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most importantly for a columnist, Jazz was very emotional and easily riled. Her weekly tirades were a unique blend of heartwarming tales about her perfect family and home life, mixed with apoplectic opinions about society's foibles. Her columns were highly popular with the readers. She felt fairly sure she had a future, with or without Hoorah! It was just a case of waiting to be snapped up by a broadsheet and never having to do a proper day's work again.
    'Is Harry Noble always going to be that terrifying?' asked Mo.
    'No more than your average pretentious, egocentric actor,' grinned Jazz at George. Jazz had interviewed so many celebs over the years that she wasn't remotely in awe of them any more. Apart from the odd one or two who showed a genuine interest in the stranger to whom they were pouring out their one-dimensional hearts, she had found that most of them were self-obsessed and pathetic. But she'd never interviewed anyone nearly as famous as Harry Noble; he was way out of her league. He was A-list, while she had only ever done strictly B- and C-list actors. And of course, he was a member of the famous Noble dynasty – a whole family of celebrated Shakespearean actors and part of England's heritage. Harry though, had been the first Noble to break into Hollywood.
    Jazz had been impressed by every performance he'd done; even the cameo role he'd performed in a tacky American sitcom had had class. And he had shone at the Oscars. She thought he was a truly wonderful actor. And she'd been delighted to discover that in real life, he was every bit as abominable as she'd expected.
    * * * * *
    The next morning, Jazz sat at her computer in Hoorah! 's features department, her eyes unfocused and her mind freewheeling. She'd finished 'I married my poodle!' in only two hours and was trying desperately to think of a way into this week's column.
    Miranda, the junior researcher, was tapping away furiously at her wretched keyboard and Mark was pretending to be John Humphrys over the phone to a woman who had eloped with her husband's son by his first marriage. He had now asked her the same question four times. She imagined the woman was probably close to tears at the other end.
    Maddie Allbrook, their boss, was reading her horoscope.
    'Ooooh,' she said excitedly. 'I'm going on a long journey. Maybe that's my summer holiday?'
    'Crikey, how do they do that?' said Jazz, shaking her head. 'Genius.'
    Maddie pouted happily. It was impossible to upset her; God knows, Jazz had tried over the years. Maddie had creamy white skin and long, wavy black hair. She was petite and always wore little mini-skirts. She loved her job, her colleagues, her life. If she had been a house, she'd have been a little country cottage, complete with beams, log fires and creeping clematis up the front wall.
    Mark slammed the phone down.
    'Hopeless. Fucking hopeless,' he shouted dramatically. Maddie and Jazz looked at him as he wiped his hand over his eyes and over his head. 'Woman had a brain the size of a split pea,' he went on. 'I've gotta get out of this place.' And with that he strode out of the room, off for a fag no doubt.
    Mark had long since stopped intriguing Jazz. By now, she had him pretty well sussed. With his saucer-shaped, dazzlingly blue eyes, angular cheekbones and high forehead, he had obviously been a beautiful baby and child. Which explained why he compensated by being a total dickhead to work with. He used every macho trick in the book to hide the fact that he was actually a rather sweet bloke. He had worn his thick curly, golden hair – the sort of hair any self-respecting woman would have grown as long as possible and nurtured with loving care – cropped close to his head for as long as she'd known him. If he knew that it actually made him look more vulnerable, he would no doubt have grown it. And he moved his body – which, she guessed, had only shot up and broadened in his late teens, long after the insecurity had set in – with a studied