Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field

Chapter 10

It was Ben's second birthday party and the family was huddled in Josie and Michael's tiny lounge. Simon had been invited and Jazz didn't know who she was more furious with that he was still on the scene, him or George. She decided it was him.

Letting him sit uncomfortably on his own, she cornered George and related the amazing story Wills had told her about Harry.

George was adamant. “I don't believe it, I just don't believe it.”

Jazz was exasperated. “Just because he's the great Harry Noble doesn't mean he's not human, you know.”

But George was stubborn. “That's not human, that's evil. And anyway, he'd already won his Oscar, so what possible motive could he have for damning Wills' reputation?”

“Jealousy? Small-mindedness? Arrogance? Haven't you often said actors are the most petty people on earth?”

“Not all of them,” said George loyally. She and Jack were going out for a lunch "rehearsal" the next day. Which meant she had to finish with Simon tonight. It was enough to stop her eating any birthday cake.

“Face it, George,” said Jazz. “Harry's a supremely arrogant bastard and he's done a fine actor out of a brilliant career.”

“You don't know that, Jazz.”

“Yes I do, I heard it from the horse's mouth,” she said, taking another bite of her cake. “One with exceptional flanks.”

Mo walked over. She was the only person not eating any food.

“Aren't you eating, Mo?” asked Jazz.

“No thanks,” she beamed. “I ate before I came.”

“You're looking fabulous,” said George. Mo had lost a stone in just a month. Jazz seemed to be the only one who preferred her before.

“Not as fabulous as this cake though,” said Jazz, biting into the rich chocolate and mocha cake Josie had baked. Another of her weekly columns was forming in her head. Josie had had a successful high-flying career before she became a mother, now had a busy social life and, like most of her friends, bought convenience foods, but when it came to her child's birthday cake, she was expected to make it from scratch. Ben was only two, but already Josie felt that a shop-bought cake would mean Mummy didn't love him enough. Where do they pick up these things? she wondered. She looked over at her sister.

Josie was laughing politely at Great-Aunt Sylvia's joke. You'd never guess Josie was pregnant again.

Jazz and George followed her into the kitchen with piles of dirty dishes. All the men were sitting in the lounge easing the uncomfortable feeling of having eaten too much, while the women were in the kitchen, tidying up from tea, trying to take their minds off not having eaten as much as they would have liked.

Jazz had long stopped complaining about the men not offering to help with all the work on these occasions. But it still enraged her that she knew her brother-in-law's kitchen better than he did. She had served him meals in his own home ever since he and Josie had first married. Oddly enough, he had never served her in her home. The very idea seemed preposterous.

“You OK?” she asked Josie lightly, picking up a tea-towel, while Martha and George presided over the sink, talking loudly.

Josie just laughed bitterly as she stood on tiptoe and put all the crockery into the cupboards that were

built too high for her.

“Come round for dinner one night,” pleaded Jazz for the hundredth time. She'd stopped taking Josie's rejections personally. “Without Ben or Michael. Like the good old days.”

“I can't. Ben won't go to sleep unless I'm there and once he's off, Michael wants his dinner and I'm too pooped to do anything.” Josie said gently, “When will you realise the good old days don't exist any more?”

Jazz felt blind fury at her stupid brother-in-law. She wanted to slap her sister and tell her to stop being so pathetic. Instead she just said, “Has Michael's life changed at all since he's become a father?”

Josie took this calmly. “Sometimes he gets up in the night,” she said quietly. “And he's very good at weekends. He's knackered too, you know. He's been working very hard since his promotion.”

Jazz looked at her kid sister and felt a wave of longing for the old Josie she knew and loved. She vowed for the trillionth time never to marry.

Mo joined them in the kitchen. She clapped her hands loudly and then rubbed them together.

“Right, what can I do to help?”

“Eat cake,” shouted Jazz, and threw her a tea-towel.

“Never again,” Mo swore. “I feel wonderful.”

Martha turned round. “Mo? Is that you? I thought it was your shadow.” She was genuinely concerned.

“Thanks, Mrs F,” grinned Mo.

Martha ignored Mo's mistake and turned back to discuss Jeffrey's latest arthritis treatment with George while Josie was called into the lounge because Ben had hurt himself. He'd screamed even more when his daddy had tried to help.

“I've booked us in for a class tomorrow,” said Mo to Jazz.

“Pardon?”

“Step aerobics. You'll love it. Then we'll have a steam room and a sauna.”

Jazz just stared at Mo. “You hate me, don't you?”

Mo just smiled smugly.

How should George chuck Simon? For the first time in her life, with her thirtieth birthday drifting away from her at a startling speed, Georgia Field was about to chuck a perfectly good man. Well, a man with all his limbs intact anyway. How to do it, though? And what if Jack proved to be a non-starter?

George had thought about this long and hard. She had considered phoning Simon at his office and telling him they "Had To Talk", but decided against it because that was so melodramatic. She was going to take the bull by the horns and do it now. In the car on the way home from the tea-party.

Now.

She got into the passenger seat of his car, her heart thumping. She stared straight ahead into the drizzle as he reversed out, put on his shades and turned on his multi-layered CD shuffle function. She didn't know why he bothered with that, every single CD in it was one by Phil Collins anyway. Surely that was reason enough to chuck the man?

They drove in silence for a while. She just didn't know how to start the conversation. What if he got so angry that he drove them into an oncoming car so as not to lose her to anyone else? What if he shouted at her? What if he talked her out of it? But then one thought gave her courage. She pictured Jack's smiling, intent face.

She gave a small cough.

No reaction. He was mouthing the words to "Mama", his all-time favourite Phil Collins track and tapping - out of time - on the leather steering wheel. Before she realised it, he was parking in West Hampstead. And now he would ask her if she'd be able to supply him in the caffeine area. She always hated it when he did that.

He turned the engine off, took off his shades, smiled at her and rested his hand on the wheel.

“Fancy furnishing me in the caffeine area?” he asked with a wink.

“Uh huh,” she said weakly and they got out of the car.

George flicked on the lights and Simon immediately plonked himself down in the middle of the three-seater couch. With a big sigh he picked up the paper lying on the coffee table, and turned it to the sports page. Suddenly George realised she hated him.

“We have to talk,” she said.

He didn't take his eyes off the paper.

“Sure, shoot,” he said.

Oh good God, did he really have to use sporting metaphors? Well, here was a googly for him.

“Um,” she said softly. “Um”

He looked up and smiled at her expectantly, his eyebrows raised, as if she was a blithering fool. She blinked at him like a blithering fool.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Her ashen face answered him eloquently and for the first time he got a bit concerned. He'd seen that look before.

“Are you about to chuck me or are you dying of some mysterious disease?” he asked in mock seriousness. It was early days in the relationship and he wasn't sure yet which piece of news would hit him worse.

George's jaw dropped. “I'm not dying of some mysterious disease,” she managed to say pointedly.

There! She'd said it! It wasn't so difficult after all!

“Right,” nodded Simon slowly. That hadn't worked out quite so well as he'd hoped.

There was a pause.

Now it was out in the open, George felt the black cloud that had been hovering over her head for the past month dissolve and disappear. She was suffused with a sense of goodwill to all men, including Simon.

“Coffee?” she asked sincerely.

Simon stared at her. “Have you just chucked me?” he answered ungenerously.

Oh dear. She thought they'd cleared all that up. She tried again.

“Well, I don't have a terminal illness,” she said pathetically.

Simon frowned and sat forward on the couch.

“Are you chucking me?” he repeated.

George swallowed.

“Well . . .”

No sound came out.

“I think it's a simple question, don't you?”

“Yes - I ..." she came to a halt.

“Yes . . . you think it's a simple question or yes, you are chucking me?”

“Yes ... I think it's a simple question,” mumbled George, growing uncomfortably hot and finding her feet rooted to the spot.

“So you're not chucking me?”

George could only nod weakly.

“What does that mean? Yes you're not chucking me or yes you are chucking me?” Simon was vaguely aware that he was making a prat of himself.

“Yes I am chucking you,” she whispered, her eyes down. Really, she hadn't expected him to make it so difficult.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

Simon put the paper down and looked round her flat. Nothing much had changed. Except he was single again. Shit.

“Right, so that's that then.”

He got up suddenly from the couch. George flinched, which seemed to disgust him.

“My God, what do you think I'm going to do?” he asked. “Hit you?” And then he added under his breath, “Wouldn't waste my time.”

George thought she was going to be sick. Please, just leave, she thought.

Simon tried to laugh carelessly. “You'll be all right,” he said, pretending to be fine about it. “Go and see a soppy girlie film and eat chocolate cake - that's what you girls do, isn't it?”

George tried to smile. Maybe she'd been wrong about him. He seemed to understand her so well.

He stood up to go. “And I'll just get rat-arsed and pick up some bird in a nightclub. Bye, doll.” And he gave her one last wink and slammed her front door so hard, she thought it would fall off its hinges.

She heard him stamp downstairs. Then silence.

She was free!

Her head felt light. Her stomach relaxed. Her flat was her own again. No more Phil Collins! No more afternoons watching rugby!

She looked round the empty room. And then rushed to the bathroom where she just made it in time before she was sick.

The lunchtime rehearsal the next day between Jack and George turned into an afternoon movie which turned into an evening meal which turned into a nightcap at George's flat which turned into a very passionate night together.

The next afternoon, when they finally got up, they wandered into West Hampstead for some food. They found Mo and Jazz in George's favourite cafe. Jack seemed genuinely delighted to see them both there and the four of them fell into easy banter. Jazz was overjoyed to see her George so happy. And Jack seemed totally besotted with her, as was right and proper. The very air around them sizzled. She hoped to God that he treated her right. Not everyone realised how fragile George was.

Eventually Jazz had to tear herself away.

“A step class? Whatever for?” demanded George.

“To repent for all my sins,” answered Jazz. “Mo's turned into a fitness freak. She's unbearable, she's—”

“Thin,” interrupted Mo merrily.

“Save me?” implored Jazz.

But George looked far too happy to bother saving anyone today.

Jazz picked up her gym kit. She hadn't worn her trainers since she had played netball with her old schoolfriends eight years ago. She had borrowed Mo's kit - a skimpy pair of gym shorts and a leotard that split her up the middle. Mo was kitted out in yellow and white Lycra.

An hour and a half later, Jazz was lying on a mat in a position she never thought she'd be in until she gave birth, flexing muscles she didn't know she had.

The step class had been the longest hour of her life. Sweat dripped into her ears and stung her eyes as she lay drenched on the mat.

She hated the aerobics instructor. She'd bounded in, all teeth and tits, with a bottom like two tennis balls wrapped in cellophane and asked them all indecipherable questions, while fiddling with the earpiece round her head.

“Iny anjuries? Beck problems? Inyone prignant? Iny priblems?”

Jazz was too busy staring at her own legs in the mirror to answer, “I think I'm in the wrong class, is this Oriental Karma?” She'd never realised until this moment just how white she was. She was so white she was blue. Every time she caught sight of herself in the mirror she thought there was a lighthouse in the room.

Then the aerobics instructor put on Pinkie and Perkie's 70's Classics and started marching on the spot.

Oh right, this is easy, thought Jazz, and started to march. After a few moments, she realised this might be a little more difficult than she thought. Somehow, the instructor looked decidedly cool marching on the spot, while Jazz was doing exactly the same movement and yet looked like a complete arse.

Suddenly, with no warning, the instructor yelled: “Ligs apart, stumech flut, bottom een, knees ovur fit, RIELAX!”

Jazz had just got the position when the entire room bounded off to the right. The woman on her left bumped into her and didn't apologise. It dawned on Jazz that those instructions had just been the way to stand correctly. This was the real thing.

The steps Ingrid the Instructor inflicted on them were so complicated and the instructions so inaudible over the noise that Jazz had spent most of the hour looking like she was a contestant on The Generation Game. To Jazz's untrained ears, the instructor was speaking a different language. Thank God there had been a man there. He made her look positively sophisticated. Why had he come? It couldn't be worth humiliating himself so much just to get a look at tight buns in Lycra, surely? Then again, thought Jazz bitterly, he was a man.

Every time Ingrid shouted, “SWAP LIGS!” Jazz wanted to shout, “Bagsie yours.” Every time she bellowed “RELAX!” Jazz looked for the couch. It was hell. Never again.

“Give yourselves a big round of applause,” shouted Ingrid at the end, as Jazz stood, fixed to the ground, panting heavily, wondering if they still burnt witches. Mo came over to her.

“Wow!” she said, looking at Jazz's beetroot face. “I think you've burst a blood vessel in your head.”

“Don't talk to me - ” breathed Jazz “ - ever again.”

They trudged heavily up to the changing rooms where Jazz took a long shower and then, when she felt barely human again, joined Mo's pink, moist body in the steam room. It was how she imagined heaven would be. All steam and heat. She didn't like the sauna as much but at least in here, without the steam, they could talk. The heat and the silence were wonderful.

“So what are you going to do with this new body of yours?” asked Jazz dreamily.

“Get happy. Get laid. Get a promotion. Dunno.”

Jazz didn't say anything. Sweat was slowly building up on the gentle curve of her stomach.

Mo sighed loudly and put one sweaty arm above her head. “Jazz, I'm not an idealist like you—”

Jazz interrupted. “Me - an idealist? Where did you get that from? I'm as cynical as they come. Anyone will tell you that.” She turned over slowly and let the sweat drip down the dip in her back.

“And anyone will tell you that a cynic is a disillusioned idealist,” countered Mo. “I don't care if the "personal" is the "political", I don't care if I'm setting a bad example to my "sisters". I just want a man. Sorry, Jazz, but that's the way it is.”

“But why diet for it?” asked Jazz gently. “Don't you want a man who will accept you as you are?” She swung one foot lazily in the air.

Mo got angry. “I can't find any man who will accept me as I am. Can't you get that into your thick head? They're shallow, superficial scum. And I want one.”

Jazz decided she had to get out of the sauna. It was too hot.