his great-aunt died of the disease.”
“And his Great British Public want to see him doing something good,” added Jazz. She told them how she had heard the producer, Matt Jenkins, telling Harry that this would enhance his reputation in Hollywood and the tabloids.
“Are you going to put that in your piece?” asked Mo eagerly.
Jazz shook her head. Much as she detested Harry's hypocrisy, that wasn't her style. She was a journalist and columnist for the popular women's weekly Hoorah! The women's magazine with a difference. She didn't waste her time writing celebrity gossip, although that didn't stop her being fascinated by it.
Jazz had the perfect personality for a columnist. Where George was ready to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, Jazz was happy to give them the benefit of her wisdom. She was highly judgmental of everything and everyone. She could spot bluff at a hundred paces. She couldn't help it, it was like a sixth sense. But most importantly for a columnist, Jazz was very emotional and easily riled. Her weekly tirades were a unique blend of heartwarming tales about her perfect family and home life, mixed with apoplectic opinions about society's foibles. Her columns were highly popular with the . readers. She felt fairly sure she had a future, with or without Hoorah! It was just a case of waiting to be snapped up by a broadsheet and never having to do a proper day's work again.
“Is Harry Noble always going to be that terrifying?” asked Mo.
“No more than your average pretentious, egocentric actor,” grinned Jazz at George. Jazz had interviewed so many celebs over the years that she wasn't remotely in awe of them any more. Apart from the odd one or two who showed a genuine interest in the stranger to whom they were pouring out their one-dimensional hearts, she had found that most of them were self-obsessed and pathetic. But she'd never interviewed anyone nearly as famous as Harry Noble; he was way out of her league. He was A-list, while she had only ever done strictly B- and C-list actors. And of course, he was a member of the famous Noble dynasty - a whole family of celebrated Shakespearean actors and part of England's heritage. Harry though, had been the first Noble to break into Hollywood.
Jazz had been impressed by every performance he'd done; even the cameo role he'd performed in a tacky American sitcom had had class. And he had shone at the Oscars. She thought he was a truly wonderful actor. And she'd been delighted to discover that in real life, he was every bit as abominable as she'd expected.
The next morning, Jazz sat at her computer in Hoorah!'s features department, her eyes unfocused and her mind freewheeling. She'd finished “I married my poodle!” in only two hours and was trying desperately to think of a way into this week's column.