Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field

Chapter 19

The day of the award ceremony, two days before she was supposed to fax her column to Sharon Westfield, Jazz's nerves were stretched to breaking point. She was daunted by the prospect of winning an award for which her boss had nominated her, for a column she was contemplating selling to a different publication. And she was daunted by the prospect of having to wait weeks before seeing Harry. Every time she thought of him, she felt a deep sense of shame. Seeing his proud, haughty face might just be the perfect antidote to that. And she could do with an antidote to the after-effects of that e-mail.

Josie was to be her guest at the awards. Jazz had wangled it with Michael that if she won the award, Josie deserved a night off from Ben and would go with her sister to the next cast party that weekend and stay the night in Mo's bed. Josie was going to leave Michael the number of the local casualty department if anything went wrong, instead of Jazz's mobile. A girl deserved a night off once in a while. Jazz was praying she'd win, just for Josie's sake.

Then on Saturday there would be the first of several rehearsals without Harry; he was doing a three-week stint at The Pemberton in a one-man play written specially for him by hot new playwright Patrick Clifton. It was already sold out, of course.

Jazz sat in her office frowning at the dailies. The tabloids were full of vitriolic, un-newsworthy gossip and the qualities were so dry she actually fell asleep reading one. Harry was right. What had possessed her to be proud of her career? Things couldn't get much worse, she thought morosely.

She was wrong.

The next morning she had to carry her new little black number in on the tube.

“Ooh, let me see it,” said Maddie excitedly, as Jazz walked into the office. Jazz could hardly look at Maddie any more for guilt about her conversation with Sharon Westfield.

When she showed her the dress, Maddie's grin froze on her pretty little face.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“What?” said Jazz. “What could possibly be wrong with that? It's just a mangy little black dress.”

“It's exactly the same mangy little black dress that I've got,” said Maddie.

Jazz looked at her, bemused. “All little black dresses look the same, Maddie.”

“This is a catastrophe,” said Maddie, not hearing her. “One of us is going to have to go and buy another one.”

“Are you joking?” She could hardly believe that Maddie, who coped daily with mad readers, hopeless writers, insane deadlines and a tempestuous Editor, was actually panicking. A line of sweat was breaking out on her upper lip.

“No, I'm not. Where did you buy yours?”

“Paris,” lied Jazz. It was worth a try. “Years ago.”

“Well then, it'll have to be me — I got mine in Covent Garden. I'll be back in an hour. Take my calls, Alison.” And she was gone.

Jazz looked over to Mark and awaited a smart reply, but he was actually looking concerned. Of course, thought Jazz. Women worrying about dresses made sense in his world.

Three hours later, a radiant Maddie wandered in. She showed her dress off proudly and Jazz was amazed. It was stunning. A miniscule red number with, in certain key areas, sequins where there should have been fabric. If Jazz was the kind of woman who hated being outdone by another woman, she'd have been very unhappy. Instead she just marvelled at the dress. As did Mark.

He gave a very long wolf whistle, which delighted Maddie. “You may be my boss,” he said approvingly, “but you know your clothes.”

Maddie was now in a good mood. Alison made her a cup of tea and Maddie sat down to read the papers. Today had been exhausting.

“Ooh,” she suddenly piped up. “You didn't tell me Harry Noble was on at the Pemberton!” The theatre was a five-minute walk from their offices. Jazz said nothing.

“Oooh,” swooned Maddie with a silly grin on her face. “He's fabulous. I could watch him in anything.”

“Yes, I bet,” said Jazz. “Particularly the shower.”

Maddie gasped at Jazz's comment and then giggled at the truth of it. Then she made a boss's decision. “We have to go,” she commanded.

The sound of a newspaper being furiously rustled came from Mark's corner.

“No way,” said Jazz, before thinking.

“Why not?” asked Maddie. “He'll never know you're there.”

“He might,” said Jazz. “I'd kill myself if he ever knew.”

“Why? It would be research. Oh, I've got to see him,” and with that, Maddie phoned the box office, told them she was from the press and was immediately promised two tickets. Jazz watched her, frozen. She knew she would be fascinated to see Harry on stage yet mortified if he discovered she'd been there. Maddie put the phone down with a flourish and let out a little yippee.

“Research, darling!” she exclaimed.

Mark tutted from behind a paper. “Research, bollocks!” he said. “You're there to watch the man's crotch so you've got something to think about when you jerk off tonight.”

Maddie and Jazz both turned to him in disgust as he twitched his paper violently. Infuriatingly, Jazz couldn't think of anything to say to him that would crush him enough.

Maddie spoke instead.

“You know, Marcus,” she said archly. “You are such a typical Gemini.”

Jazz smiled. She couldn't have done better herself.

With all the stress that was going on in Jazz's life at the moment, she had actually managed to forget that tonight was being televised. It was like a mini-Oscars, full of cameras, bright white lights and big names. The Evening Herald obviously knew a thing or two about putting on a spread. A couple of the women's magazines were there and all the dailies plus their Sunday counterparts. In the world of journalists, columns were the new black. Hell, they were so hot, they were the new grey. Jazz looked at the table plan and saw that Sharon Westfield from the Daily Echo was on table five. She scanned the enormous hall and spotted her table. There was only one woman on it. She was sandwiched between two typical elder statesmen of the press, both balding, fat and with very red noses. One was the Patron of the rag, the other his Editor. From their body language, it looked like Sharon was on rather intimate terms with at least one of them. There was no way Sharon would be concerned about finding Jazz with such pressing engagements nearer home, so she relaxed a bit and started to work at enjoying herself. Some of the awards were even more ridiculous than hers.

Rosie Smith and Robyn Anderson had been neck and neck for the Columnist's Most Moving Personal Trauma of the Year Award. Tragically, both were now in hospices, but their colleagues were there to take their places. There was a phone call during dinner to announce that Robyn had in fact died earlier this evening, so it came as no surprise when she won the award posthumously. Seems fair, thought Jazz. First past the posthumous, and all that.

Alastair Gibbon won the Columnist's Most Revealing Intimate Secret of the Year, and as he walked up to the podium to collect his four-inch-high Nelson's Column, the entire audience tried not to think of his anal fissures.

But the rest of the categories were intimidating enough and Jazz was truly humbled to see herself in such company as John Pilkin, whose column had alerted worldwide support" for some very worthy charities, and Suzanne Edwards, whose column had reminded everyone that feminism could be trendy once more.

When the Columnist Personality of the Year award was being read out, Jazz's whole body went into fight or flight mode. Great, she thought to herself as her shins started to sweat. At least I know that if I ever get trapped in a dark alleyway, my body will react properly. So tonight won't have been a complete loss. It didn't help that Josie was holding her hand, but Jazz was too nervous to pull it away.

When she heard her name read out over the microphone and her entire table start to whoop, Jazz thought she must be dreaming. She couldn't remember walking up to the front of the room nor thanking everyone nor walking back to her seat. She just knew she felt overwhelmed with a sense of other-worldliness. Josie was ecstatic, and Jazz was too, for her.

But she also knew that she was made. This was it, the big time. She was an award-winning columnist. She was on TV. She put on a big smile and tried to stop thinking of that wretched e-mail and how it proved she didn't know what the hell she was talking about.

Immediately after the awards, she and Josie were interviewed live on TV. The young male interviewer had introduced them to camera as "the acerbically judgemental Jasmin Field and her happily-married sister Josie". He'd even asked if their parents would be proud, at which point Josie had waved to the camera and said, “Hello, Mum.” Jazz knew both her parents would probably be weeping with pride.

As the interview ended, Sharon Westfield came over. Thrusting her hand into Jazz's and shaking it vigorously, she said, “Many congrats, no one deserved it more, absolutely delighted.” She was smoking

a cigar.

Jazz mumbled her thanks, hoping to God Maddie wasn't watching.

“We'd love to do a follow-up,” continued Sharon, still shaking Jazz's hand. “Love to. Perfect Family — that sort of thing, right up our street.” She dropped Jazz's hand to place imaginary words in the sky: "The Field Family - The Last Happy Family in the Country". Perfect.”

Jazz smiled weakly.

Sharon winked at her, tapped her nose with her finger and whispered loudly, “Then when you start the column, our readers will know who you are, eh? Looking forward to your fax.” And she was gone.

Jazz pulled Josie away from the scene and when her younger sister asked what all that was about, she said she'd explain later. She wasn't going to let politics spoil her night.

Later, Jazz and Josie danced the night away with Maddie, while Mark watched them morosely, slowly getting drunk. Various tabloid Editors were making fools of themselves over Maddie and she was in her element. It wouldn't be long before she'd be leaving Hoorah! Jazz thought contentedly.

Yep, it was a good night, she decided, although neither Maddie nor Josie could pogo quite like Mo.

Hours later, Jazz and Josie sat in Mo's empty flat, tired, drenched in their own cold sweat and with the music's pumping beat still slightly deafening them.

It was then that Jazz told Josie her dilemma.

She was a hypocrite. She had danced the night away with the people who had helped make her career, and all the time she had been secretly selling her soul to a higher bidder.

As Josie answered her questions, all became clear to Jazz. Of course. It would be Josie, the one who had been her inspiration so far, Josie, who had provided her with her biggest career success so far, Josie, her sister who had it all, who would go on to show her exactly and precisely what to do.

“You're the one who made your career, not them,” she said simply. “And you've got them free publicity by winning the award. Agatha didn't nominate you for altruistic reasons, did she?”

Jazz's sense of guilt evaporated instantly. When had Josie become so mature? Was that what motherhood did to you?

“Anyway,” her younger sister continued, “why can't my story be in a quality paper instead? Aren't I interesting enough?”

Jazz sat up. “You know, I never even thought of that,” she said, suddenly perky.

“Well ring them, idiot,” grinned Josie. “You're famous now. Wait until later though, it's four in the morning.”

Jazz stood in the phone box, pushing coins into the slot. It took an aeon for someone to answer.

“Features,” said a bored, busy voice at the News, one of the more stuffy quality papers.

“Oh hello, my name's Jasmin Field, I'm a columnist for Hoorah! magazine and have just won the Evening Herald's Columnist's Personality of the Year Award. You may have caught me on TV last night.” She winced at how that sounded, but kept going. You couldn't sell hard enough in this game. “Here's the story. I've been poached by the Daily Echo but would love to write for you.”

There was silence at the other end. Jazz ignored her dry throat and the countdown on the phone's meter. She put some more coins in. There was silence at the other end.

“My column is all about my sister Josie,” Jazz continued. “She's a confident, intelligent, happily-married young full-time mum -who has all sorts of hysterical incidents happen to her.”

Silence.

“It's a sort of modern, post-erm - post . . .” Post-traumatic stress syndrome? Poster Paint? Postman Pat? Bugger. “She's my sister,” she gabbled. Silence.

“I'm a bloody fast writer and don't mind re-writing.” She put some more money in the slot. “I worked with your Assistant Editor, Jackie Summers, years ago at Bonkers!. She might remember me.” Silence. She'd run out of coins. “Shall I send you some of my work?” Silence. Had someone shot him, perhaps? “Hello?” she said, irritated.

“I know your work. Fax over two new columns written to our style for the attention of Brigit Kennedy, Commissioning Editor.”

And then the pips went. Jazz put the phone down in a bit of a daze. Even if the News said no, Jazz had already decided that if she worked for the Daily Echo, she'd never be able to live with herself. And although she didn't much like herself at the moment, she had decided she didn't want to live with anyone else.

Back in the office, she finished her current feature and then, when everyone had gone home, she bashed out two new columns - one about how her family had reacted to her winning the award, the other about how she was happy being single until the right man came along - a man who would treat her like her brother-in-law treated her sister. Then she faxed them to the News and went home.

She'd worry about the Daily Echo another day.