reaction Harry seemed to create on everyone that she scarcely noticed the quiet, red-headed young woman who had come in with him. Silently the woman – or girl – found herself a seat at the back.
Eventually Harry honoured his cast by looking briefly at them.
'Hello people,' he said quietly, and Jazz marvelled at how he could fill those two short words with such considered condescension. Everyone inched closer and Harry took off his black leather jacket exposing a loose, black V-neck jumper and faded black jeans. He leaned back lazily in his chair, fully aware that everyone was watching him avidly. Jazz observed in wonder as the entire room eyed his body, greedily taking in the curve of his Adam's apple and the enticing peek of olive-brown collarbone, his languidly elegant torso, broad shoulders, long, flat stomach and perfect thighs.
Harry was almost sunbathing in the warmth of everyone's stare. Then without eyeing any of his new cast, he delivered a speech that Jazz thought he must have had written for him by some out-of-work ham playwright – a speech called 'Director Drivel'. He hardly bothered to move his body as he spoke, and his voice was so cold and quiet that people were leaning forward to catch every little gem. Jazz was transfixed, amazed that someone with such screen presence could be such an atmosphere vacuum in real life. It was as if he only gave of himself when he thought it was worth it, and he certainly didn't rate his present audience.
'Some of you have never acted before,' he droned on. 'Some of you may think you have. But all of you will discover new meanings of the word if you listen to me.' He now looked deliberately at them; some of the women blushed under his steady gaze. 'And trust in me. Let me be your guide.' Jazz gazed round at his audience. They would let him drill their molars if he so desired. They were eating out of the palm of his hand.
Incredible. She'd never seen anything like it before. Slowly, she tore her eyes away from his entranced followers and looked back at him. She was more than surprised to find that he was looking straight at her. She became aware that everyone else was now looking at her and realised that he had just asked her a question.
She smiled half-heartedly. 'Sorry, I-I . . . wasn't listening.'
He tilted his sculpted face at her with an expression she couldn't yet read.
'An excellent start, Miss Field,' he said calmly, hardly moving his perfect lips.
There was a slight laugh from the audience.
Jazz felt her cheeks warm.
'I just asked our starring lady, our Elizabeth Bennet ,' (crescendo), 'to stand up and introduce herself.'
Jesus Christ.
She stood up.
'Hi,' (cough), 'my name is Jasmin Field. I'm a journalist. So don't piss me off. Ha ha. And um – well, I can't really act. Ha ha.' No one laughed.
She didn't know what else to say. Harry's almost inaudible voice cut the atmosphere like an ice-pick.
'I don't work with people who can't act, Miss Field.'
Oh pur-lease, she thought. Get out of your bottom, it's dark in there.
'Good job this is voluntary then,' she smiled sweetly.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
'Money has nothing to do with an excellent performance, Miss Field.' He smiled wryly at the rest of the cast. 'Although I don't expect a journalist to understand that.' They broke into relieved laughter, grateful that he had shared a joke with them. Out of the corner of her eye, Jazz could see Gilbert attempting the look of an offended genius.
Harry started looking around the room for his next victim.
'Oh, you'd be surprised,' Jazz said a bit too loudly. 'We journalists understand lots of things. Particularly,' she pretended to pluck words out of the air, and finished softly with 'pomp and affectation.'
The room held its breath, but Harry merely looked back at her. 'Oh dear,' he said in an infuriatingly measured tone. 'Miss Field, we might as well sort this out once and for all. For the short period of your life that you leave behind the tacky
Eventually Harry honoured his cast by looking briefly at them.
'Hello people,' he said quietly, and Jazz marvelled at how he could fill those two short words with such considered condescension. Everyone inched closer and Harry took off his black leather jacket exposing a loose, black V-neck jumper and faded black jeans. He leaned back lazily in his chair, fully aware that everyone was watching him avidly. Jazz observed in wonder as the entire room eyed his body, greedily taking in the curve of his Adam's apple and the enticing peek of olive-brown collarbone, his languidly elegant torso, broad shoulders, long, flat stomach and perfect thighs.
Harry was almost sunbathing in the warmth of everyone's stare. Then without eyeing any of his new cast, he delivered a speech that Jazz thought he must have had written for him by some out-of-work ham playwright – a speech called 'Director Drivel'. He hardly bothered to move his body as he spoke, and his voice was so cold and quiet that people were leaning forward to catch every little gem. Jazz was transfixed, amazed that someone with such screen presence could be such an atmosphere vacuum in real life. It was as if he only gave of himself when he thought it was worth it, and he certainly didn't rate his present audience.
'Some of you have never acted before,' he droned on. 'Some of you may think you have. But all of you will discover new meanings of the word if you listen to me.' He now looked deliberately at them; some of the women blushed under his steady gaze. 'And trust in me. Let me be your guide.' Jazz gazed round at his audience. They would let him drill their molars if he so desired. They were eating out of the palm of his hand.
Incredible. She'd never seen anything like it before. Slowly, she tore her eyes away from his entranced followers and looked back at him. She was more than surprised to find that he was looking straight at her. She became aware that everyone else was now looking at her and realised that he had just asked her a question.
She smiled half-heartedly. 'Sorry, I-I . . . wasn't listening.'
He tilted his sculpted face at her with an expression she couldn't yet read.
'An excellent start, Miss Field,' he said calmly, hardly moving his perfect lips.
There was a slight laugh from the audience.
Jazz felt her cheeks warm.
'I just asked our starring lady, our Elizabeth Bennet ,' (crescendo), 'to stand up and introduce herself.'
Jesus Christ.
She stood up.
'Hi,' (cough), 'my name is Jasmin Field. I'm a journalist. So don't piss me off. Ha ha. And um – well, I can't really act. Ha ha.' No one laughed.
She didn't know what else to say. Harry's almost inaudible voice cut the atmosphere like an ice-pick.
'I don't work with people who can't act, Miss Field.'
Oh pur-lease, she thought. Get out of your bottom, it's dark in there.
'Good job this is voluntary then,' she smiled sweetly.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
'Money has nothing to do with an excellent performance, Miss Field.' He smiled wryly at the rest of the cast. 'Although I don't expect a journalist to understand that.' They broke into relieved laughter, grateful that he had shared a joke with them. Out of the corner of her eye, Jazz could see Gilbert attempting the look of an offended genius.
Harry started looking around the room for his next victim.
'Oh, you'd be surprised,' Jazz said a bit too loudly. 'We journalists understand lots of things. Particularly,' she pretended to pluck words out of the air, and finished softly with 'pomp and affectation.'
The room held its breath, but Harry merely looked back at her. 'Oh dear,' he said in an infuriatingly measured tone. 'Miss Field, we might as well sort this out once and for all. For the short period of your life that you leave behind the tacky
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