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not more than - the stage.’ George ignored Mo’s gasp of terror. ‘And the way to get such a star-studded audience was to ask Harry Noble to direct. Every actor wants to see his work. It’s a massive coup. Apparently they managed to get him because his great-aunt died of the disease.’
    ‘And his Great British Public want to see him doing something good,’ added Jazz. She told them how she had heard the producer, Matt Jenkins, telling Harry that this would enhance his reputation in Hollywood and the tabloids.
    ‘Are you going to put that in your piece?’ asked Mo eagerly.
    Jazz shook her head. Much as she detested Harry’s hypocrisy, that wasn’t her style. She was a journalist and columnist for the popular women’s weekly Hoorah! The women’s magazine with a difference. She didn’t waste her time writing celebrity gossip, although that didn’t stop her being fascinated by it.
    Jazz had the perfect personality for a columnist. Where George was ready to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, Jazz was happy to give them the benefit of her wisdom. She was highly judgmental of everything and everyone. She could spot bluff at a hundred paces. She couldn’t help it, it was like a sixth sense. But 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 Humphreys 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