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Kennedys, and a track record that was neat and uncomplicated. She knew it had to stay that way. You couldn’t be respected as one of society’s critics if you stepped off the straight and narrow yourself. Society loved to hate a hypocrite. Especially a famous one.
    She sighed a deep sigh. She just couldn’t start her column. The longer it took to get going, the worse the column was. Why couldn’t she focus her mind?
    There was a squeal from the corner of the open-plan office, followed by some raucous laughter.
    ‘Listen to this, it’s priceless …’
    It was Sandra, the agony aunt, reading another of her letters out to the eager office. Usually Jazz would tune in, but with a monumental effort she stared at her screen. Focus, focus, focus. She spread her fingers out on the keyboard as if about to plunge into a piano concerto … and stared hard at the blank screen. She started her favourite daydream puzzler, wondering which Baldwin brother she’d most like to get stuck in a lift with.
    Her machine bleeped. Excellent, an e-mail.
    She scanned her messages. The one at the top said Stop Press. She double-clicked it.
    AARRGGH!! I’ve worked out how to use the e-mail. I’m so excited, I can’t write
    any more. Write back NOW. My address is Maureen-Harris @ loughborough.co.uk.
    But if you ever call me Maureen to my face you’re a dead woman.
    Mo.
    Excellent! It had only taken one year. Mo must be using the one staff computer. Maybe one of her four-year-olds had showed her how it worked. She started tapping.
    Gold star!! Ten out of ten!! Etc!!
    Jazz.
    PS. What’s for dinner?
    Then she tried to concentrate. Another bleep on her computer. Bloody hell. She double-clicked.
    AARRGGH!! I’ve worked out how to use the e-mail. I’m so excited, I can’t write
    any more. Write back NOW. My address is Maureen-Harris @ loughborough.co.uk.
    But if you ever call me Maureen you’re a dead woman.
    Mo.
    Oh dear. She’d write back and then she’d start her work.
    Mo hon, you just sent me the same message twice. You’ve managed to do what some
    people can never do. Be boring on e-mail.
    Love, Jazz.
    Another bleep. Mo again.
    I know I sent it twice. I didn’t think you were listening the first time.
    PS. It’s your turn to cook tonight. I cooked last month.
    Jazz smiled. Thank God for modern technology.
    Maddie had finished reading the papers. She was now standing up, sorting through her filing tray.
    ‘Mark, your 100 Things You Didn’t Know About Wicked Willy piece is outstanding.’
    Jazz saw Mark grin widely, his eyes warm with pleasure. ‘Cheers, babe.’ He winked at her.
    ‘No, Mark,’ said Maddie. ‘It’s outstanding. It’s late.’
    ‘Oh. Yeah. Well, you see, there’s a bloody good reason for that.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Bloody good …’
    Maddie and Jazz watched him try and get out of this one.
    Jazz’s phone rang. ‘Bloody hell, I can’t get a thing done,’ she muttered before picking it up.
    ‘I’m going to do it,’ said a voice that sounded as if it was in a mangle.
    ‘Do what?’
    ‘Chuck Simon, like you told me,’ said George almost inaudibly.
    ‘Jesus,’ whispered Jazz in awe. ‘When? Where?’ For the first time she realised that a single George was
    as unknown territory to Jazz as it was to George herself.
    ‘Do you think that blond bloke at the audition really liked me?’ asked George.
    ‘I’m sorry, I fail to see the significance,’ said Jazz in her favourite pompous tone.
    ‘Never mind,’ answered George. ‘Will you come round tonight? We can talk tactics.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Jazz sincerely. She just stopped herself from saying, ‘It will be my pleasure.’
    ‘Thanks,’ whispered George.
    ‘We’ll be nasty about Simon together,’ promised Jazz. ‘It’ll be fun.’
    ‘There isn’t anything nasty to say about him,’ said George pathetically, remembering his broad shoulders and forgetting his broad rump.
    ‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll find something,’ said Jazz. ‘I seem to