Family Fan Club (5 page)

The girl looked at her as if she were some form of low life that had crawled out of a drain.

“Who knows?” she drawled.

Well! I’d know if I’d been on television, thought Jazz. She felt a bit dashed. Maybe the girl was incredibly famous and thought that she had been insulted. Jazz swallowed, and turned back to Laurel – only to discover that Laurel was no longer there. She was being led across the room by a tall, floppy youth
wearing a dinner jacket. I bet he thinks she’s older than she is, thought Jazz. She wondered what to do next. She wasn’t shy, but I’ve been snubbed once, she thought. I’m not going to be snubbed again!

She wriggled her way through a crush of people until she came to a bit of clear space. She stood there, clutching her orange juice and trying to pretend that she was having a good time. She had been so looking forward to this party! She had even had visions of being
discovered.
Of the great Rufus White catching sight of her and going, “Oh, my goodness, Debs! Is this your daughter? How would you like a part in my next production, my dear?”

That had just been plain silly, of course. That had been day-dreaming. Except that these things did happen! Just occasionally. Jazz tilted her chin and placed one leg carefully in front of the other. After all, you never knew who might be watching.

A tickle began to twitch in her nose. She sneezed. Heavens! She must have caught Lady Jayne’s stinky cold. She sneezed again. She tried to do it in as ladylike a manner as possible. Not a big vulgar Aaaaaaaaaaaah followed by a clash of cymbals, but a little genteel t’shoo!

She sniffed and felt for her handkerchief. She hadn’t got one! She hadn’t got a handkerchief! Laurel, busy
being – t’shoo – grown up, had brought a stupid little bag with her, but Jazz scorned such things. Now what – t’shoo! – was she supposed to do? She couldn’t even wipe her nose on her sleeve because she didn’t have any sleeves. And any – t’shoo! – way, it would be horribly inelegant.

Jazz stared round, despairingly, in search of Mum or Laurel. She couldn’t see either of them! And now her nose was beginning to drip. She blotted it, on the back of her hand. Ugh – t’shoo! – disgusting!

“Want a rag?”

Jazz spun round. A boy was standing there, grinning and holding out a handkerchief.

“It’s OK, it’s clean,” he said.

Jazz wouldn’t have cared if it had been filthy dirty. She snatched at it, gratefully.

“Think I’m getting a cold.”

“Really?” He leaned excitedly towards her. “Give it to me, give it to me! Breathe over me!”

“Are you mad?” said Jazz, blowing her nose.

“No, but I’m supposed to be doing a day’s filming next week and maybe if I got a cold I wouldn’t have to. My brother could do it, instead.”

Jazz regarded him, in stupefaction. “You’re loony!” she said.

“I’m not, I just don’t want to have to do any more
filming. My dad keeps making me do these one-liners for him. It’s really boring!”

Jazz swallowed. “Who’s your dad, then?”

“Rufus White. Who’s yours?”

“T.J. Jones.”

“Is he an actor?”

“Yes, and so’s my mum. She’s Debbie Silver.”

“Oh, yes. I know her. Are you an actress?”

“Not yet.”

His lip curled. “I suppose you’re a wannabee.”

“No, I’m a gonnabee!”

The boy laughed. He was about the same age as Jazz. He wasn’t terribly handsome – his hair was blond and a bit limp and his mouth was crooked – but he had bright blue eyes that crinkled rather nicely when he laughed. Jazz laughed back.

“Why do you think filming’s boring?” she said.

“Dunno.” He shrugged. “Just is. All that hanging around while they set the lights and sort out the camera angles, and then you have to do it over and over till you feel like screaming.”

I wouldn’t feel like screaming, thought Jazz. It seemed very unfair that someone who didn’t want to act should be pushed into it, while other people – such as Jazz – couldn’t even get to drama school.

“Why does your dad make you?” she said.

“’cos he doesn’t feel comfortable working with kids and he knows he can shove me around. Did you come here to watch all the luvvies?
Wonderful
to
see
you, dwahling!” He screeched it in a high falsetto voice, hurling himself at Jazz and going, “Mwah! Mwah!” as he planted kisses on both cheeks.

She couldn’t help laughing. Actors and actresses did tend to be a bit over the top, even Mum and Dad.

“Who is the girl with spiky hair?” she said.

“Dee Lovejoy. She’s a cow.”

“Cows are nice!” said Jazz.

“OK, so she’s a slime. Is that your sister over there?”

Jazz looked where he was pointing and saw Laurel, standing with a group of Beautiful Young Things and gazing up, all melty-eyed, at the tall floppy youth in the dinner jacket. She was holding a glass in her hand and it didn’t look like a glass of orange juice. She’ll catch it if Mum sees her, thought Jazz.

“Mm.” Jazz nodded.

“She’s a lot older than you!”

“No, she isn’t,” said Jazz, bristling. “She’s fourteen. She’s just pretending to be older. Who’s that boy she’s with?”

“Simon Allsopp. He’s another slime.”

“Is he an actor?”

“No, he just happens to live next door. His mum and
dad are friends of my mum and dad. They’re all slimes.”

“Seems to you everyone’s a slime,” said Jazz.

“No, they’re not! You’re not.”

Jazz felt a big stupid grin spread across her face, though why she should care one way or another what a not terribly good-looking boy with limp hair thought of her, she really couldn’t imagine.

“What’s your name, anyway?” he said.

“Jazz. What’s yours?”

“Theo. Short for Theodore. What’s Jazz short for?”

“Jasmine.” Jazz pulled a face. “But nobody calls me that.”

“Nobody calls me Theodore. I’d bash ’em if they did!”

Jazz spent the rest of her time at the party standing in a corner with Theo, giggling at his jokes and listening in amazement to the stories that he told her.

“Well,” said Mum, as they drove home, “you seemed to be having a ball! That was Rufus White’s son you were chatting up.”

“Yes, I know,” said Jazz. “He was funny. But his dad makes him act and he doesn’t like it.”

“Oh, he probably does,” said Mum. “He was probably just trying to impress you. How about Laurel? Did she meet anyone interesting?”

Laurel didn’t answer. She had fallen asleep with her
head on Jazz’s shoulder. Her mouth was open and she was making little whiffling sounds.

“No?” said Mum.

“She met a boy called Simon,” said Jazz. “But he’s a slime!”

Definitely
not orange juice, Jazz thought. Laurel was going to suffer for that in the morning!

“All right, then, you lot!”

Mum was getting ready to leave for the theatre. Christmas was over, and they were back at school, but Mum’s play was booked to run until the end of February. Every day except Wednesday (when she had an afternoon performance) she would be there to say hello when they came home, then they would have tea together and Mum would listen to any of their problems before setting off.

It seemed they were all having problems, just at the moment. Daisy still had the remains of her cold and was whiny and grizzly. She kept complaining because Mum wouldn’t let her have another kitten.

“They’re so sweet! And they’re
free.
They just want good homes for them.”

Jazz was consumed with jealousy because Pinky Simons, who was in her class, had now started tap and ballet lessons as well as going to Glenda Glade two times a week.

“And she’s useless! She’s absolutely
useless!
”

Laurel moaned non stop about the state of her wardrobe. Even Jazz was sick of hearing about the state of Laurel’s wardrobe. All her clothes (she said) were grotesque. She would sooner (she said) go about naked than wear some of the hideous dowdy old-fashioned
muck
that was hanging in her closet.

“How can I go out with Simon looking like a six year old?”

It was Simon who was at the root of it. Ever since meeting him at Rufus White’s party, Laurel had given herself airs and graces. Looking down her nose at us, thought Jazz. Like we’re just kids and she’s grown up. But she isn’t, no matter how she preens and prances!

Today it was Rose’s turn. Rose was grumbling again about not having a computer.

“Look at all this stuff I have to write out … pages of it!” She pulled a wodge of paper from her school bag and banged it down on the table. “It takes me ages! Far longer than anyone else. They all have computers except me. It’s not f—”

“Don’t say it!” Mum held up a hand, like a traffic policeman. “Just
do not say it.
All I ever hear from you people is I want, I want, I want! It’s about time you learnt that we can’t always have everything we want. It’s a hard fact of life, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m sorry you don’t have parents who can afford to indulge you, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles. You’ll just have to make the best of it. I’m sick of the lot of you!”

Mum swept up her bag and her car keys and headed for the door.

“I’m going off to the theatre. You four can sit here and whinge amongst yourselves. At least I shan’t have to listen to it!”

Mum disappeared, slamming the door behind her. There was a stricken silence.

“Marmee never turned on her kids like that,” muttered Laurel.

Maybe they didn’t whine as much, thought Jazz. She said it aloud, but Laurel only tossed her head.

Rose said, “No, they were such goody-goodies.”

“Now we know why Dad left,” said Laurel. “Obviously couldn’t stand Mum bawling him out all the time.”

“Dad was just as bad,” said Jazz, trying to be fair.

“Dad didn’t yell and shout!”

“He did sometimes.”

“Not as much as Mum!”

“No, but then he used to go all quiet and that used to drive her mad.”

“Are you saying it was Dad’s fault?”

“It was both of them! Both of them!” Jazz jumped to her feet and began snatching dishes off the table and clattering them into the sink. “And now we’ve upset Mum and it’s not fair, ’cos she’s doing her best!”

“I only wanted a kitten.” Daisy said it pleadingly. “Just one dear little sweet kitten!”

“You’re being greedy,” said Rose. “You’ve already got Muffy and Tink. And anyway, kittens cost money. Yes, they do!” she said, as Daisy opened her mouth to protest. “You still have to feed them and take them to the vet. We can’t
afford
another cat. We haven’t
got
any money. We’re
poor.
”

“Not like we used to be,” said Laurel; but the money Mum was earning from
Little Women
wasn’t enough to keep them, and the money from
Icing
was dwindling fast. A few small cheques had dribbled in – repeat fees
from telly work that Dad had done, royalties from a commercial he’d been in, and
Icing
had sold to Australia and New Zealand, but still it was hardly a fortune. Just enough to pay the bills while they all kept their fingers crossed and waited for the telephone to ring. It sometimes seemed to Jazz that Mum and Dad spent their lives waiting for the telephone – for that call from their agent to say they’d landed a big part, that Steven Spielberg wanted them for his next movie, that the National Theatre had asked for them. It hadn’t happened yet, but one day …

“Maybe they
ought
to have gone and got proper jobs,” said Rose.

“No!” Jazz howled it at her. Acting was what Mum and Dad had trained for; acting was what they did best. It was impossible to imagine them working in a shop or an office.

“In that case we’ll just have to stop moaning,” said Rose, as if she hadn’t been one of the worst offenders. She gathered up her papers. “I suppose I don’t
really
mind getting writer’s cramp and wearing my fingers down to stumps.”

Next day when they arrived home Mum was waiting for them with a broad smile on her face.

“Guess what? The telephone rang!”

“Dad?” squeaked Daisy.

“No, not your dad! It was Gus.” Gus Manning was Mum’s agent. “They want me for a telly part. I’ve got to go for an interview tomorrow. The only thing is—” She gave a little laugh, rather nervous. “It’s to play the part of a thirty year old.”

“Mum, no problem!”

They hastened to reassure her. After all, thirty, forty, thought Jazz; where’s the difference?

“You can get away with it!”

“You’d pass for thirty any day!”

“You really think so?” said Mum.

“Absolutely!”

“You still look really young,” said Jazz.

“Well, one can but try. I shall wear my wig,” said Mum.

“You’ve got a new one?” gasped Laurel.

“My
honey brown
one,” said Mum.

“Oh.”

Laurel shut up after that. Jazz could guess what she was thinking: if Mum doesn’t get the part, it will be all my fault for ruining her wig …

It would, too!

But the next day when they came in, the beam on Mum’s face stretched from ear to ear.

“I got it! They didn’t bat an eyelid. I thought they’d all pull faces and think, who’s this old bag? But they
offered it to me on the spot!” Mum giggled, happily. Jazz couldn’t decide which pleased her more, being taken for a thirty year old or being offered a part.

“What is it? Who are you playing?”

“She’s a high-powered executive. Her name’s Amanda Lovejoy. It’s two weeks’ work, starting from next Thursday. If I decide to take it.”

“If?”

“We need the money!” said Rose.

“Yes, I know we do. But it would mean I’d be out all day filming and then all evening at the theatre. I’d hardly ever see you!”

Daisy’s lips quivered. Quickly, before she could go and ruin it all, Jazz cried, “We’ll be all right! We can manage. You can’t not do it, Mum! It’s your career!”

“But I’m not sure whether you can be trusted by yourselves,” said Mum. She looked rather hard at Laurel as she said it. Laurel had had the hugest of hangovers after the party. She had felt so ill it had frightened her. She had confessed to Mum that she had drunk “just a tiny little sip” of champagne, though later she had admitted to Jazz that she’d had four glasses.

“It tasted so lovely! It was all bubbly.”

She had added, however, that she didn’t think she would be drinking it again.

“If I go ahead,” said Mum, “can I have your solemn sacred word that you will all behave yourselves?”

They promised that they would.

“And you’ll look after Daisy for me?”

“Of course we will!” said Jazz. They would never let any harm come to Daisy.

“All right, then,” said Mum. “I’ll do it!”

Would the part of Amanda Lovejoy bring in enough money for just two days a week at drama school? Jazz couldn’t help wondering, but thought perhaps it wasn’t quite the right time to ask. Best to wait until Mum had been paid!

“My God, what are you wearing?” screeched Jazz.

It was Saturday evening, and Laurel had appeared at the top of the stairs, a vision in scarlet.

“That’s Mum’s dress!” She was wearing Mum’s dress. Just to go out with mouldy old Simon!

“I know,” said Laurel. “I’ve borrowed it.”

She stepped down in a stately manner and gave a little twirl. Rose and Daisy came running out to see.

“What have you done to it?” gasped Rose.

“Nothing very much. Only tacked up the hem. It’ll easily untack again. And I’ve used safety pins for taking it in. They don’t show, do they?”

Bemused, Jazz shook her head.

“I told you I wouldn’t be seen dead in anything I’ve got.”

“You’re wearing Mum’s earrings, as well!” said Daisy.

“Yes.” Laurel put up a hand and flicked at them. “They’re nice, aren’t they? All sparkly.”

“But how have you fixed them?” said Jazz. “Your ears aren’t pierced!”

“I’ve fixed them with wire. You can’t see ’cos I’ve curled my hair over.”

Jazz swallowed. Laurel hadn’t just curled her hair over, she’d puffed it up like a big froth of candy floss. She had also plastered her face with make-up. All this for smarmy Simon!

“You’d better be home on time,” said Rose. “You know the rules!”

Laurel smiled, a sweet sickly smile. “Simon will bring me home. He’s got his dad’s car. Oh, and there he is!” she cried, as a car horn tooted. “See you later!”

Really, thought Jazz, Laurel had become horridly slurpy just lately. If this was what having a boyfriend did to you, then she was glad she didn’t have one. She didn’t count Theo, even though he had rung her up several times and taken her out once – to the Theatre Museum in Covent Garden, with free tickets. But Theo wasn’t a boyfriend: he was just a friend. And that was
the way Jazz meant to keep it. She didn’t have room in her life for slurpiness.

They stood watching at the window as Laurel went wobbling down the path to the front gate. Jazz saw that she was wearing high heels.
Mum’s
high heels. No wonder she was wobbling! They were the gold strappy sandals Mum kept for special occasions. The heels were like long spikes, about three inches tall. If she’s not careful, she’ll break her ankle, thought Jazz. Laurel really had become quite impossible!

As they watched, smarmy Simon stepped out of the car and came round, with a flourish, to open the passenger door.
Creep!
thought Jazz. He was, she supposed, quite handsome in a nerdy sort of way. If you went for that sort of thing. All long and bendy with a beaky nose that made him look like a startled parrot, and black hair scragged back into a soppy little scrawny pony tail, and—

At that moment, Simon turned and smiled and waved a languid hand, and in spite of herself, Jazz had to gulp and swallow. It was a good thing she wasn’t as easily impressed as her sister! Laurel probably saw the slimeball as being tall and slim and aristocratic-looking. Like an eagle, or a Roman emperor. She probably thought it romantic to have black hair tied in a ponytail. It probably gave her the flutters when he spoke in that slow, drawling voice of his. There was no accounting for taste.

As Laurel stepped into the car, Simon bent and dropped a light kiss on her forehead.

“Ugh! Yuck!” said Daisy. “He kissed her!”

It was too disgusting, thought Jazz. Laurel had only been out with him a couple of times.

“What does she
see
in him?” wailed Daisy.

“She thinks he’s tall, dark and handsome,” said Jazz.

“And posh,” said Rose.

“And posh,” agreed Jazz.

“She finds him
attractive.
Ugh! Yuck! Throw up!” said Rose.

Jazz sighed. “She thinks he’s sophisticated.”

“Just because he’s older than she is!”

“How old?” said Daisy.

“Well, he’s at uni,” said Jazz, “so he must be at least eighteen.”

“Daisy’s eyes widened. “That’s
old.
”

“That’s why she likes him.”

There was a silence.

“I suppose she knows what she’s doing,” said Rose.

“I s’pose so,” said Jazz. But in any case, Laurel was the eldest. She wouldn’t take any notice what the rest of them said.

The car drove away. Jazz and Rose went upstairs to their bedrooms, Jazz to practise audition speeches (just in case she was lucky enough ever to have an audition),
Rose to write an essay for school. Daisy settled herself in front of the television to watch her favourite video,
Lady and the Tramp.
She had seen it at least a dozen times, and it always made her cry, but as she said, “It ends happily, so it’s all right.”

At nine o’clock, Jazz came back downstairs in search of something to eat. Practising audition speeches made a person hungry.

“Want anything?” she said to Daisy.

Daisy shook her head. “I can’t find Tink,” she said.

“He’s probably in the garden.”

“He isn’t! I’ve looked. And anyway, it’s raining. He hates the rain!”

“In that case he’ll be hiding somewhere. Cats aren’t stupid,” said Jazz. She helped herself to a glass of milk and an apple and wandered through to the sitting room.