world of women's magazines and work with me, I will turn you into a good actress. However painful that experience may be for both of us.'
Jazz bristled. 'I never leave behind my "tacky world", as you put it, Mr Noble – it follows me, I'm afraid. Much in the same way that a bit-part in a "tacky" American sitcom would follow a classic actor.'
A couple of people coughed nervously.
'Well, there you're very much mistaken, Miss Field,' said Harry, leaning forward and allowing his voice more inflection. 'I don't allow anything to follow anyone when they act with me. I want you, Miss Field, completely and utterly naked.' A fractional smile. 'I'm speaking emotionally, of course.' Jazz grimaced. 'And that's your first lesson.' He threw her a hard smile that landed, with a dull thud, in her gut. 'Learning the difference between pomp and affectation and substance and integrity we'll have to leave to another day.'
And with that he turned swiftly to his next victim. Somehow Jazz found her seat again without falling flat on her bottom. The fact that everyone had now stopped watching her did nothing to lessen her sense of embarrassment. She hated him. In fact, she was so shaken by the public humiliation that it was several moments before she began to look forward to describing it in her column.
It was Mr Darcy's turn next. Jazz had at first been delighted to discover that Harry had succumbed to Matt's advice and given the part of the greatest romantic hero to the acerbic critic, Brian Peters. But within moments, her delight turned to serious concern. Poison Pen Peters' prose, albeit cruel, was always elegant, well-honed and majestic. His 'voice' was an aesthetic joy, something every reader was in awe of due to its obvious natural superiority, whether or not they agreed with its content. As a writer, he would have made a perfect Mr Darcy. As an actor, however, he would have made a perfect ferret. It appeared to Jazz, as she studied Brian Peters for the first time, that testosterone had passed him by. His shoulders were narrower than hers, his voice higher, and his long, slim head made him look as if he was still recovering from a forceps delivery. How could such magnificent prose come from such an unimpressive person?
By now, everyone else knew the sort of interrogation they would receive from their director and had time to think of something half-witty to say for their own introductions. They were all suitably banal and benign. Sara Hayes had won the part of Miss Bingley – Mr Bingley's sister and doomed admirer of Mr Darcy – which almost managed to cheer Jazz up. How wonderfully typecast, she thought, with glee, watching the woman preen herself. Better still, Sara's friend Maxine was Mrs Hurst – her sister – and the man chosen to play Mrs Hurst's husband was Maxine's own porcine husband. Charles Caruthers-Brown's look of utter indifference to the proceedings suited his new role down to the ground.
The tall fair man who was still impersonating a stunned rabbit whenever he looked at George turned out to be called Jack – he was playing Mr Bingley, troubled suitor to George's Jane. Would life imitate art here also? wondered Jazz to herself. Is the Pope Catholic? she answered herself happily. She was even quite excited to see that Gilbert had won the part of Mr Collins, the insufferable, social climbing curate. Despite herself, Jazz began to feel some respect for Harry Noble's casting ability.
The part of Lizzy's mother, Mrs Bennet, had gone to a large woman with heavy-lidded warm eyes, cropped black hair and beautifully smooth skin. Mr Bennet was to be played by a character actor Jazz had seen in many period productions on the television. He had always had minor roles and she had never given him more than a cursory glance. She had certainly never attributed any great meaning to anything he'd said, yet now she saw him in the flesh, with his tired, ruddy skin, his desperately grave expression and deep, mellow voice, she realised
Jazz bristled. 'I never leave behind my "tacky world", as you put it, Mr Noble – it follows me, I'm afraid. Much in the same way that a bit-part in a "tacky" American sitcom would follow a classic actor.'
A couple of people coughed nervously.
'Well, there you're very much mistaken, Miss Field,' said Harry, leaning forward and allowing his voice more inflection. 'I don't allow anything to follow anyone when they act with me. I want you, Miss Field, completely and utterly naked.' A fractional smile. 'I'm speaking emotionally, of course.' Jazz grimaced. 'And that's your first lesson.' He threw her a hard smile that landed, with a dull thud, in her gut. 'Learning the difference between pomp and affectation and substance and integrity we'll have to leave to another day.'
And with that he turned swiftly to his next victim. Somehow Jazz found her seat again without falling flat on her bottom. The fact that everyone had now stopped watching her did nothing to lessen her sense of embarrassment. She hated him. In fact, she was so shaken by the public humiliation that it was several moments before she began to look forward to describing it in her column.
It was Mr Darcy's turn next. Jazz had at first been delighted to discover that Harry had succumbed to Matt's advice and given the part of the greatest romantic hero to the acerbic critic, Brian Peters. But within moments, her delight turned to serious concern. Poison Pen Peters' prose, albeit cruel, was always elegant, well-honed and majestic. His 'voice' was an aesthetic joy, something every reader was in awe of due to its obvious natural superiority, whether or not they agreed with its content. As a writer, he would have made a perfect Mr Darcy. As an actor, however, he would have made a perfect ferret. It appeared to Jazz, as she studied Brian Peters for the first time, that testosterone had passed him by. His shoulders were narrower than hers, his voice higher, and his long, slim head made him look as if he was still recovering from a forceps delivery. How could such magnificent prose come from such an unimpressive person?
By now, everyone else knew the sort of interrogation they would receive from their director and had time to think of something half-witty to say for their own introductions. They were all suitably banal and benign. Sara Hayes had won the part of Miss Bingley – Mr Bingley's sister and doomed admirer of Mr Darcy – which almost managed to cheer Jazz up. How wonderfully typecast, she thought, with glee, watching the woman preen herself. Better still, Sara's friend Maxine was Mrs Hurst – her sister – and the man chosen to play Mrs Hurst's husband was Maxine's own porcine husband. Charles Caruthers-Brown's look of utter indifference to the proceedings suited his new role down to the ground.
The tall fair man who was still impersonating a stunned rabbit whenever he looked at George turned out to be called Jack – he was playing Mr Bingley, troubled suitor to George's Jane. Would life imitate art here also? wondered Jazz to herself. Is the Pope Catholic? she answered herself happily. She was even quite excited to see that Gilbert had won the part of Mr Collins, the insufferable, social climbing curate. Despite herself, Jazz began to feel some respect for Harry Noble's casting ability.
The part of Lizzy's mother, Mrs Bennet, had gone to a large woman with heavy-lidded warm eyes, cropped black hair and beautifully smooth skin. Mr Bennet was to be played by a character actor Jazz had seen in many period productions on the television. He had always had minor roles and she had never given him more than a cursory glance. She had certainly never attributed any great meaning to anything he'd said, yet now she saw him in the flesh, with his tired, ruddy skin, his desperately grave expression and deep, mellow voice, she realised
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