Free Pride, Prejudice and Jasmine Field by Melissa Nathan Page A

Big Bum.’
    ‘Well, I’d rather have a big bum than a white tracksuit any day.’
    ‘You’d look crap in a white tracksuit.’
    ‘Of course I would. Everyone would. Everyone does.’
    ‘You’re just chicken.’
    ‘Chicken of what? Looking like Littlewoods Man?’
    ‘No, of coming to the gym.’
    ‘I am not. I could beat you at step-a-crap anyday.’
    ‘Bet you couldn’t.’
    ‘Bet I could.’
    ‘Done!’ yelled Mo, delighted.
    Shit. How the hell did that happen?
    ‘Are there any steps that go down?’ Jazz asked feebly. ‘Into a cafe?’
    The next day she got a phone call in the office. It was Josie, her younger sister, she of the perfect marriage. Could Jazz babysit on Thursday evening please, because she and Michael needed to go out somewhere. Of course, Jazz would be delighted. The rest of the day was spent writing about her sister, she of the perfect marriage, who still went out with her husband, on their own, midweek, six years after they’d met, three years after their wedding and two years after their firstborn had entered the world. It takes dedication, hard work, tolerance and a sense of humour, but marriages can still remain romantic, long after the glorious honeymoon is over, typed Jazz, and Jazz Judges … was over for another week. The Harry Noble character assassination could wait till next week, she had bigger fish to fry.
    That evening Jazz arrived home to a depressing flat. Things just weren’t the same since Mo had gone fit on her. She had joined the rest of the mad world and had stopped looking outward on life and was instead looking only at herself. As Jazz stared at the empty lounge, she mused that as far as Mo was now concerned, anything further than her nose was now out of focus and everything nearer than her nose i.e. the rest of her body, was blown up a size too big. She’d lost all sense of proportion.
    Since Mo’s changed life, Jazz had started looking more critically at her own body. Perhaps she could be less curvy. But then, she would be less her. No. She was damned if she was ever going to be at war with her body. She loved her body. It kept her alive. She used her strong legs and nimble feet to walk into the kitchen. She used her dextrous hands to put the kettle on. She used her graceful arms to open a cupboard and her agile fingers to niftily open a chocolate bar. She used her sensuous mouth to taste her favourite food. She used her joyous taste buds to experience pleasure and her contented mind to think of something that made her laugh while she was eating.
    How could she hate her body? It was magnificent. It was a miracle. It was her.

Chapter 8
    The room was dark and warm. The only sound was of everyone’s breathing and Harry Noble’s deep, mellow voice, which seemed to float through the heavy air. Jazz was aware that he “could bring out different depths of his voice for different words. It was a language in itself.
    ‘You’re feeling sleepier and sleepier and sleepier,’ he lulled. ‘Your limbs are like lead and your head is floating on a cloud. You’re in a garden. Somewhere in the distance you can hear a dog barking. You are sitting in your favourite part of the garden, enjoying the feel of the sun on your face.’
    Despite herself, Jazz was relaxing - on a floral hammock wearing a matching summer dress.
    ‘Now I’m going to go round asking you nice, simple questions that you must answer without a pause.
    Any pause and it will be ruined.’
    Lying on the floor, Jazz started drifting off. Her Doc Martens made her feet so blissfully heavy, Harry’s voice seemed to be inside her head.
    ‘What’s your first memory, Jasmin?’
    Why did he always start with her?
    She spoke quietly so as not to wake herself too much out of her trance. ‘I’m not sure whether this is from my memory or from a snapshot I once saw,’ she told him, keeping her breaths deep and slow. ‘I’m in the garden shed in my pram and I’m crying because I want to come in.’
    ‘You must