Книга - Scandalous

Scandalous
Tilly Bagshawe


For the ultimate in glamour, it has to be Tilly Bagshawe. Perfect escapism for fans of Penny Vincenzi and Jilly Cooper.Sasha Miller comes to Cambridge with a dream and leaves on a mission. After falling for the lies and charms of her Director of Studies ‘Theo Dexter’ she finds herself betrayed, humiliated and nursing a bundle of broken dreams. Heading to the US she is determined to rebuild her life.Years later, Sasha emerges from Harvard Business School with one thing on her mind, the downfall of the now famous Professor Theo Dexter.Meanwhile Theo’s long suffering wife Theresa also finds herself betrayed and cast aside for a younger and prettier model. Unable to cope she returns to Cambridge a broken woman and tries to rebuild her life away from the scheming Theo Dexter.One night Sasha turns up at Theresa’s door, she wants revenge at any cost, will Theresa help her?From the deepest betrayal comes a shocking alliance.Two vengeful women, one very unlucky man…









Scandalous







Tilly Bagshawe
















Copyright (#ulink_5a40230e-63af-5684-87cb-4559310b6f9e)


This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

A Paperback Original 2010

FIRST EDITION

Copyright © Tilly Bagshawe 2010

Tilly Bagshawe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EBook Edition © APRIL 2010 ISBN: 9780007341870

Version date: 2018-07-18

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.






Dedication (#ulink_22e7525a-d889-5f2c-a2d4-836bcdbdab47)


For James Bagshawe, the best brother in the world




Contents


Title Page (#u7855b91d-440b-56c8-9e00-00fdf1be0f7d)

Copyright (#u6bcc9c17-4553-528f-b901-5baf9bcf0c3f)

Dedication

Prologue (#u932c67fe-3825-59f8-a6b6-80425f43c0e4)

PART ONE (#u4a795012-2d94-506c-bdf4-c63cb4f8c9b9)

CHAPTER ONE (#u01dfa8ba-7ce7-57bb-814b-35952d32c3eb)

CHAPTER TWO (#u00c80c55-7687-5aff-a88c-c0eefc643f1d)

CHAPTER THREE (#u41099375-1778-5f14-92e4-e23039f56695)

CHAPTER FOUR (#udbf2566b-9bf7-5285-83f7-5b90b767ac2d)

CHAPTER FIVE (#u7331e98d-8a6b-5563-a575-805487a62000)

CHAPTER SIX (#u6b0c1dd0-34e0-5392-8233-6364ac6d2a14)

PART TWO (#ub6a64a97-b403-557f-bbae-7d81c75bb9a7)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#uf15d66b9-c990-5d15-b311-02e6bbdb1a46)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

PART THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

PART FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Tilly Bagshawe (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue (#ulink_f8c4af05-14d0-57a8-91e1-62452225ff62)


In a private screening room in Beverly Hills, a beautiful woman stared intently at the man on the screen. Flicking a switch, she allowed her luxurious red velvet chair to recline. Languidly extending a hand dripping in Neil Lane diamonds, she reached for the remote, freeze-framing the shot on the man’s face. She smiled.

He was handsome, undoubtedly. Blond, blue-eyed, chisel-jawed, like every other television presenter in Los Angeles. But this woman had her pick of handsome men. Handsome, rich, powerful, she had had them all and grown bored of them all. Last month, for the third year in a row, People magazine had voted her ‘Sexiest Woman Alive’. It was the sort of label that meant little to her, but everything to the producers and directors who lined up to be the next piece of man candy on her perfectly sculpted arm. Her looks had made her famous, and they had made her rich. Men were stupid.

But not this man. This man was different. He was an intellectual. Some even called him a genius. She wondered what he would be like in bed? How it would feel to sleep with a man who, on one level at least, was her superior? She found the concept thrilling, albeit rather difficult to imagine.

Hitting play, she watched the man walk towards the camera, talking about deep space and the cosmos and things she did not understand in his divine English accent. Slipping a hand beneath her cream silk La Perla negligée, she began to touch herself, imagining him making love to her.

Theo! Oh Theo. Don’t stop.

As always when she pleasured herself, she came to orgasm almost instantly. Yet another thing she did better than the men in her life. Opening her eyes, she sighed. How inconvenient that she’d only just got married again.

She would have to do something about that…

Three thousand miles away and some years later, in New York, another wealthy, beautiful woman watched the same man on the cinema-sized plasma television in the master bedroom of her palatial Upper East Side apartment. Just as she had watched him every night for the last five years.

Unlike his admirer in LA, this woman did understand what Professor Theodore Dexter was saying. Listening to him pontificate in the fake, fireside-chat voice she knew so well, she thought, I hate you. Why are you still alive? Why aren’t you suffering, the way you made me suffer, you treacherous son of a bitch?

One day, she vowed, Theo Dexter would get what was coming to him.

When that day came, she would show him no mercy.



PART ONE (#ulink_3cb367ad-0a4e-5a06-84dc-b83557f304cd)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_c10f15d0-aec0-528f-b20e-a894a17ac376)


‘Are you sure you want to do this Sasha? It’s not too late to change your mind.’

Sasha Miller looked at Will Temple’s naked body – the six-pack stomach, broad rugby-player’s shoulders, sturdy legs, and of course it – and marvelled again that such an Adonis had chosen her to be his girlfriend.

‘I’m completely sure. I just…I hope you won’t be disappointed, that’s all.’

Will Temple was nineteen and very experienced. At least, that’s what he’d told Sasha. Oh God, yeah. I lost my virginity when I was twelve. It was with the au pair. Bodil. Gorgeous Swedish bird, couldn’t keep her hands off me. She’s a top model now. Sasha was wildly impressed. Not that that was why she had fallen for Will. All the girls loved him because he was captain of the rugby team at school, handsome, rich and insanely popular. But Sasha Miller was drawn to another side of Will Temple. He was funny, and spontaneous. When he wasn’t with ‘the lads’, his posse of sycophantic hangers-on from Tonbridge, the local public school, he could be loving and sweet.

Sasha and Will had been an item for three months now. If Sasha didn’t do the deed soon, she knew there’d be a queue of girls from St Agnes’s waiting to take her place. She’d only been putting it off because of the rumours.

Rumours about it.

For weeks Sasha had been hearing that it was so huge, an appendage of such superhuman girth and elephantine length that sex was bound to be agony. So it was with immense relief that Sasha had watched Will drop his Simpsons boxer shorts to reveal a modest five and a half inches of manhood. Eager, certainly. Ready for action, unquestionably. But hardly the Eiffel Tower.

‘You could never disappoint me, darling,’ Will assured her. ‘Just follow my lead. I’ll take care of you.’

Kicking aside a pile of dirty sports kit, Will led Sasha to the bed and started taking off her clothes. Sasha closed her eyes. Downstairs she could hear the thump, thump, thump of music from the party and wondered if all Will’s friends knew what he was up to. Did boys talk to each other about things like that? She tried not to think about it, or about the faint but pervasive smell of mildew rising from Will’s sheets.

‘What’s wrong with this thing?’ Will fumbled with the clasp of her bra. ‘Why won’t it…open?’

‘Sorry. It’s quite old.’ Hearing the exasperation in his voice Sasha wriggled out of the offending garment herself. Two perfectly round, full, eighteen-year-old breasts tumbled into Will’s hands like ripe fruit from the tree of heaven.

‘Bloody hell, you’re gorgeous,’ he gasped.

He was right. With her flawless, milky skin, gleaming mane of black hair and sparkling, intelligent eyes, the same pale green as mint ice cream, Sasha Miller was a knockout. But she was also…different. All Will Temple’s previous girlfriends had been the cool, popular girls at school. Standard-issue blondes with tight jeans and the latest Top Shop heels. With her Marks & Spencer’s cardigans and sensible lace-up shoes, and her nose permanently stuck in a science book, Sasha Miller was a card-carrying nerd. But that was what Will loved about her. He’d had his fill of dating prom queens. Sasha knew even less about fashion than Will did, and either didn’t know that she was beautiful or set no store by her looks. She also had no interest in the local Sussex party scene, a scene of which Will Temple was the undisputed king.

But even kings could get bored.

Sasha gazed up at him, naked and adoring.

‘Thank you. You’re gorgeous too Will. I…’

The pain was sharp but it was over in a second. Sasha didn’t even remember Will taking her knickers off, but he must have because before her head hit the pillow he was inside her, pounding away like a jackhammer. Tentatively Sasha ran a hand over his bare back. She was debating whether or not it would be bad form to reach lower and stroke his bum – perhaps she ought to have spent more time reading the Just Seventeen problem pages when she was younger like the rest of her friends? – when Will let out a strange, yelping noise and pulled out of her.

‘Would you like a condom?’ Sasha offered helpfully. ‘I’ve got one.’

‘A bit late for that, I’m afraid.’ Will grinned. ‘Sorry, darling. You’re so sexy I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

‘Erm, no. Not really.’

Wow. So that was sex. It was quite a lot shorter than I expected. But that’s probably only because Will’s so good at it, it doesn’t take him as long as other people.

‘Shall we go back down and join the party?’ Will was already pulling on his jeans. ‘Of course I’d much rather be here, making love to you.’ He kissed Sasha on the forehead. ‘But I feel a bit rude. You know, being the host and everything. Jago’s probably nicking the silverware as I speak.’

Will’s parents were on holiday in Spain. With a faith in their eldest son that owed more to love than judgement, they had left Will in charge of Chittenden, their beautiful sixteenth-century farmhouse in the Sussex Weald. Tonight’s party was his third in as many days.

‘Oh, gosh, totally. Of course. You should go down.’ Sasha scoured the floor for her underwear. ‘I have to get home anyway.’

‘You’re not staying over?’ Will looked genuinely crestfallen. Sasha sighed. He’s so lovely.

‘I can’t. It’s my dad’s birthday, remember? I promised him I’d be home for supper. Mum and I always watch him unwrap his presents.’

‘Hmmm. Well, I suppose that’s fair enough. After all, I’ve already unwrapped my present.’ Will pulled Sasha to her feet and kissed her on the lips. She felt ready to burst with happiness.

Will Temple loves me.

Will Temple has made love to me.

I am a woman at last!

Chittenden was in the village of Tidebrook, about a ten-minute drive from Sasha’s parents’ cottage in Frant. It was just past seven o’clock, and the last rays of summer sun were still sinking into the woody, Sussex horizon. I love it here, thought Sasha, driving through the familiar countryside. I’ll miss it when I go away to Exeter.

In a few weeks Sasha would have her A-level results. Not that there was ever much doubt what her grades would be. Sasha Miller had been a straight-A student since she started school at four years old. By that age she could already read fluently, and knew considerably more about the solar system than her primary school teacher, Miss Rush.

‘I hesitate to use the word “obsession”,’ Miss Rush told Sasha’s father at her first parent–teacher meeting. ‘But Sasha is inordinately interested in space. I’m wondering if you could try to introduce some other interests? Just to create a balance.’

‘Such as what?’ Don Miller, Sasha’s father, was a keen amateur astronomer himself. He shared his daughter’s delight in the unknown world of stars and planets, and wasn’t sure he liked the cut of Miss Rush’s jib.

‘A lot of the little girls are keen on princesses.’

‘Princesses?’

‘Yes. Princesses. Mermaids. Even the dreaded Barbie!’ Miss Rush let out a tinkling little laugh. Don Miller shot her a withering stare.

‘It might help her make friends, Mr Miller. Sasha…how shall I put this? She doesn’t quite fit in.’

Sasha never did learn how to fit in. Princesses, mermaids and Barbies passed her by in much the same way that in later years drugs, nightclubs and celebrity culture remained a deliberately closed book. Thankfully, as she grew older, her teachers became more encouraging of Sasha’s ‘obsession’ with astronomy, and her emerging genius at physics.

‘Your daughter is a uniquely gifted scientist, Mr and Mrs Miller.’ Mrs Banks, the headmistress of St Agnes’s, stated the obvious. ‘We have high hopes for her at university.’ Don and Susan Miller had strained every financial sinew to afford their daughter’s private school fees. They had high hopes too.

‘What about Oxbridge?’

‘Well.’ Mrs Banks shifted uncomfortably in her high-backed wooden chair. ‘That’s certainly a possibility. Of course, Oxford and Cambridge both require interviews.’

Nobody doubted Sasha’s intellectual ability. It was her social skills that had always been the problem. Speaking in public was her worst nightmare. But even speaking in private could be a challenge, if the subject didn’t interest her. These days, Cambridge colleges were looking for more than straight-A grades. They wanted ‘rounded’ students. Pretty, confident girls who could hold their own at interview. Sasha was fine once you got her onto particle physics or the latest debates raging in game theory. But she had no facility for small talk. As for the dreaded UCAS form, with its two pages devoted to ‘Hobbies and Other Interests’, Sasha could only stare at it in bafflement. Why would somebody need to have another interest, when their specialist subject was the entire universe?

Sasha applied to the five universities with the best reputations in her subject. None of them required interviews. All five offered her a place. She decided that, if Cambridge rejected her, she would go to Exeter, and she did her best to look forward to the prospect. But deep down she knew that the Cambridge physics faculty was the best in the world. She desperately longed to get in.

The staff at St Agnes’s suggested she go to an interview coach to address her weaknesses as a candidate. ‘Even something as simple as wearing the right clothes can be crucially important.’ But Don Miller was having none of it.

‘Ridiculous. It’s a travesty. Sash wants to be a scientist, not a television presenter. It’s blatant sexism.’

He was right. It was blatant sexism.

Unfortunately, the school was right too. Sasha’s interview at St Michael’s College, Cambridge, was an unmitigated disaster.

On the drive back to Sussex, Sasha glumly ran through a postmortem for her dad.

‘They asked me about politics. What I thought about the latest G7 summit and whether I had strong views on globalization.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve no idea, Dad.’

‘Well, what did you say, love?’

‘I said “no”.’

Fair enough. Bloody silly question anyway.

‘What else did they ask?’

‘The Tutor for Admissions asked me what I thought I would bring to St Michael’s.’

Don Miller brightened. ‘And what did you say to that?’

‘Books.’

‘Ah.’

Oh well. Exeter’s a fine university. I’m sure she’ll be happy there.

The Millers’ cottage was a tiny, higgledy-piggledy tile-hung gem overlooking Frant village green. All Sasha’s classmates from St Agnes’s lived in far grander houses – houses like Will’s – but Sasha would not have traded her childhood home for Buckingham Palace. She loved everything about it: the hanging flower baskets dripping jasmine on either side of the front door; the minuscule leaded windows that let in almost no light, but that gave the house the look of Hansel and Gretel’s cottage; the long, sloping back garden, a tangled mish-mash of weeds and wild flowers, with the shed at the bottom housing Sasha’s precious telescope, her most treasured possession.

By the time Sasha parked her dilapidated red Golf beside the green, it was twilight. The church’s ancient Saxon steeple jutted proudly over the village roof tops, a benevolent giant bathed in the blue light of evening. As Sasha got out of the car, a single note of the church bell marked the half hour. Summer smells of warm earth, freshly mown grass and honeysuckle hung heavy in the air. Sasha breathed them in, dizzy with happiness. Will loves me.

Before tonight, she’d been nervous about leaving him in October. Will had gone straight from school into his father’s estate agency business – I never fancied uni, Sash. I’m not the type. The idea of leaving him in Sussex, prey to all the St Agnes’s girls in the year below, filled Sasha with horror. Especially as Exeter was so terribly far away. But now that they were sleeping together – Goodbye, virginity! I won’t miss you – she felt blissfully secure in the relationship. She would read books on the subject and become a fabulous, inventive lover. Will, consumed with desire, would hurtle down the A303 every weekend, desperate to be with her. Afterwards they would lie awake at night, staring at the stars, talking about…Hmmm, the fantasy got a little vague at that point. But anyway, it would all be wonderful and perfect and…

‘Sasha! Where have you been? We’ve been trying your mobile all day. Dad was about to call the hospitals.’

Sue Miller, Sasha’s mother, was a plumper, shorter version of her daughter. Her once black hair was now heavily laced with grey, but her pale skin was still smooth. More worldly and sensible than Sasha (not that that was hard; the family poodle, Bijoux, had more common sense than Sasha), Sue had no idea how she and Don had produced such an intellectual powerhouse of a child. Don reckoned it was his genes. But then Don was out of his mind.

‘Sorry. I must have switched it off. Or something…’ Sasha rummaged absentmindedly in her handbag. Where was that phone? ‘Is it birthday-supper time? I’m starving.’

‘Not yet.’ Don Miller appeared in the hallway. He was holding a large envelope. ‘This arrived for you in the afternoon post, Sasha. I think you should open it now. Get it out of the way.’

Despite herself, Sasha’s heart lurched when she saw the Cambridge postmark.

‘St Michael’s.’

She already knew she hadn’t got in. But the weight of the envelope confirmed it. Everyone knew that if you were accepted, they sent you a fat package full of bumf about grants and accommodation and reading lists. This, quite clearly, was a single sheet of paper.

Sasha wandered through into the kitchen. Don started to follow her, but Sue held him back.

‘Leave it, love. Give her a minute. She doesn’t need an audience.’

In the kitchen, Sasha stood with her back to the Aga, turning the envelope over in her hands. Sensing her anxiety, Bijoux heaved his fat form out of the dog basket and sat loyally at her feet.

‘Thanks, boy.’ Why did the stupid rejection have to arrive today? She wanted to remember this as the day Will Temple made her a woman. Not the day that St Michael’s Stupid College rejected her because she didn’t know about globalization and her cardigan was buttoned up wrong.

Wrapping her anger around her like a cloak, Sasha tore open the letter.

On the other side of Frant village green, the Carmichael family was enjoying a summer barbecue with friends when they heard the scream.

‘What was that?’ Katie Carmichael put down her beer and moved towards the garden gate.

‘Nothing.’ Her dad, Bob, turned over the last batch of Wall’s pork sausages. ‘Just some kids playing silly buggers. Any chance of another jug of Pimm’s out here, Kelly? It’s thirsty work, you know, slaving over hot coals.’

But Bob Carmichael’s wife wasn’t listening. She was standing at an upstairs window, staring open mouthed at the spectacle unfolding before her.

‘Oh my God!’ Katie Carmichael had reached the gate. ‘It’s Mr Miller. He’s got no clothes on.’

‘You what? Don Miller?’

Bob Carmichael dropped his tongs. Half the village was outside now, pouring onto the green. Some of them were taking photographs. Most of them were laughing, or screaming, or both. Everyone knew Don Miller. He’d run the local post office for the last fifteen years, not to mention heading the Frant Neighbourhood Watch Committee.

Now it was Don that the neighbourhood had come to watch. Stark naked, whooping for joy, he tore round the cricket pitch screaming. ‘She did it! She bloody did it!’

‘He’s flipped his lid.’

‘I don’t believe it. Don Miller!’

‘That’s put me right off me sausages, that has.’

‘Where’s Sue?’

A few moments later Sue Miller’s solid, dumpy figure could be seen waddling towards the growing crowd of spectators, most of whom were now cheering loudly. The last time Don had felt compelled to take all his clothes off had been the night of his twenty-second birthday when England had beaten the All Blacks at Twickenham. It was a sight Sue would never forget, and one she’d hoped she’d never have to see again. Don, however, was clearly having the time of his life, playing to the crowd with a series of pirouettes and other improvised ballet moves. His plié left nothing to the imagination.

‘I’m sorry about this, everyone.’ Sue Miller smiled sheepishly. ‘I’m afraid Don’s gone rather off the deep end.’

‘No kidding!’ Bob Carmichael wiped away tears of laughter. ‘It’s his birthday, isn’t it? Is he drunk?’

‘Not yet, but he will be. We just heard.’ Sue’s smile turned into a grin. ‘Sasha got into Cambridge.’

Three hours later, Don Miller was in bed, snoring loudly. The combination of the excitement, Sue’s homemade chocolate fudge birthday cake and at least a bottle and a half of the best red wine the Abergavenny Arms had to offer had finished him off, poor man.

‘I knew you’d do it. I jush knew it!’ he told Sasha repeatedly as he staggered upstairs, leaning on her for support like an exhausted boxer. ‘You’re going to be the greatesht scientist this country’s ever prd’ced. My daughter. You’re gonna change the world. I knew it.’

‘D’you think he’ll be all right, Mum?’ Sasha closed the bedroom door.

‘Don’t worry about your father,’ said Sue. ‘It’s the rest of the village that’s going to need counselling. Post-traumatic shock, I think they call it. I’m used to seeing your father’s wedding tackle swinging in the wind, but poor Mrs Anderson. She looked like she was about to have an aneurism. I mean, she is ninety-two, the dear old stick.’

Sasha got ready for bed in a daze. She’d had a few drinks herself, but that wasn’t the reason. In the last few hours, her life had changed forever. She’d called Will to tell him the good news as soon as she got back from the pub.

‘Great, babe,’ he yelled over pounding music. Evidently the party at Chittenden was still in full swing. ‘Cambridge is miles nearer than Exeter. That means I can still play rugby on Saturday afternoons once the season starts, then drive up and take you out for dinner. Wicked.’

If it wasn’t quite the reaction she’d hoped for, Sasha tried not to be disappointed. I can’t expect him to understand. He’s not academic. He has other qualities. And at least he’s making plans to come up and see me. That has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?

Pulling on a pair of scratchy cotton pyjamas she’d had since she was fourteen, Sasha turned out the light and crawled under the covers of her single bed. Above her, a solar system of glow-in-the-dark stickers shone a comforting green. It was a child’s bedroom and Sasha loved it. But I’m not a child. Not any more. I’m a Cambridge undergraduate! I’m Will Temple’s lover! She hugged her excitement to her like a priceless treasure. I don’t want to fall asleep. I don’t want today to be over.

Outside, the church bells struck midnight.

The day was over.

Sasha Miller slept.




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_ce451f24-34ec-51fe-aeed-29bb1e2f6163)


Professor Theodore Dexter was having a wonderful day. The sun was in the sky. Cambridge, ever beautiful, had looked particularly lovely this morning as he cycled along the Backs into college, its spires and turrets bathed in early autumn sunlight. His rooms, the most beautiful in St Michael’s, had been newly cleaned and filled with vases of fresh flowers. (Professor Dexter’s bedder was more than a little in love with him. But then, who wasn’t?) And waiting in his bed was Clara, a German postgraduate student with the sort of oversized jugs rarely seen outside of specialist porn mags and a mouth that God had clearly created for the purpose to which she was now so gloriously putting it.

‘That’s right, sweetheart. Nice and slow.’

The blow job was so good it was almost painful. Clara was an average physicist, but thanks to her extraordinary oral abilities her PhD thesis on galactic anisotropy was rapidly edging its way to the top of the class. Trying to prolong his pleasure, Professor Dexter moved higher up the bed so that he could see out of the window. His rooms in First Court looked out over St John’s Street and the splendid redbrick portcullis of Trinity College. Trinity was larger and more prestigious than St Michael’s, but St Michael’s was consistently voted the most beautiful college in Cambridge, with its wisteria-clad medieval courts, romantic formal gardens and exquisite, walnut-panelled Tudor Hall. It also had far and away the best reputation in astro- and particle physics. Which was why so many of the faculty were astonished when Theo Dexter was offered the fellowship there.

To the world at large, Theo Dexter was a brilliant scientist. He’d published two books with titles that no ordinary mortal could understand (His debut, the catchy Prospective Signatures of High Redshift Quasar HII Regions, sold a very creditable five hundred copies), he had a first from Oxford and a PhD from MIT and he was still only thirty-five. To the physics faculty at Cambridge, however, he was an amateur. A mere popinjay. Not only were his ideas rehashed versions of other people’s research, but the man dyed his hair, for God’s sake. He wore Oswald Boateng bespoke suits – in Cambridge! – and was even rumoured to undergo regular facials, whatever those were. Female students flocked to his lectures to catch a glimpse of that rarest of all known mammals – a sexy scientist – when just down the hall, infinitely more brilliant and innovative minds were being ignored. A combination of envy and intellectual snobbery had made the golden boy of Cambridge physics deeply unpopular amongst his peers. Being offered the St Michael’s fellowship was the final nail in Theo’s coffin.

Not that he cared. At least, that’s what he told himself. I’ve got the cushiest job in Cambridge, rooms that any other junior fellow would kill for, and a revolving door of willing, educated pussy at my beck and call. Not to mention a lovely wife and a pretty houseoff the Madingley Road. What more could a man ask for? And yet despite his smugness, lack of scruples and almost limitless physical vanity, deep down Theo Dexter did want to be taken seriously by his fellow scientists. One day, he vowed. One day I’ll show them all.

Feeling himself building to a climax, he reached down and grabbed Clara’s hair, forcing himself deeper into that heavenly mouth. Instinctively she pulled back, but as he started to come Theo held her head firmly in place. If you want top marks for your crappy dissertation, angel, you’re going to have to swallow. Afterwards he watched her get dressed, physically lifting each of her enormous breasts into her bra. Beautiful. He’d been worried he might not be ‘up to it’ for today’s pre-term tryst with his student. Theresa, his wife, had pounced on him earlier that morning, waving a positive ovulation stick as if she was trying to bring a plane in to land. It was sad, really. The doctor had told them that their chances of conception were low to nil, but Theresa couldn’t let it go. For his part, Theo had never understood the big deal about kids. Sleepless nights, dirty nappies, the mind-numbing boredom of the playground. Who in their right mind would sign up for that? Then again, he was by no means sure Theresa was in her right mind. She always seemed to be away with the fairies these days, so lost in her Shakespeare that she barely registered his presence – or lack of it. But Theo Dexter was not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. Tomorrow was the first day of Michaelmas term. That meant a new year, and a new crop of nubile, naïve young freshers, all of them in search of a mentor. If there was one thing Professor Theodore Dexter prided himself on, it was his ability to mentor. Just look how far dear Clara had come.

Fifteen minutes later, Theo was on his way to Formal Hall for lunch. Two shags in six hours had left him ravenously hungry, and the smells of garlic and onion wafting up the stairs from the college kitchens were like a siren call to his stomach. Only about half the St Michael’s fellows ate in Hall on a regular basis, but Theo Dexter went every day. Partly out of meanness (meals in college were free), but partly because he had yet to find anywhere he preferred to dine than in the dark, Tudor splendour of St Michael’s. Everything about it, from the rituals of the Latin grace and standing to welcome the Master to high table, to the strict rules about the passing of wine and water, gave Theo a deep and abiding thrill. To eat in college was to become part of history. It was to claim one’s place amongst the chosen ones, the privileged few whose intellect set them above the rest of humanity. Theo Dexter grew up in a nondescript semi in Crawley, but he had made it to the table of the Gods, and he relished every second.

‘Morning, Dexter. Off to enjoy the condemned man’s final meal? Depressing, isn’t it?’

Professor Jonathan Cavendish, Head of History at St Michael’s, was in his late fifties. A handsome man in his youth, one of the university’s most successful rowing blues, he had long since run to fat. Renowned as a bon vivant, Jonathan wore his paunch with pride, and didn’t seem remotely concerned by his thinning hair, or his fattening arteries. Everybody at St Michael’s loved him. Everybody except Theo Dexter. Jonathan Cavendish made Theo’s skin crawl. Why the hell doesn’t he go to the gym? Can’t he see he looks like Friar Tuck?

‘I don’t know what you mean, Johnny.’

‘The bloody undergraduates coming back, of course. Don’t tell me you’re not dreading it. Tomorrow morning they’ll be crawling all over college like vermin.’ Professor Cavendish shuddered. ‘I suppose one shouldn’t complain. They are our bread and butters after all. But really, it’s so difficult for college life to run smoothly with so many drunken children underfoot. And to do one’s work.’

Theo was silent as the two men crossed the cobbled bridge that led into Second Court. He was aware that most of the fellows at St Michael’s shared Johnny Cavendish’s view of undergraduates as an inconvenience, a necessary cross to be borne. But Theo Dexter didn’t see it that way. Just the thought of all those earnest eighteen-year-olds in cheap miniskirts, away from home for the first time, was enough to put a spring in his step and a song in his heart.

Dressed in their long, black academic robes, the professors filed into Hall like penguins on the march. Theo looked around at the familiar faces as grace was said and they sat down to eat. Most of them were elderly and wrinkled, a curmudgeonly group of old farts. Almost all of them were male. Watching them slurp their soup and scatter breadcrumbs through their thinning beards, Theo was conscious of being a class apart. Not only was he half their age, but he was clearly the only senior member of college who took care of himself. With his streaked blond hair, naturally athletic physique and bland, almost soap-star handsome features, Theo took great pride in his looks. His wife Theresa had annoyed him last week by giggling when he came home from a four-day academic symposium in Los Angeles with a mouthful of bright white porcelain veneers.

‘What? What’s so funny?’

‘Sorry, darling. They’re jolly nice teeth. It’s just that they make you look so…American. Were they awfully expensive?’

‘Of course not,’ lied Theo. They’d actually cost him the better part of fifteen grand, but he wasn’t about to tell Theresa that. In America where Theo had spent most of his postgraduate years, no one criticized you for spending money on your appearance. If anything, good personal grooming was considered a sign of self-respect. This was one of the many things Theo preferred about the States. Here you were made to feel like a vain, shallow idiot. ‘Besides, I’m a fellow now. It’s part of my job to look professional.’

Unlike his wife, Theo’s young mistress Clara had been wildly impressed with his Hollywood smile when she saw it this morning. Young people appreciate me, thought Theo. The sooner the undergraduates breathe some life into this place, the better.

‘My goodness, Professor Dexter. You’re ready for your close-up.’

Margaret Haines was smiling. One of only two female fellows in the entire college, Margaret made Theo uncomfortable. A Latin scholar, she was cleverer than he was and only a few years older. He could never quite tell if she was being sincere or taking the piss. In this instance he rather suspected the latter.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a perfectly pressed gown in my life. It looks good with your tan though. Have you and Theresa been away?’

‘I was away,’ Theo said cautiously. ‘California, for work. T had to stay here, unfortunately. She’s at a crucial stage with her book.’

‘Oh. How unfortunate.’ That smile again. ‘You must have been lonely.’

Definitely taking the piss. Stupid old dyke.

‘I soldiered on, Margaret.’

‘I’m sure you did, Theo. I’m sure you did.’

Margaret Haines had vociferously opposed Theo Dexter’s appointment last year, but she’d been shouted down. Anthony Greville, the Master, in particular had been a big supporter. ‘Dexter’s glamorous. The undergraduates worship him. And he’s a natural teacher. We need a bit of vigour at St Michael’s, Margaret my dear. A bit of pizzazz.’

‘The man is ghastly. He’s vain and arrogant. Not to mention an inveterate womanizer.’

Greville ran his rheumy old eyes lasciviously over Margaret Haines’s body. In her early forties she was still trim and attractive, albeit in a motherly sort of way.

‘I can think of worse crimes,’ he oiled, smiling to reveal a set of crooked, yellowing teeth. ‘Let he who is without sin and all that…’

The fellowship had supported him. Margaret Haines wondered how many of them were regretting it now, forced to share high table with Theo’s insufferable vanity. The man’s self-satisfaction needed a seat all to itself.

‘I saw Clara Hausmann leaving your rooms earlier.’ Margaret Haines felt a guilty rush of satisfaction watching the smile die on Dexter’s lips. ‘Back early, is she?’

Theo hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘Yes. Clara’s been struggling with her dissertation. I’ve been doing what I can to help.’

‘I must say, it’s very generous of your wife to share you so freely with your students. Not even term time and already you’re giving private tutorials.’

Bitch. If she says anything to make things difficult for me with Theresa…

‘You forget, my wife teaches herself,’ Theo said smoothly. ‘She understands the pressures of the job.’

‘But not the perks of the job, I imagine.’ The meal was over. Margaret Haines got to her feet. ‘Something tells me she would be rather less understanding of those. Enjoy the term, Theo.’

Theo Dexter watched her go, feeling something close to hatred. It was no good. St Michael’s wasn’t big enough for the both of them. He would have to figure out a way to get rid of her.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_4d05932f-5968-555c-9757-26ccb1dd695c)


Sasha Miller sat in the back seat of her parents’ old Volvo, gazing out of the window in wonder.

‘There’s Downing!’

‘Oh my God. That’s King’s!’

‘Look, Dad, that’s Trinity. J.J. Thomson was Master there.’

‘J.J. who?’

‘Thomson, Dad.’ Sasha shook her head in wonder. ‘J.J. Thomson? He discovered the electron in 1897?’

‘Oh.’ Her parents exchanged smiles. ‘That J.J. Thomson.’

Sasha had been so quiet on the M25, her parents started to worry that something was wrong. She’d mumbled a few words in the Dartford tunnel – something about Will, the lad she was seeing from Tidebrook – then reverted to mutedom all the way up the M11. It was only when they pulled off at exit 11 and made their way through the flat East Anglian landscape towards the ancient city itself that Sasha miraculously sprang back to life.

‘It’s all so beautiful.’

And it was. Sue Miller wasn’t a fan of the featureless countryside they’d driven through on the way here. No hedges, no nice old dry-stone walls, just acres of industrially cultivated rape-seed fields cutting a garish yellow swathe through the landscape. But Cambridge itself was adorable, a medieval, redbrick wonderland with charming cobbled streets and alleyways all tumbling down towards the river and the vast, green expanse of the Backs beyond. Everyone seemed to be on bicycles, not surprisingly given that the roads were so tiny. Twice Don almost scraped the paint off his wing mirror trying to squeeze the Volvo down some wafer-thin alley or other, in search of St Michael’s. As for the ludicrously complicated one-way system, at one point they wondered whether they would have to give up on the whole enterprise and go back to Sussex, so impossible was it to get within a mile of Sasha’s college. But at last they did get there. Sasha sprang out of the car like a shot.

‘Wow.’ It was like stepping into a scene from Brideshead Revisited. Young men in rugby shirts and college scarves chatted to pretty girls with piles of library books under their arms. Bikes with wicker baskets leaned against every available wall. The spire of St Michael’s College Chapel cast a long shadow over the Porters’ Lodge. Across the court, Sasha could just glimpse the tops of the punts as they made their sedate way upriver.

I’ve died and gone to heaven. Just think, on Monday I’m going to see the Cavendish Laboratory, the greatest physics lab on the planet. Twenty-nine Cavendish researchers have won Nobel prizes. Twenty-nine! Imagine if I were the thirtieth?

While Don unloaded the suitcases from the car, Sasha closed her eyes and indulged in her version of the Oscar-night fantasy. Instead of the Pavilion Theatre, Hollywood and an Hervé Léger bandage dress, Sasha was in Oslo City Hall, dressed in…well, who cared what she was dressed in, the point was she was receiving her physics prize for her pioneering work in…something. There were her parents, teary-eyed with pride. And Mr Cummings, her lovely physics teacher from St Agnes’s. And of course Will, looking gorgeous in black tie, escorting her up to the dais…

Sasha had said a tearful goodbye to Will last night. For all their plans and promises to each other over the summer, they both knew that her going away would be a giant test for their relationship.

‘I’ve never felt like this about anyone,’ Will said truthfully, squeezing Sasha’s hand. They were walking through the woods that adjoined Chittenden. Now that his parents were back there was little privacy to be had at Will’s house, and none at all at Sasha’s shoebox of a cottage. A few weeks ago it was warm enough to make love in the woods at night, gazing up at the stars. (Sex, if she was honest, was still not all Sasha had hoped it might be. Although Will asked her each time if he was ‘taking her to heaven and back’ and Sasha always loyally replied in the affirmative, the truth was that the celestial round trip was still distinctly short haul.) But now the nights were closing in, it was much too cold for outdoor shagging. Even Will seemed to have lost his enthusiasm.

‘I’ll miss you so much, Will. But at least we’ll be busy.’ She tried to look on the bright side. ‘You’ll be working with your dad. And I’ll be in the lab all day and studying all night.’

‘Not all night, I hope.’ Will laughed. ‘You have to have some fun, Sasha.’

She looked at him curiously. ‘Studying is fun. I mean, nobody goes to Cambridge to get drunk and party. It’s all about the work.’

‘Oi, you lot!’ A loud, angry voice from the Porters’ Lodge brought Sasha back to reality. ‘Bugger off before I send you to the Dean. And stop harassing my freshers!’ A group of drunk, semi-naked young men dressed (or half-dressed) as Roman soldiers staggered giggling out of the Lodge, pursued by the irate Head Porter, a beadle-like figure in black suit and bowler hat. As they left, two of them dropped their togas, flashing a pair of unappealingly white and hairy bottoms in Sasha’s general direction.

‘So sorry, miss.’ The panting porter returned. ‘Not what you need on your first day at St Michael’s.’

‘Local yobs from the town, I suppose?’ asked Sue Miller disapprovingly.

‘Them lot? No, ma’am. They’re classics scholars. Ours, unfortunately. What are you reading, miss?’

‘Physics,’ said Sasha.

‘Lovely. We like the scientists. Nice and quiet, your lot. Apart from the medics, of course. You don’t want to go out with any of them.’

‘Oh, I won’t be going out with anybody,’ said Sasha earnestly. ‘I have a boyfriend. I’m here to study, not socialize.’

The Head Porter looked at her pityingly.

Poor little thing. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

Theresa Dexter watched in exasperation as, one by one, the papers fluttered to the ground.

‘Bugger!’ Her soft Irish accent rang through the crisp Cambridge air. ‘Bollocks. Come here, you stupid…oh, no, please don’t…shit.’ She was standing outside her front door, car keys in her mouth, mobile phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder, clutching the most enormous stack of essays escaping from an elastic band. Not only had the first stray papers made a break for freedom, but as the wind picked up, they began to dance around the front garden, taunting Theresa. Two sheets were heading dangerously close to the road. ‘I’m sorry, Ma. I’ll have to call you back. Somebody’s dissertation is about to get run over by the Madingley bus.’

Dressed inappropriately for the chilly weather in a floaty summer skirt and one of Theo’s old shirts, with her tangled mane of pre-Raphaelite curls held precariously in place by a pencil, Theresa dropped everything on the doorstep and began running after the errant essay papers, like an over excited puppy chasing a butterfly.

‘You all right, T? Can I help?’

Jenny Aubrieau, Theresa’s next-door neighbour and closest friend in Cambridge, stuck her head over the gate. Jenny was an English scholar, like Theresa, and was married to Jean Paul, a research fellow at Jesus. Jean Paul was always urging Jenny to tell Theresa the truth about her philandering husband – Theo Dexter’s extra-curricular love life was the worst-kept secret in the university – but Jenny couldn’t bring herself to do it. For one thing they hung out as couples, which made the whole situation doubly awkward. But more importantly, Theresa was so madly, blindly in love with Theo, the truth would destroy her. Besides, maybe Theo would come to his senses and get over his mid-life crisis soon. Jenny Aubrieau hoped so.

‘No, I’m all right,’ said a flustered Theresa. ‘Actually, yes. Grab that one. That one, that one, that one! Oh God.’ A single, handwritten sheet flew over the garden gate and dived directly beneath the wheels of an oncoming car. Seconds later more muddy tyres pounded it into oblivion.

‘Not the next Shakespeare, I hope?’ Jenny helped Theresa retie the remaining papers and carry them out to her car.

‘I very much doubt it,’ sighed Theresa. ‘Still, it’s not very professional, is it? Sorry, what’s-your-name, I threw your essay under a car. We’ll call it a 2:1, shall we, and better luck next time? God, I hate teaching.’

‘No you don’t.’ Jenny chucked the files on the back seat of Theresa’s Beetle and stood back to wave her off.

‘I bloody do. All I want is to be left alone to write.’

‘Drink after work? I have to put Amélie and Ben down at seven, but I’m free after that if you are.’ Jenny still felt awkward talking about her children in front of Theresa. She knew how desperately her friend wanted kids. Each pregnancy felt like a betrayal. But there came a point when not talking about them felt even more awkward. Particularly as these days Jenny’s every waking hour seemed to revolve around the little sods.

‘I can’t. Not tonight. Theo’s taking me out for dinner at the University Arms hotel. It’s a start-of-term celebration.’

Jenny Aubrieau watched her friend drive happily away and thought, I wonder what the bastard’s feeling guilty about this time?

Nobody was more surprised when Theo Dexter asked Theresa O’Connor to marry him than Theresa O’Connor herself. Born into a dirt-poor Irish farming family in County Antrim, Theresa had always been a dreamer. A hopeless romantic who couldn’t help but see the good in everyone, she appeared to have nothing in common with the worldly, ambitious, self-confident young Englishman whom she first met at a friend’s wedding in Dublin five years ago. Nor could she believe that anyone as handsome and brilliant as Theodore Dexter, by then already in his last year at MIT and sporting a mid-Atlantic accent as fake as his gold Rolex, would be interested in her. Theresa had always considered her life to be an endless series of lucky accidents – the acceptance into grammar school and later to Cambridge; her starred first in English literature; and now her soon-to-be marriage to the most eligible man in academia. She never believed herself worthy of the wonderful things that kept happening to her. Still less could she accept that she herself was responsible for them.

But Theo Dexter did love Theresa. He loved her wild, Celtic beauty, her white skin and fiery red hair. She was artistic and sensitive, two qualities that he utterly lacked, but was capable of admiring in others, particularly women. She was passionate, terrific in bed and, most important of all, she worshipped the ground he walked on. Other physicists might be reluctant to take Theo Dexter seriously, but Theresa O’Connor was never in any doubt as to his genius. Sleeping with her, just being around her, was like plugging himself in to an inexhaustible ego-recharger. Those who thought that Theo Dexter’s ego couldn’t possibly need recharging did not really know the man. His arrogance and his insecurity had always gone hand in hand.

They were married in Cambridge, in the ancient Holy Trinity Church on Bridge Street. Theo would have liked a more lavish affair, but they couldn’t afford it. Theresa would have been happy in a register office in Slough, so great was her joy at becoming Mrs Dexter. She wore a plain white dress from Next for the service, teamed with flat ballet slippers (Theo hated her in heels; they made him look short). Despite her simple attire, or perhaps because of it, the bride couldn’t have looked more radiant. At the reception, a simple affair at the Regent hotel, Theo’s best man, Robert, made a joke about how much the happy couple had in common.

‘Theresa loves Theo. And Theo loves Theo. They’re a perfect match!’ Theo laughed thinly, but the rest of the guests roared. ‘The only two people in Cambridge who think Theo’s cleverer than Theresa are Theo and Theresa.’ More laughter. ‘Here’s hoping the kids have Mum’s looks and Mum’s brains.’

Theo thought: Note to self: Drop Robert Hammond as a friend.

Theresa thought: I wonder how long it’ll be before I get pregnant?

‘Polycystic ovaries.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Poly – cystic – ovaries.’ Dr Thomas, Theresa’s Harley Street consultant, sounded irritated. A gruff, bullying man in his sixties with overgrown caterpillar eyebrows and a pink bow tie, Dr Thomas was a brilliant gynaecologist. But he had the bedside manner of a Stalinist general. ‘Your ovaries produce fewer eggs. In addition, in your particular case, the quality of those eggs you do produce is extremely poor.’

‘I see.’ Theresa bit her lower lip hard, trying not to cry. My life is perfect. What right do I have to blub over one tiny setback?

‘So what do we do from here? IVF? Donor eggs? What’s the next step?’ Theo spoke brusquely, trying to sound in control. Deep down he was overwhelmed with relief that the problem wasn’t on his side. Not that he wanted kids, far from it. But no man liked the idea that they were shooting blanks.

‘I would give IVF a very low chance of success in your wife’s case.’

Theresa swallowed. ‘But there is some chance?’

‘Less than five per cent. You’d be wasting your time,’ said Dr Thomas brutally. Despite herself, Theresa felt her eyes well up with tears.

Theo asked, ‘We can still try naturally, though, can’t we?’

‘You can try.’ Dr Thomas shrugged. ‘Otherwise I would steer you towards considering adoption.’

Theresa’s eyes lit up, but Theo shook his head firmly.

‘No. Not for us, thank you, Doctor. I’ve no interest in raising another man’s mistake.’

On the long drive back to Cambridge, Theresa stared out of the car window in silent misery. As always in times of trouble, her mind turned to Shakespeare:

‘The miserable have no other medicine but only hope.’

I will not give up hope. I will keep trying.

She’d been disappointed by Theo’s hostility to the idea of adoption. But then why shouldn’t he want a child of his own? After all, she did. It was her fault they couldn’t conceive, not poor Theo’s. Suddenly she was seized with panic. What if he left her? What if he left her because she couldn’t have children?

‘Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed.’

I can’t let the fear defeat me. I have to believe. We will have children. Somehow. We will.

By the time Theresa got to the new English faculty building on West Road she was fifteen minutes late. Running across the car park, she felt sweat trickling down the back of her neck and an unpleasant wetness spreading under her arms and breasts. Panting from the exertion, she pushed open the door of the lecture room.

‘Sorry, everyone. Terrible traffic. I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of a disaster with…’ She looked up. Three faces looked back at her.

‘Where are the others? Is this it?’

Mai Lin, a sweet Asian-American girl from Girton, said kindly, ‘Maybe they got stuck in traffic too?’ But all four people in the room knew this was a lie.

Theresa knew the dropout rate for her seminars was high. Students complained that they were too chaotic, that they strayed too far from the parameters of Part II Shakespeare and the topics that they needed to cover for finals.

‘But there’s more to life than exams!’ Theresa pleaded with the head of the faculty. ‘Where’s their soul? Where’s their passion? How can they possibly expect to cover something as breathtaking as Macbeth in two one-hour sessions?’

‘Because if they don’t, my dear, they won’t cover the rest of the tragedies and they’ll fail their degrees. You must stick to the syllabus, Theresa.’

‘But I thought teaching was about inspiring people?’

‘Oh, my dear.’ The Head of English doubled over with laughter. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

Still, Theresa thought glumly, looking around the empty room, I can’t inspire them if they’re not here. If only I had a vocation for teaching, like Theo. His lectures are always packed to bursting.

Depressed, she opened her notes.

‘Right, well, for those of you who have made the effort. Let’s get started, shall we?’

Sasha’s first week at St Michael’s went by so fast, and there was so much to take in, it was like being in a particle accelerator. She was tiny. Cambridge was huge. And everything was moving at light speed.

Her room was a bit disappointing. A small, featureless box in the only ugly part of the college, a concrete seventies accommodation block that had apparently won loads of architectural awards despite looking like the multi-storey car park in Tunbridge Wells, it was hardly the ivory tower of Sasha’s fantasies.

‘I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.’ Georgia, a drop-dead-gorgeous blonde architecture student from across the hall, told Sasha cheerfully, helping herself to the last of the homemade biscuits Sasha’s mum had left. ‘You’re not going to be spending much time in your room.’

‘I suppose that’s true,’ said Sasha, thinking of the physics library and the Cavendish labs.

‘Course it’s true. The JCR bar doesn’t close till midnight, and there’s always a party somewhere afterwards.’ Georgia bounced up and down on Sasha’s bed with excitement. ‘Have you joined any societies yet?’

‘Societies?’

‘Yes, you know. Like the Union or Footlights.’

‘God, no.’ Sasha shuddered. The Cambridge Union was a debating society and the Footlights a comedic dramatic club. The very thought of speaking in public under any circumstances brought Sasha out in a rash. How anyone could sign up for such a thing by choice was incomprehensible.

‘Well, what sort of things are you interested in?’ asked Georgia. ‘These biscuits are delicious, by the way.’

‘Thanks.’ Sasha smiled. ‘I’m interested in physics. Radiophysics, cryophysics, physics of phase transitions and magnetism.’

Georgia’s eyes widened. Sasha went on.

‘You know, all of it really, quantum optics, semiconductors and dielectrics…’

‘So not a big cookery fan, then?’

‘Cookery?’

‘That was a joke.’ Georgia looked at her new friend with a combination of admiration and pity. Clearly she was going to have to introduce Sasha to the concept of fun. ‘Look, I get it. You’re Einstein.’

‘Oh, no.’ Sasha was mortified. ‘I didn’t mean to imply…I’m nothing special. Certainly not by Cambridge standards.’

‘Bollocks to Cambridge standards,’ said Georgia robustly. ‘You’re obviously an evil genius or you wouldn’t be here. You’ve probably got a laser in your room. Do you have a laser, Scott?’ She put on her best Dr Evil voice but it went right over Sasha’s head. ‘Never mind. The point is, we’re at St Michael’s now.’ Grabbing Sasha’s hand she dragged her over to the window. Outside, the college’s picture-postcard courts and bridges lay spread out below them like a wonderland. ‘Our mission is to have the time of our fucking lives,’ said Georgia. ‘Are you with me?’

Somehow Sasha knew instinctively that this was a rhetorical question. Georgia Adams was a force of nature. Sasha was with her whether she liked it or not.

From that day on the two girls were inseparable. The outgoing, flirtatious blonde and the quiet, mysterious brunette were the talk of freshers week. Party invitations flooded into Georgia and Sasha’s pigeonholes – all the third year Casanovas had bets on who would be the first to get one of them into bed – but even Georgia found that she had less time for partying than she’d hoped, what with all the paperwork and reading lists, supervisions, seminars, and, of course, exploring Cambridge itself.

‘It’s an architect’s paradise,’ sighed Georgia, wandering from college to college, where exquisite Gothic buildings huddled cheek by jowl with some truly stunning modern architecture. Treasure troves that they were, there was more to Cambridge than the colleges. There was Kettle’s Yard Gallery, centuries-old pubs like the Pickerel with its low beams and roaring log fire. There were the grand museums on Downing Street, and Parker’s Piece, and the teashop at Grantchester that let you moor punts in the garden. There were quaint cobbled alleys, magnificent churches, twee pink-painted cottages and outrageous neoclassical mansions. And it was theirs. It was all theirs.

For Sasha, the highlight of her first week was the tour of the Cavendish laboratory. Possibly the ugliest building in England, and certainly the ugliest in Cambridge, to Sasha Miller it was the most mesmerizing thing she had ever seen. This was where the magic happened! This was the Emerald City of Oz. The third-year physicist from Magdalene who showed her around didn’t appear to share Sasha’s enthusiasm. A skinny, greasy-haired boy with a Birmingham accent and acne so severe that he was more spot than face, he led Sasha from room to room with a look of pained ennui. Doesn’t he realize that we’re standing on the frontier of experimental physics? That we’re walking in the shadows of the great Cavendish professors, of Maxwell and Thompson, Bragg and Mott? Sasha couldn’t wait to call Will tonight and tell him all about it.

They emerged into the daylight – to Sasha’s regret and her guide’s relief, the tour was over – and Sasha noticed an extraordinarily good-looking blond man surrounded by an admiring throng of female undergraduates.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Professor Dexter.’ The boy’s Brummie accent made him sound even more bored. ‘Fancy him, do yow?’

Sasha blushed. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. I wondered what the fuss was about, that’s all. The man’s being mobbed.’

‘Well. You’ll find out for yerself soon enough, won’t yow?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re at St Michael’s?’

Sasha nodded.

‘So’s he. Physics fellow. He’ll be your Director of Studies.’

Sasha looked at the man again – what she could make out of him through the herd of miniskirts and low-rise jeans. He looks very young to be a fellow. I hope he knows what he’s talking about. How awful it would be to have made it to Cambridge only to be taught physics by someone second-rate. Still, one shouldn’t judge by appearances. Lots of people thought Will was a standard-issue, shallow, rugby-obsessed, public school boy when they first met him.

Which only went to show how wrong first impressions could be.

Professor Theo Dexter sat in his rooms at St Michael’s hunched over his computer in a foul mood. Last week’s optimism about the new term already felt like a distant memory. So far, this year’s intake of undergraduates had been dismal. Barely a single good-looking girl amongst them. As for the physicists, it made you wonder what the hell the government’s two hundred million pounds of extra education spending was being spent on. Certainly not hiring decent science teachers. To think that these kids were the best that the English school system had to offer. Morons the lot of them. God, it was depressing.

He turned back to his book. Cursed bloody thing. As an academic, you were expected to publish your own work at least every few years. Most scholars, including Theresa, considered this ‘the fun part’ and saw teaching as a distraction to their studies. For Theo it was the other way around. He found the obligation to continually reinvent the wheel and come up with new theories an immense drain on his time and energy. The truth was, he wasn’t much of an original thinker. He was bright, naturally. Unlike most of his colleagues he was also a good communicator, with a gift for expressing the most complex ideas in theoretical physics in simple, human terms. But Theo Dexter had yet to stumble across that one, seminal thought that would forever be identified with his name. Deep down he was wildly envious of his wife’s ability to come up with new angles on Shakespearean criticism over her Special K every morning. Not that he’d ever have told her that. Inspiration seemed to explode out of Theresa involuntarily, like a sneeze. Theo Dexter knew that his fellow physicists considered him a ‘plodder’. If only he had half his wife’s instinctive, unstructured brilliance, they might start taking him seriously. As it was…

A knock on the door disturbed him. Who the hell could that be? I don’t have any supervisions this morning.

‘Yes?’ He sounded less than welcoming. Tentatively the door creaked open.

‘Professor Dexter?’

‘Yes? For God’s sake, come in whoever you are. Don’t skulk in the corridor like a thief.’

A young girl shuffled nervously into the room. Theo’s first thought was, She’s escaped from the circus. Dressed in baggy, striped trousers teamed with a multi-coloured, polka-dotted shirt, dark hair flying all over the place, mascara smudged, she looked like a lunatic. His second thought was, She’s pretty. It was hard to make out much of her figure beneath the billowing clothes, but the face was angelic. Porcelain-white skin, wide-set green eyes, hair as black and gleaming as liquid tar.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m Sasha Miller. I’ve got a supervision with you this morning. Eleven o’clock?’

So she’s a physicist! One of mine. Thank you, God. At last.

‘Ah. Miss Miller. Well, your supervision was actually scheduled for yesterday morning. But do come in.’

‘Oh God. Was it?’ Sasha blushed scarlet. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I’m afraid I can be a bit disorganized sometimes. I’m working on it.’

Theo offered her a chair. In a fluster, Sasha somehow managed to miss the seat, lowering her bottom into mid air and only just righting herself before she hit the floor.

‘Sorry.’ She clung to the chair’s arms like life rafts.

Theo smiled. She’s adorable. So gauche. I wonder if she’s even eighteen yet?

‘Don’t worry,’ he said kindly. ‘A lot of people get muddled in their first week. How are you finding Cambridge?’

‘Oh my goodness, it’s perfect,’ Sasha gushed. ‘Just magical, thank you. St Michael’s is like a dream come true.’ She thought, He seems very kind. I shouldn’t have judged him so harshly the other day.

‘It’s certainly a very special place,’ said Theo. I wonder if her nipples go darker when she blushes? ‘Especially for we physicists. These are exciting times, Sasha. World-changing times. And Cambridge is right at the heart of it.’

Sasha felt a rush of excitement and pride so strong she had to grip the chair even tighter. She loved the way he said ‘we’. Professor Theodore Dexter, a Cambridge physics professor, her tutor, was addressing her, Sasha Miller from Frant, as an equal. She felt like a co-conspirator in some wonderful, top-secret plot. Looking at him close up for the first time, she had to admit that Professor Dexter really was terribly good looking. Better looking than he’d seemed across the car park at the Cavendish labs. He reminded her of an American actor…she was so bad with names, she’d never remember which one…one of the doctors from ER perhaps? He was certainly very young. She’d been right about that the other day. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Isaac Newton discovered the generalized binomial theorem at twenty-two. Mozart wrote his first concerto at six. You can’t put an age limit on genius.

‘Listen, Sasha, I’m afraid I’m a bit busy just at the moment. I wasn’t expecting you, you see.’

‘Oh. Of course.’ Embarrassed, Sasha got up to go. ‘I’ll get the notes from one of the others and I’ll, er…I’ll come back next week. Sorry.’

‘Please, stop apologizing,’ said Theo smoothly. ‘If you like I could meet you somewhere for a drink this evening? We can talk through the course, what’s expected of you, the lecture schedules…that sort of thing.’

It was such an unexpected suggestion that for a moment Sasha didn’t say anything. She was supposed to be calling Will this evening for a proper chat. She’d even blown off Georgia, who’d been on at her to come to some quiz night at Caius, because she wanted to focus on Will. It had only been a week, but already Sasha felt as if the distance between them was growing. All the magazines said that long-distance relationships took work.

But she couldn’t exactly turn down her professor. Not after he’d been so understanding about her coming at the wrong time and all that.

‘All right. Thanks. Where should I…?’

‘I’ll leave a note in your pigeonhole.’

Sasha left and Theo turned back to his book. All of a sudden his spirits had lifted exponentially.

Perhaps inspiration was about to strike after all?




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_b3369091-0209-5cbe-be15-b39863aa021f)


Michaelmas term seemed to race by. Sasha hadn’t ever known time to pass so quickly. Once the excitement of freshers week was over, St Michael’s got back to work. The bar was still packed every night, but by eight thirty in the morning a steady stream of green-faced undergraduates could be seen on their bicycles heading for labs or libraries. Even Georgia, whose dedication to partying was the stuff of legend, dutifully trekked off to the architecture faculty building every morning with a back-breaking stack of files under her arm.

When she didn’t have a supervision – one-on-one teaching with Professor Dexter – Sasha spent her days shuttling between the Cavendish lab and the university library. After a brief panic in the first two weeks, when she’d worried she might be out of her depth intellectually (Professor Clancy’s ‘introductory’ lecture on nanophotonics was so impenetrable, he might as well have been speaking Urdu), she soon relaxed and began to delight in her studies. Not only was the teaching phenomenal – physics lessons at St Agnes’s felt like another lifetime already – but the facilities and technology at her disposal were the stuff of Sasha’s dreams. Of course, it was the Astrophysics course that really excited her: the formation of stars and planets, observational cosmology, evolution of galaxies, active galactic nuclei. Sasha had been obsessed with space before she knew how to say the word. She felt incredibly lucky that her own Director of Studies at St Michael’s, Professor Dexter, was an astrophysicist himself. Not to mention a wonderful teacher and mentor.

Sasha’s respect and admiration for Professor Dexter had grown exponentially since their first drink together in freshers week. Not only was he clearly an amazing physicist, but he really went the extra mile to nurture and encourage his students. He was constantly offering Sasha extra help with her assignments. When she began her first solo research project, into astrophysical plasmas, he even took time out of his weekend to come round to her rooms and check her work. How many professors did that? Of course, he was probably only too glad to get out of the house for a while, poor man. Over the past few weeks Professor Dexter – Theo – had opened his heart to Sasha about his unhappy marriage. His wife’s drinking problem and affairs had clearly wreaked a terrible emotional toll. But he was loyal to a fault, putting up with her blind rages. Bipolar disorder could do terrible things to a person. Sasha felt that, on some unspoken level, she and Professor Dexter had become friends. Their twice-weekly supervisions were the highlight of her week.

By contrast, one of the hardest parts of Sasha’s week was her regular Sunday-night phone call to Will. Every week she looked forward to hearing his voice. And every week they seemed to run out of things to say to each other almost immediately. It had got to the point where Sasha had taken to writing bullet-point lists before each call, pieces of news she could tell him, questions she could ask to keep things going. Twice he’d promised to come up and visit her, and twice he’d cancelled because of rugby.

‘I do miss you, babe. But I can’t let the lads down. Maybe you could come back to Sussex for a weekend? We’re playing Saracens’ Second Fifteen on Sunday, there’s gonna be a huge party at High Rocks afterwards.’

‘I can’t, darling. Not this weekend. I’ve got so much work to do,’ said Sasha. Then she felt guilty all week because she’d lied to him, and she didn’t know why. What’s happening to us?

At last, one Saturday in late November, Will made it up to Cambridge. Sasha met him at the station, wrapped up in so many layers of sweaters and scarves he almost didn’t recognize her.

‘Christ on a bike, it’s cold up here,’ he shivered, hugging her tightly on the platform. ‘This wind. It’s like bloody Siberia.’ Dressed in his favourite Diesel jeans and Tonbridge rugby shirt under a cool leather bomber jacket, he looked even more handsome than Sasha remembered him. He smelled of Givenchy aftershave and mouthwash, and his arms felt so strong and wonderful around her. What an idiot I’ve been, thought Sasha. He’s perfect. Everything’s going to be fine.

In the taxi, he reached under Sasha’s duffel coat and put a cold hand on her thigh.

T can’t wait to unwrap you, my darling. Have you missed me?’

‘Of course I have,’ said Sasha, adding guiltily, ‘there’s been so much to do here, that’s all, work and finding my way around and stuff. I can’t wait to show you St Michael’s. Isn’t Cambridge beautiful?’

They were driving down Trumpington Street, in the heart of the old university district, but Will wasn’t interested in sightseeing.

‘Mmmm,’ he yawned. ‘You’re not on your period are you?’

Sasha blushed. ‘No!’

‘Good.’ Will’s hand crept higher. ‘I’m sorry to be blunt, but this is the longest time I’ve gone without sex since I was like, twelve. The only part of St Michael’s I’m interested in is your bedroom.’

Don’t be annoyed, Sasha told herself. He’s trying to pay you a compliment. You should be grateful he’s stayed faithful. There’ll be plenty of time to show him around tomorrow.

At Will’s request, they spent the afternoon squeezed into Sasha’s minute single bed. Sex felt awkward at first. Sasha had forgotten how perfect Will’s body was, taut and athletic and muscular, like a Michelangelo sculpture. She’d also forgotten how fit he was. As much as she fancied him, after the third round of shagging she was starting to feel not just bored but exhausted. And sore. Will’s idea of foreplay was to kiss each boob once before launching himself into her like an Exocet.

‘Are you hungry, darling?’ she asked tentatively as he came loudly for a third time before rolling off her, spent. If rugby was Will’s favourite thing in the world and sex his second favourite, Sasha had learned early that food ran a close third. ‘I thought we might wander down to the Pickerel. It’s a really lovely old pub. They do a good lasagne, and you could meet some of my friends.’

‘Sure.’ Will bounded out of bed like a Labrador. Lasagne sounded wicked. Sasha’s nerdy science-geek mates would be less wicked, but he could put up with them for an hour or two if he had to. ‘We’ll regain our strength before tonight!’ He grinned.

Good heavens, thought Sasha. At this rate I’ll be in a wheelchair by the end of the weekend.

Half an hour later Sasha walked into the pub with Will and was immediately dragged to the loo by Georgia.

‘Oh. My. God. That’s Will? That boy-band hottie with the Justin Timberlake arse?’

Sasha laughed. ‘I told you he was attractive.’

‘Attractive? He’s Brad bloody Pitt, Sash. If I had a bloke like that at home I’d have told St Michael’s to stick their offer. How could you bear to leave him?’

Half an hour later, Georgia was beginning to understand how Sasha could have borne it. Will Temple was one of the most handsome boys she’d ever seen. He was also vain, self-centred and a complete cretin.

‘I’ve never seen the point of university myself, to be honest. Obviously I’m pleased for Sasha. But I’m more interested in the real world. The UOL.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Georgia smiled politely.

‘University of Life. I’m all about experiences, you know. Travel, other cultures.’

‘I see. And have you travelled much?’

‘Oh God yeah. I’ve been to France, loads of times. And I’ve been on rugby tours all over. Australia, Samoa, New Zealand

‘Three hotbeds of culture…’ Georgia muttered under her breath, but Will wasn’t listening. Will never listened.

‘Sport’s the one true international language,’ he went on. ‘It can totally bring people together. But you know what I’m talking about. You must be a sportswoman, right? You don’t get that kind of body stuck in a library all day sitting on your arse, that’s for sure.’

Georgia winced. How can Sasha stand this guy? Re’s been shamelessly flirting with me all evening right in front of her. And he’s totally ignored the rest of our group, Lisa and Josie and all the boys. All he cares about is impressing women. Well he certainly doesn ‘t impress me.

‘Josie’s been to New Zealand,’ Georgia changed the subject.

‘Have you?’ asked Sasha.

‘Last year. For a biology field trip. It was incredible.’ The chubby, chipmunk-faced redhead began to talk about the rainforests. Will feigned interest for about twenty seconds, then yawned pointedly and turned to Sasha.

‘I’m really knackered, babe. Let’s go back to yours.’

Sasha looked at her watch. ‘But it’s only nine o’clock, Will. It’s a bit early to go to bed isn’t it?’

‘Don’t worry. We won’t be going to sleep.’ He winked at Georgia.

Prick.

‘I’ll have a quick slash and we can make a move. Nice meeting you all.’ Getting to his feet, Will made his way to the men’s loos.

‘Sorry’ said Sasha. She was clearly embarrassed. ‘He doesn’t mean to be rude. It’s just we haven’t seen each other for ages.’

No one said anything. In the end Danny, a wry engineer from Glasgow, said gently, ‘You know, Sasha, it’s none o’ my business. But I wouldnae say the two of you have an awful lot in common.’

‘We do,’ Sasha shot back automatically. ‘Honestly At home we do. I think he feels a bit out of place here, that’s all. He’ll get used to it.’

I hope not, thought Georgia. The thought of Will Temple becoming a regular feature of their weekends was enough to make her bring up her lasagne.

On the walk back to college, it started to snow. Thick, soft flakes drifted down onto the cobbles, their progress illuminated by the warm orange glow of the street lamps. In front of them, King’s College Chapel rose out of the darkness like a fairytale castle. Sasha snuggled tighter into Will’s body.

‘You can see why I love it here, can’t you?’

‘Sure.’

Not a flicker of interest. Sasha tried again.

‘I mean, there’s a magic to it. Something in the air. Do you know what I mean?’

‘The air?’ said Will absently. ‘The air’s arctic. How far are we from your college? My nuts are about to drop off. ’

For the first time all day, Will noticed that Sasha was upset. She’d pulled away and started walking faster up ahead of him.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s you. You’re the matter.’ She turned around. Snowflakes began to settle on her shoulders. ‘You were really rude to my friends back there.’

‘Oh, come on, Sash. They weren’t exactly the most exciting bunch. Apart from the blonde.’ He smiled knowingly.

‘They’re my friends, Will. Do you know how bored I am with your friends? But at least I make an effort.’

Now it was Will’s turn to get angry. ‘An effort? Don’t talk to me about making an effort. At least I came up here to see you, which is more than you’ve been bothered to do all autumn.’

‘Well, why did you come? You don’t want to see me. All you want to do is have sex!’

‘So? What’s wrong with sex? Jesus, Sasha. If you want to go out with a fucking intellectual why don’t you go and marry Stephen bloody Hawking? It’s not me that’s changed. It’s you.’

That night they lay together in stony silence. Will fell asleep after about an hour, but Sasha lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to sort through her conflicting feelings. Is he right? Have I changed? She couldn’t bear the thought that she’d abandoned him. They’d been so happy last summer, in the woods at Tidebrook. Was this how Professor Dexter felt, lying in bed next to his mean, bipolar wife? A stranger in his own life?

The next morning they patched things up, on the surface anyway. Will’s train was at two, so they spent the morning walking along the snowy Backs and had a goodbye lunch at Wagamama.

‘How are your noodles?’

‘Fine, thanks. Would you like another Coke?’

‘Oh, I’m OK. Thanks.’

The politeness was awful.

By three o’clock, Sasha was back at St Michael’s. It was properly winter now, and the sky was already beginning to fade to a bluish twilight that made the snow-covered college look like a Christmas card. But Sasha couldn’t enjoy it. She’d blown things with Will. It was over. In a few weeks she’d be home in Sussex for the holidays, and he’d be out with some other girl. Carolina Fuller probably. She’d been after him for months. Slut. Would Sasha regret it once she got home? Here, at Cambridge, her life in Sussex felt like a dream. But what if it was the other way around? What if home and Will were her reality, and her undergraduate life was just a passing phase? What if she never found love again?

‘Penny for your thoughts?’

Theo, looking ruggedly gorgeous in a blue cable-knit sweater and jeans, emerged from his rooms on First Court.

‘It can’t be that bad, surely?’

Sasha shrugged. ‘I don’t know if it’s bad or not. I think I just broke up with my boyfriend.’

With immense difficulty, Theo suppressed a grin.

‘Poor Sasha. That’s hard. Break-ups are always hard.’

Sasha smiled. He’s so nice. Maybe it’s because he’s younger than other professors? Re can still remember what it’s like to be our age. ‘How come you’re in college on a Sunday, Professor Dexter? Isn’t it your day off?’

‘Sasha, if I have to tell you again I’m going to throttle you. It’s Theo, OK? You’re not in sixth form now.’

‘OK,’ Sasha giggled. ‘Sorry’

‘And yes, it is my day off, but to be perfectly honest with you I couldn’t face the silence at home.’ His handsome brow furrowed. T don’t really want to talk about it,’ he said stoically. ‘What about you? Where are you off to?’

‘The library,’ said Sasha. ‘Thank God for research, eh? You can really lose yourself. There’s nothing like astrophysical plasmas to take one’s mind off things, don’t you find?’

Theo laughed aloud. She was so earnest.

‘I tell you what. I’ve got a better idea. How about we cheer each other up? Have you ever seen the St Michael’s wine cellars?’

‘Of course not.’ St Michael’s College was renowned for having one of the best-stocked, most valuable wine cellars not just in Cambridge but in all of Europe. For obvious reasons, undergraduates were not allowed access to them. Only a very small number of fellows had keys, and even they had to sign in to a log book and follow certain, time-honoured security procedures.

‘Would you like to?’

Sasha nodded eagerly. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but her dad was a keen amateur wine buff. If she passed up this chance he’d never forgive her.

‘Good. Follow me.’

Theo led her over the bridge into Second Court. Pulling out a cluster of keys, he unlocked the heavy oak door to St Michael’s Formal Hall and pushed it open. Sasha had eaten in Hall a few times. Like Theo she loved the formality and tradition of it, getting dressed up in her gown and all that. But she’d never seen the place empty. Being here now, alone, she felt like Beauty exploring the Beast’s enchanted castle. It was illicit and exciting.

‘This way’

She followed Theo up the steps to the high table, where the Master and all the senior fellows sat. Sasha couldn’t resist running her fingers along the polished mahogany table as they walked its length, eventually coming to some steps that led down to a red velvet curtain. Behind the curtain was another door.

‘It’s like Oz!’ Sasha laughed.

‘Isn’t it?’ Theo unlocked the second door. A smell of damp stone, musty and ancient, hit Sasha in the face like a punch. Behind the door everything was dark. Theo fumbled for the light switch and a dim, thirty-watt bulb flickered to life, revealing a winding stone staircase. ‘Either that or Scooby Doo. When I first came down here I confidently expected a mummy to leap out of one of the alcoves and start chasing me.’

Sasha thought, He’s so much fun. Guiltily she realized that she’d forgotten about Will already. His train wouldn’t even have reached London yet.

Edging their way down the staircase, leaning on the stone wall for support, they finally emerged into a vaulted, redbrick crypt. Fumbling in his pocket for a lighter, Theo pulled it out and to Sasha’s delight reached up and lit an old-fashioned oil lamp bracketed to the wall. The effect was marvellously Dickensian. Hundreds, no, thousands of dusty bottles danced in the light of the flickering flame. Theo lit another lamp, then a third. In the middle of the room was a simple refectory table with two benches and a single, high-backed chair with a cushion at the head. It was laid with about twenty wine glasses, long stemmed and each topped with bowls almost as big as Sasha’s head, and an exquisite ivory corkscrew. At the back of the room was a rather tatty sofa and a rattan ottoman with a lid. Idly, Sasha wandered over and opened it. Inside were piles of neatly stacked blankets.

‘It can get pretty cold down here,’ Theo explained. ‘You should put one on. And get one out for me.’

He was writing something in a thick, leather-bound log book by the door. Signing his name with a flourish, he smiled and turned to Sasha.

‘Can I offer you a drink, Miss Miller?’

‘Oh, no, we can’t.’ She handed him his blanket. ‘Won’t you get in trouble?’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Theo. ‘The Master’s an old friend. Red or white?’

Sasha hesitated. This felt like the sort of thing you could get sent down for. On the other hand, if Professor Dexter said it was all right…what the hell. After the weekend she’d had she deserved a drink.

‘Red.’ Georgia’s always telling me to be more impulsive and let my hair down. If only she could see me now!

‘Red it is.’

Theo selected a bottle thick with dust and pulled it out. ‘This should do to get us started.’

Sasha looked at the label and gasped. It was a Chateau Petrus Bordeaux, 1984. ‘Petrus? No, no, no, we can’t possibly. Do you realize how much this is worth?’

‘I do,’ said Theo, expertly drawing the cork with a gentle pop and pouring two glasses. He handed one to Sasha. ‘The question is, Sasha: do you realize how much you’re worth?’

He was staring at her, holding eye contact. Sasha felt her insides liquefy and her knees start to wobble. Is he coming on to me? But no, he couldn’t be. He was her professor. Her married professor. Besides, even if he wanted to be unfaithful (understandable in his situation) a man like Theo Dexter could have any woman he wanted. He wouldn’t be interested in a teenage nobody like her.

Holding out his hand, Theo stroked her cheek. Oh my God. Sasha felt as if she was about to pass out. ‘Sasha. Beautiful Sasha

‘Professor Dexter, I…’

‘Shhhh.’ Leaning forward, he put down his wine glass and stopped her with a kiss. It started as a tender brushing of the lips. But before Sasha knew it their whole bodies were entwined, pressing against one another. Theo’s tongue felt hot inside her mouth, caressing her, teasing her. The only other person Sasha had kissed was Will, and that had felt…well, nothing like this, that was for sure. It was all very disconcerting. Her limbs seemed to be acting with a mind of their own. Were those her fingers in Professor Dexter’s hair? Theo pressed his hard thigh between Sasha’s legs and she jumped like a flea on a hotplate.

‘Stop! We can’t.’ Panicked, she pulled away from him. ‘I’m…you’re…this is definitely against the rules.’

‘Whose rules?’ Theo kissed her again. God, it was heavenly.

‘Everybody’s rules!’ She squirmed free again. ‘I’m your student, Professor…Theo. You’re my teacher. And you’re married.’

Theo’s quick mind was working overtime. He had to tread very carefully here. He’d put in a lot of groundwork with Sasha all term and he didn’t want to blow it at the last hurdle. I mustn ‘t be the bad guy. I have to make her feel sorry for me.

‘I know.’ He sat down on one of the benches and put his head in his hands. Sasha tried to feel relieved, but part of her – a big part – wished he would waive aside her objections and start kissing her again. What am I getting myself into? She took a big slug of her wine, choked, then took another, draining her glass. She sat down next to Theo, who wordlessly reached for the bottle and poured her another.

‘I’m being selfish,’ he said. ‘I know that. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I shouldn’t be burdening you with my marital problems. Sometimes I just feel like…’ He paused, as if struggling to find the right words. ‘Like I’d like some happiness for myself for a change. It sounds awful, doesn’t it?’

‘No. Not at all.’ Instinctively, Sasha put her arms around him. ‘And you’re not burdening me. I’m happy to listen.’

The mothering instinct, thought Theo. Women can’t resist a bird with a broken wing.

‘You’ve been so kind to me since I got here, Pro…Theo,’ she blushed. ‘The least I can do is return the favour.’

Theo swirled the Petrus around in his glass, gazing into the deep purple liquid as if the secret to his life’s problems might lie hidden in its depths. Then he took a slow sip and said quietly, ‘You’re not attracted to me. Well, why would you be?’ He flashed Sasha a sweet, self-deprecating smile. ‘In your eyes I’m probably only a few years away from my pension.’

‘That is absolutely not true!’ Sasha touched his cheek, turning him to face her. The Petrus must have gone straight to her head or she would never have been so forward. But her inhibitions seemed to be deserting her. T think you’re extremely attractive. Everybody does,’ she added, immediately regretting blurting out the last part. She didn’t want to sound like some sort of groupie.

T can’t help it Sasha.’ Tears welled up in Theo’s eyes. ‘When I’m with you, I feel like I can glimpse my future. And for the first time in years, I see happiness.’

‘Oh, Theo.’ Sasha leaned forwards and kissed him. There was no hesitation this time. Slipping his hands under her shirt, cupping her magnificent teenage breasts, it was all Theo could do not to punch the air in triumph. Swiftly, joyously, his practised hands unclasped her bra and helped her out of her jeans, stripping off layer after layer of clothing like an erotic game of pass the parcel. Bending his head to kiss her belly, then tracing his tongue slowly down to her smooth, creamy thighs, Theo felt Sasha’s back arch and heard her gasp involuntarily, lost in pleasure and too inexperienced to hide it.

‘You’re shaking,’ he whispered. ‘Are you cold?’

‘A little,’ murmured Sasha.

Theo grinned, ‘Let’s warm you up then, shall we?’

Hastily throwing one of the blankets down on the table, he lifted her up as easily as he might a rag doll and lay her down on her back. Still dressed himself – there was no need for both of them to catch hypothermia – he unceremoniously unzipped his flies to release an erection that put poor Will’s in the shade. Grabbing Sasha’s hand he curled her fingers around it.

‘Good God.’ Her eyes widened. ‘It’s huge!’

Could this get any better?

‘It is all yours/ he whispered, thrusting himself inside her with so much force that she slid two feet up the table. Her body was exquisite, perfectly proportioned, slim yet succulent. He couldn’t keep his lips off those perfect breasts, and his hands groped greedily for her buttocks as he fucked her harder and faster, racing towards climax. But best of all were Sasha’s responses. So desirous, so uninhibited! She made him feel like Mick Jagger.

Theo had been bored of Clara for months now. The porno body that had once so excited him now seemed grotesque. It was like fucking a pregnant sow. When sex with your wife was more exciting than sex with your mistress, something was very wrong. But now dear, sweet little Sasha Miller was here. And everything was very, very right.

With one final jerk of the hips, Theo Dexter closed his eyes and came. He felt the glorious tightening of Sasha’s muscles around him, heard her moaning with her own orgasm as she bucked and writhed helplessly beneath him.

This was going to be a great year after all.

Back at home, Theresa was putting the finishing touches to her signature chocolate fudge cake. It was Theo’s favourite, and she’d spent the entire afternoon baking it, neglecting her book, in the hope of cheering him up. He’d disappeared after breakfast this morning in a foul mood, mumbling something about going into college, and hadn’t so much as texted her since.

Staring out of the kitchen window at the snowy front garden, Theresa watched a little robin hop tentatively across the lawn, eyeing the bird feeder in her apple tree.

Poor thing. I forgot to fill it. Theo was always getting cross with her for her forgetfulness. But how was one supposed to remember not to forget things, that was the question? I’ll do it as soon as I’ve iced the cake.

Biting her lip, eyes narrowed in concentration, she began tracing a perfect, italic T in icing sugar across the gooey chocolate. Like snow on a ploughed field. Jenny and Jean Paul had gone out to Grantchester to make snowmen with the kids. Sensing Theresa’s loneliness, Jenny had asked her to join them, but Theresa didn’t feel like playing gooseberry. Besides, Theo might be back any minute. Whatever was troubling him, he wouldn’t want to come home and find a dark, empty house.

She finished the cake, and then disappeared to hunt for kindling so she could light a nice, welcoming fire.

She’d completely forgotten about the robin.

In St Michael’s wine cellar, curled up naked on the sofa under a big pile of blankets, Sasha Miller lay in Professor Theo Dexter’s arms in blissful shock.

Will Temple’s Casanova reputation would never recover.

‘What are you thinking?’ Theo softly stroked her hair.

I’m thinking about what my wedding dress will look like. I’m thinking about waking up with you every morning for the rest of my life. I’m thinking about spending long, heavenly days in a laboratory with you by my side, unravelling the mysteries of the universe together. I’m thinking that maybe I do like sex after all…

‘Nothing. Only that I’m happy’

He smiled and kissed the top of her head. ‘So am I, Sasha. You do realize we’re going to have to be discreet about this? We know we’re not doing anything wrong. But the university authorities might not be so understanding. And Theresa

Sasha put a finger to his lips. T completely understand.’

I’m a mature woman now. I’m in love with an important, brilliant, troubled man. I must handle this like an adult and show Theo that he can trust me.

The truth was, she didn’t want to tell anybody anyway. Some nameless, inner voice told her that Georgia and the rest of her undergraduate friends might not have understood. Keeping it a secret somehow made it all the more precious. As for Theo’s wife, well, life was complicated. They’d have to cross that bridge when they came to it.




CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_26a4463d-bb29-5771-91c1-1974093dc9fa)


Before her first year at Cambridge was over, Sasha Miller was already being spoken of amongst the physics faculty as a rising star. Not only did she gain the top first in the university in her first-year exams – her independent research project on astrophysical plasmas was easily PhD standard – but she consistently showed an instinctive flair for experimental physics that was rare in one so young. Especially a woman. Girls at Cambridge tended to play it safe, dutifully learning and regurgitating the prevailing academic wisdom of their elders and betters. But Sasha Miller took risks. She was an original thinker, a scientist not just of the mind but of the soul. If she fulfilled just half of her early promise, she might well have great things ahead of her. As long, that is, as she didn’t blow it by doing something reckless.

There was no such thing as a secret at Cambridge. Like all universities it was a hotbed of gossip and intrigue. Within a month of their first tryst in the St Michael’s wine cellar, news of Professor Dexter’s love affair with his star pupil began to spread. Rumours in the Senior Common Room became whispers at high table. Soon every science fellow in the university knew – or thought they knew – about Dexter’s latest extramarital escapade. Among Sasha’s friends, however, the affair was still a deadly secret. As instructed by Theo, Sasha had told nobody, not even Georgia. The Chinese wall between fellows and undergraduates meant that the gossip was effectively contained. Theo got to bask in the envy of his peers, safe in the knowledge that nothing could be proved against him, while Sasha found herself becoming more and more isolated from her friends, unable to confide in them or share what was rapidly becoming the most important part of her life.

As for Theresa Dexter, cocooned by her own blind love and distracted by the twin imperatives of her Shakespeare research and her efforts to conceive, such whispers as did reach her ears were dismissed as malicious nonsense. Theresa was used to other women fancying her husband. But as for Theo having an affair, well, that was just nonsense. Theo loved her. They loved each other. Besides, why would he want an affair when their sex life was undergoing such a renaissance? Recently it was as if they were newlyweds again. He could barely keep his hands off her.

‘I can’t bear it. How can it be summer already?’

Sasha lay her head back against the picnic blanket and gazed up at the cloudless blue sky. Theo had driven her out to Houghton Mill, an idyllic village about a forty-minute drive north-west of Cambridge, for a romantic afternoon. Keen to discuss her latest research findings, Sasha had brought her laptop with her. Theo, needless to say, had other ideas. Unfolding the blanket in a secluded field, hidden from the lane by a high hedge on one side and a beech copse on the other, he’d asked her to take her top off and started taking pictures; from the front, from the side and (his favourite) from behind, a glorious shot of her naked back with Sasha looking shyly at the camera over one shoulder. That had got him so hard he’d had to take her on the spot, bringing her to climax after climax with his mouth and hands before finally allowing himself to come. A light lunch of champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches had restored both their strength, after which they made love again with noisily blissful abandon. It made a nice change from sneaking around in Theo’s rooms at college, always half listening for a knock at the door.

‘I know.’ Rolling onto his stomach, Theo picked seeds out of Sasha’s hair. ‘Every year seems to go quicker than the last. This term was over in a blink.’

‘It’s all right for you,’ moaned Sasha. ‘At least you get to stay here and carry on with your work. I’m banished from the lab for fourteen weeks.’

She made it sound like a prison sentence.

‘Oh, so it’s the Cavendish you’ll be missing? Not me?’ It was childish, but Theo felt piqued.

‘I’ll miss both of you,’ said Sasha truthfully. ‘More than you know.’

The thought of going home to Frant for the long summer filled Sasha with despair. Of course the village was still lovely. And she knew how much her father was looking forward to taking her round to the Abergavenny Arms and pumping her for information on St Michael’s and her friends and the progress she’d made on her research. Sasha still loved her dad as much as ever, but the prospect of their long-awaited chat made her sad. Intellectually she was now so far ahead of Don, it was impossible to talk to him about her studies in any meaningful way. As for her personal life, the one thing she longed to share with her parents – her relationship with Theo – was completely off limits. Sasha and her father had always been so close, this growing apart was painful. Most painful of all though was being separated from her beloved research laboratory. And, of course, from Theo.

Sasha knew he’d agreed to start IVF with his wife, against her doctor’s advice and quite clearly against his own wishes. It was incredible to her how Theo could be so strong in all the other aspects of his life, but so weak when it came to Theresa’s bullying.

But maybe I shouldn ‘t call it weakness. Compassion, that’s what it is. He knows how desperately she wants a child and he’s too softhearted to refuse her. Especially when she keeps blackmailing him with her depression, threatening to kill herself all the time. I don’t know how women like that live with themselves.

Theo had assured her that the chances of them actually conceiving a child were nil. That it was all a question of managing Theresa’s mental illness. That when she was well enough and able to take the blow, he would begin the process of leaving her. By then, they hoped, Sasha would have graduated. Theo would no longer officially be her professor. Everything would be easier.

Even so, the thought of leaving him in Cambridge for the summer, knowing that he was sharing a bed with his wife, was a bitter pill to swallow.

‘It hurts me as much as it does you,’ Theo was fond of telling her. ‘You can’t think I enjoy sleeping with Theresa?’ Sasha tried to take comfort in his words, but it wasn’t easy. Part of the problem was that she’d never actually seen Theo’s wife. There were no photos of Theresa in his rooms at St Michael’s and Mrs Dexter never stopped by the college to see her husband. In one way, of course, Sasha was thankful for that. But in another, it made it easier to fill the wife-shaped void with some supermodel-beautiful goddess of Heidi Klum-like proportions. Theo always described Theresa as ‘ordinary’ or even ‘plain’. But Sasha found this hard to believe. As he clearly couldn’t have married her for her personality she simply must be beautiful. Images of the two of them together haunted Sasha nightly to the point where they were threatening to disrupt her research. She had to get a grip.

‘Here. I wanted to show you something.’

Still naked, the sun dancing on her pale, now lightly freckled skin, Sasha leaned forward and pulled her laptop out of its case. Turning it on, her fingers raced nimbly across the keyboard, pulling up a string of impenetrable graphs and equations.

‘You’re not serious. Now?’ Theo groaned. Sometimes Sasha’s passion for physics was too much, even for him. The summer holiday would provide a welcome break from her relentless enthusiasm. Not to mention a chance to make some progress on his own work. It was a little unnerving how much more productive his nineteen-year-old girlfriend was than he.

‘Please, darling. It’ll only take a minute,’ she cajoled. T don’t want to overreact. I mean, I mustn’t get ahead of myself. But I feel as if I’ve stumbled on something really important. Remember, I told you on Tuesday?’

Theo scratched his head, then his balls. Tuesday. Tuesday…We had a supervision at noon. Can’t remember what it was about. Then I fucked her on the couch. Was that Tuesday? Reluctantly he focused his attention on the screen of Sasha’s computer.

Five minutes later, he was still staring at it.

And five minutes after that.

Was it possible? He read the equations again and again. Each time the adrenaline in his veins coursed faster and faster. Jesus Christ.

‘What do you think?’ Sasha’s voice was so tentative that at first he didn’t hear her. ‘Theo?’ She tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ve gone awfully quiet. I said, “What do you think?”’

Theo’s mind was racing. Shock, excitement, disbelief at what he was reading made it hard to find the right words. Unless he’d made some very fundamental misunderstanding – which he might have done; he was tired after all – Sasha had stumbled across a theory so simple, and yet so radically new…it could change the face of modern astrophysics. No, not could. Would. More than that, it would alter the way that human beings thought of space. Of their own planet’s place in, and relation to, the universe. Theo Dexter could have worked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for the rest of his life and he would never, ever, not in his wildest fantasies hope to come up with something so brilliant. Blindingly, obviously brilliant. Like all profound ideas, once he’d grasped it Theo couldn’t imagine why it had taken someone this long to come up with it. But there it was, in front of him on Sasha’s computer, in black and white: the theory of his dreams.

And all at once, sitting naked in that field, it came to him.

I could claim it. I could say that it was my idea. Who would know?

A theory like this would make him as a physicist. It would silence all the envious mutterings about him being a phoney academic, a pretty face with a head for numbers but not a real scientist. It would change his life. But would he get away with it?

Why not? It’d be my word against hers, a professor against an infatuated undergraduate.

‘Theo!’ Sasha’s voice brought him reluctantly back to reality. She’d pulled on a t-shirt and knickers, but still had that flushed, tousled, post-coital look that never failed to give him a hard on. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ He closed the file, making an effort to keep his tone casual. ‘There’s some interesting stuff here. Definitely.’

Sasha’s face lit up.

‘But it does need work. Particularly in the first section, some of your equations look shaky to me. Given how much you’re extrapolating from those foundations…Hey, don’t look so crestfallen.’ He kissed her. ‘This is good stuff, Sasha. You can’t expect to get it pitch perfect on a first draft.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Look, I tell you what. Make me a copy of it. If you like I’ll look at the problems in more detail over the summer.’

‘Would you really have time?’

‘Well, not really. But I’ll make time,’ he said magnanimously, pulling on his jeans and buttoning up his shirt. Sasha looked so utterly ravishable, he was half tempted to screw her again. But until he had that document safely in his possession, he knew he wouldn’t be able to think about anything else.

‘I’ll email it to you when we get back to college,’ said Sasha.

‘No, no, don’t do that,’ said Theo hastily. T hate email. Just stick it on a disc and drop it in my pigeonhole before you go.

Sasha watched him stand up and brush the grass and dust off his clothes.

He’s so perfect. Handsome, brilliant, kind, the whole package. How on earth am I going to survive the summer without him?

Two weeks later Theresa Dexter sat at her desk at home, watching Theo scribbling feverishly at his desk, and said a silent prayer of thanks.

Thank you God for making him happy again. For bringing him back to me.

Eighteen months ago Theo had been as miserable as she’d ever known him. Theresa knew that the spiteful gibes of his fellow physicists were hurtful to him. She also suspected that her husband felt the absence of a child in their lives much more keenly than he admitted to her. But she felt sure that his depression was more than that. Something was wrong, and as hard as she tried to discover what it was and to reconnect with him, she couldn’t.

Then miraculously, around Christmas of that year, Theo’s spirits had lifted. He still came home tired. But he left home full of the joys of spring, bouncing out of the house like Tigger. It made Theresa’s heart sing to watch him. By the spring, their sex life had begun to revive, and in the last six months it had positively exploded. It was like dating a teenager, the energy, the enthusiasm…Theresa’s hands had been shaking when she screwed up her courage and asked Theo if they could try IVF. Ever since the meeting with Dr Thomas, he’d been implacable on that score: it was expensive, and it wouldn’t work. But to Theresa’s delighted amazement, he agreed right away, even taking her out to their favourite curry house to celebrate the decision with chicken jalfrezi and two large Cobras. Walking home hand in hand, happily bloated on naan bread and beer, Theresa realized what had been missing in her marriage for so long: fun. She didn’t know what had wrought the change in Theo and she didn’t care. We’re going to be happy again.

Theresa finished her own book in the spring. Shakespeare in Hollywood: The textual implications of filmed adaptation. Only a handful of specialist academics bought it, but that didn’t matter. It was critically well received, and cemented Theresa’s position as a leading expert in her field. Theo, meanwhile, was still struggling with his follow-up edition to Prospective Signatures. It was the one part of his life that clearly still troubled him. And the one area where Theresa, whose knowledge of physics would have fit comfortably on the back of a stamp, was completely unable to help him.

But God, apparently, had another miracle in store for the Dexters. Two weeks ago to the day, Theo came home in tearing spirits, bursting through the front door like Rhett Butler and scooping Theresa up into his arms.

‘What on earth is it?’ she giggled. ‘Have we won the lottery?’

‘Yes,’ he laughed. ‘In a way we have. Well, I have. But I’ll be happy to share my winnings with you, darling.’

Theo had come up with a theory – he tried to explain it to her but it was all way over Theresa’s head, something about planets and the birth of the universe and quantum something-or-other. Anyway, the point was it was clearly brilliant, Theo had thought of it, and he seemed to think it had potential not just to boost his career, but quite possibly to make them a lot of money into the bargain.

Theresa couldn’t have cared less about the money. She loved their little house in Cambridge, their battered old car, their charmed, ivory-tower life. But to have Theo’s genius recognized at last? Well, that would be amazing, wonderful and long overdue. Apart from being pregnant, she couldn’t think of a single thing she would have wanted more.

‘Are you hungry, darling?’ she asked him. ‘Shall I make us some lunch?’

‘Lunch’ meant a sandwich. Theresa loved to cook, but not when she was working. She spent ninety per cent of her time at home in this room, dubbed ‘the office’ because it had both their desks in it, but really the only proper reception room in the house. Beneath her feet, a tattered Persian rug was almost invisible beneath the mess of books, papers, mugs of cold, half-drunk tea and empty packets of custard creams (‘the thinking woman’s biscuit’ as Jenny so rightly called them). The Dexters’ home was a modest, solidly built Victorian semi, with high ceilings, bay windows, and lots of what estate agents called ‘original features’. Jenny and Jean Paul’s house next door was a carbon copy, except that theirs had had the benefit of Jenny’s design flair, so the grand old fireplaces and thick white cornicing looked impressive, whereas Theresa’s just looked – what was the word? – ah yes. Filthy. In the past Theo had moaned constantly about the un-Cath-Kidston-ness of their kitchen and what he impolitely referred to as Theresa’s ‘dyslaundria’ (he never seemed to notice his own). But these days Theresa could do no wrong.

‘I’d love to eat with you, T,’ he said, typing the last few words with a flourish and snapping shut his computer. ‘But sadly, I can’t. Big meeting today. Massive.’ Scooping up his laptop and papers, he came over and kissed her on the lips. Seconds later he was out the front door.

He’s like a cyclone, thought Theresa. A happiness cyclone.

She wondered what the big meeting was, and hoped it went well. But it would go well. Of course it would. Theo was on a roll.

I’ve done it, Ed. I’ve bloody done it.’ Theo Dexter triumphantly slammed a thick, bound manuscript down on the table. ‘Read it and weep, my friend. Tears of joy for all the money we’re going to make!’

Ed Gilliam was a literary agent, the biggest name in the huge ‘popular science’ market. A short, unprepossessing man in his mid fifties with thinning red hair and a high-pitched, nasal voice, it was Ed Gilliam who had helped make Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time brief: hence accessible to laymen; hence one of the highest-grossing books of the twentieth century in any genre, never mind science. These days Gilliam wasn’t just about books. He had a finger in every pie, from TV to film to new media. Ed Gilliam had been interested in Theo Dexter since they first met at an MIT symposium in America six years ago. The kid was bright, charismatic, and with those blond, preppy good looks of his he’d be wildly telegenic – rare qualities indeed in a scientist. All Theo needed was some substance. An idea, a book, anything that Ed could use to launch him onto the unsuspecting public. A sort of Steve Irwin for nerds.

For six years, Theo had been promising to deliver. Now, just when Gilliam had begun to despair of ever making any money from him – by forty, Dexter would be losing his hair and spreading round the middle and the game would be up – Theo had called in high excitement, summoning him to Cambridge.

‘This had better be good, Theo.’ Gilliam’s high-pitched, child’s voice quivered with irritation. T’m not in the habit of making day trips. Why can’t you come to London?’

‘Because I’m still working on it and I need to be here. It is good, Ed. I’m emailing you a rough draft now.’

He was right. It was good. Better than good. Ed Gilliam was not a physicist himself, but if Theo Dexter really had proved what he claimed to have proved in this document…this could be as big as Hawking. Bigger.

Ed flipped through the manuscript as he sipped his white wine.

‘Who else has seen the material?’

‘No one. You, me…’ Theo hesitated.

‘And?’

Theo picked the crust off a warm piece of bread. T showed pieces of it to a student of mine. A girl. She…we’ve talked through some of the concepts together.’

‘I see. Anyone else?’

‘Well, my wife. But she can’t understand a word of it, it’s way over her head.’ Theo laughed dismissively

‘Good,’ said Ed. ‘From now on, don’t show this to anyone and don’t discuss it with a soul. If I’m going to try to put together a multi-platform deal, I’m going to need complete control.’

‘Multi-platform?’ Theo was salivating. ‘You mean TV?’

‘Of course. Book deal. TV. The works. We’ll start with a simple press release in the New Scientist. Let the idea build up some steam amongst your fellow eggheads. Then, when the scientific community’s behind you, we take it mainstream: you’re on the news channels. Once the commissioning editors at Sky and ITV get a good look at that pretty face of yours you’ll be beating off offers with a stick, I promise you.’

‘Here’s hoping…’ Theo ordered a petit filet and green salad – expensive, as befitting his soon-to-be new lifestyle, but mindful of his six-pack. Ed went for spaghetti vongole, which he drank noisily whilst outlining his action plan to his client.

‘You need to come to London as soon as possible. Tomorrow, if you can swing it. I’ll get you in front of our intellectual property lawyers.’

‘Lawyers?’ For the first time since they sat down Theo’s shit-eating grin began to fade. ‘Is that really necessary?’

‘It’s a formality’ slurped Ed, garlicky clam juice dribbling down his receding chin. ‘But yeah, it is necessary, especially in this case. You know what it’s like with ideas. Some people only have to read them once to think that they came up with them in the first place.’ He laughed. ‘This is your theory, Theo. We need to make that iron clad from the get go.’

‘Right. Of course.’

Theo felt a momentary stab of guilt, but quickly banished it from his mind. In the two weeks since Sasha had first showed him her theory, he’d worked on it so tirelessly and with such all-consuming passion, correcting even the tiniest errors, improving and polishing the text until it flowed like molten gold, that he’d almost come to believe it really was his work. Yes, Sasha had produced the original spark that inspired him – a spark that his teaching had so patiently nurtured and encouraged in her. But it was he, Theo Dexter, who had transformed that spark into this: a volcanic eruption of genius that had Ed Gilliam sitting across the table, eating out of his hands.

This is your theory, Theo. We need to make that iron clad. And they would. Ed Gilliam’s fleet of top lawyers would protect him. They’d know what to do if Sasha got nasty. But she wouldn’t, would she?

Just at that moment, Theo’s phone buzzed to life on the table. He grabbed it, read the text and quickly deleted it.

‘Nothing important, I hope?’ asked Ed.

‘No. Go on.’

Ed did, but Theo was beginning to find it hard to concentrate. The text was from Sasha, her third today. Even without the added pressure of the theory (mentally Theo had stopped referring to it as Sasha’s theory) strains in the affair were starting to show. In the beginning Sasha had been wonderful, adoring in the way that only very young women ever were. The sex had been incredible too. That combination of innocence, desire and total malleability were a huge aphrodisiac, especially for an ego as rampant but fragile as Theo’s. But as time wore on the dynamic between them inevitably shifted. Sasha might be young but she was far from stupid. Recently she’d started to question him more and more about Theresa, the state of his marriage and the future – their future. It had reached the point where Theo had been actively looking forward to the summer break. Not that he wanted to end things with Sasha. At least, not until a more attractive prospect came along. But the last thing he needed in his life was a second ‘marriage’, the sort of complicated, emotional relationship he had with Theresa.

Oddly, things were better with Theresa sexually than they had been in years. Perhaps it was his affair with Sasha that had given him a new lease of life? Or perhaps agreeing to IVF had unleashed a passionate gratitude in Theresa that translated to a whole lot more fun between the sheets? Either way, Theo found himself irritated by Sasha’s endless, needy phone calls from Sussex, and actively looking forward to going home tonight and sharing today’s triumph with Ed Gilliam with his wife. Theresa’s body might not have the youthful perfection of Sasha’s, but she knew what turned him on. Sometimes it was a relief not to have to be the teacher.

‘So you can make it? Tomorrow afternoon, Berkeley Square? To meet with the lawyers? The press release?’

With a jolt Theo realized that Ed Gilliam was still talking.

‘Oh, yes, yes. Of course.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll write something up tonight.’

I’ve waited so long for this. My entire career. It’s time to get this show on the road.

A week later, Sasha was sitting on the sofa in her parents’ living room flipping through yesterday’s copy of the Sunday Times Style Magazine.

Mrs Mills answers your problems

Dear Mrs Mills,

I’ve been seeing a married, older man for nearly a year now. He claims he loves me, but during a recent separation he’s barely returned my calls. What should I do?

Yours,

Desperate of Vrant

Dear Desperate,

If he loved you he’d call you back. Or even visit. Why are you being such a moron? Why are you letting this man take over your life? If he cheats on his wife he ‘11 cheat on you. Once a liar, always a liar…

As hard as she tried to shake them, the voices in Sasha’s head would not go away. Something was wrong. She’d dreaded the long summer holiday for ages, but not even in her worst nightmares had she pictured such a rapid unravelling of whatever it was that she and Theo had together. They used to talk at Cambridge, about everything. Life. The universe. She could live without the lovemaking. But the lack of communication was killing her.

‘Are you sure you won’t try the blue one? It’s a perfect colour on you, Sash.’ Her mother had tried vainly to interest her in a shopping expedition in Tunbridge Wells that afternoon. They were in Hooper’s department store, looking for a dress for Sasha’s cousin’s wedding. A wedding. That’s all I bloody need.

‘Sure, I’ll try it. But you pick, OK, Mum? You know I’ve got no head for fashion.’

In the changing room, she jumped for joy when she got a new text from Theo. But as soon as she read it: ‘Cnt tlk now. 2mr, OK?’ she was plunged back into depths of despair she hadn’t known she was capable of. She’d tried everything to put him out of her mind, going riding, spending time with school friends who knew nothing about her Cambridge life, even sorting out her bedroom, alphabetizing her CD collection and colour coding her knicker drawer in an attempt to create some feeling of order and control over her own life. But I’m not in control. I’m out of control. I’m turning into a stalker!

Just before supper that night – her favourite Moroccan lamb and homemade strawberry ice cream; Mum was pulling all the stops out to try and cheer her up – Sasha called Georgia.

‘The summer’s so long. I’m missing St Michael’s more than I thought I would,’ she admitted. Not able to tell her friend about Theo, she hoped Georgia would read between the lines and offer some sympathy. ‘Do you find that?’

‘Not really’ Sasha could hear the sound of laughter in the background. A student party. How long was it since she’d been to one of those? Let her hair down with people her own age? ‘A lot of the gang from college were in Turkey two weeks ago. You should have come.’

Maybe I should have.

‘Josie and Danny are here now. D’you want to say hi?’

Sasha said hi, but she hung up the phone feeling even more lonely than she had before. We’ve grown apart. Even me and Georgia. We used to be so close.

Seeing his daughter on the couch, lost in thought, Don Miller turned on the TV. He could see she was upset, but long experience had taught him that distraction was a safer bet than the dreaded ‘talking’ when it came to women’s problems.

‘Only Fools and Horses, Gardeners’ World or Law & Order?’ he asked cheerfully.

‘Hmmm? Oh, I don’t mind, Dad. Whatever.’

Don plumped for Law & Order. Sasha tried to focus on the twisting plot and the laboured tension of the detectives’ banter, but it was a losing battle. She didn’t even notice when Don switched over to the ten o’clock BBC news until her mother walked in and asked her a question about the Middle East. A few seconds later, however, and the TV had Sasha’s full attention.

‘Isn’t that your professor, love? The fellow from St Michael’s?’

Sasha felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach. Theo’s face on screen looked even more handsome than it did in her dreams, if that were possible. He was doing that half-frown, half-smile thing that he did when he concentrated. It was the same face he pulled when he made love, right before he came.

‘What’s he doing on the news?’

It was a good ten seconds before the pounding of Sasha’s heart quietened enough for her to hear what Theo was saying. He was talking about some sort of breakthrough. Something that would change the face of physics and astronomy. Odd words and phrases leapt out at her…Einstein’s field equation, but seen through a mirror…changing our perceptions of existence…space-time continuum re-imagined…

Sasha felt a momentary swelling of pride. Those are my words. I wrote that.

The report then cut to a ludicrously simplified CGI of the Big Bang and the formation of earth. Above the graphic of the spinning planet was an equation. And that’s when it hit Sasha: It’s my theory. He’s gone public with my theory. It’s on the news.

Her hands and feet began to tingle with excitement, as if someone were passing an electric current through her body. Wordlessly she grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned up the volume, waiting to hear Theo mention her name.

Is this why he’s been so distant? He wanted to surprise me.

Theo was talking. ‘Sometimes an idea is so profound, but so simple, you can’t quite believe it yourself

He knows how to handle these things better than I do. He didn ‘t want me to screw it up.

‘…culmination of years of work

Only six months actually.

‘…grateful to all those who have supported me. Especially my wonderful wife Theresa.’

Excuse me?

‘Science can be a lonely profession, but Theresa has been there for me through thick and thin. It’s easy to get caught up in competition with one’s peers. But clearly this is not about me personally. This isn’t Theo Dexter’s triumph. It’s a triumph for the whole physics community. For the human race, in a way’

Cut to various eminent physicists from around the globe. Sasha watched their mouths move, but her ears were ringing. Slowly, hideously, the truth began to dawn.

Oh my God.

‘I’m just the lucky man who happened to be sitting in the right place when inspiration struck.’

Yeah you were in the right place! Naked in a field with ME. You stole my idea!

‘Bastard,’ Sasha muttered, getting unsteadily to her feet.

The report was finished. Huw Edwards was saying something about the Special Olympics. Sasha grabbed the arm of the sofa for support. The room was starting to spin.

‘Are you all right, darling? Sasha?’ Don gave her a worried glance.

‘I need some air.’

Outside in the garden, warm summer scents of jasmine and freshly mown grass assailed Sasha’s senses. The world looked and smelled and sounded familiar, but everything had changed. Her hand shook as she dialled Theo’s number.

He won’t answer. He’ll see it’s from me and he won’t answer. He…

‘Sasha. How are you, angel? Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call you back earlier. It’s been a manic day’ He sounded so calm, so normal, for a moment Sasha wondered if she’d imagined the news report. There was no hint of guilt or apology in his voice.

‘I saw you. On the news. Five minutes ago.’

‘Oh.’ There was a long pause. Irrationally, Sasha’s spirits soared. This is where he’s going to explain everything. It’s all some sort of ghastly mistake and he’s going to put it right. ‘Listen, all that stuff about Theresa…I had to say it. She’s been so low recently, and she was desperate to be a part of all the excitement. You understand, don’t you?’

Sasha shook her head in disbelief. This was getting more surreal by the second.

‘Theresa? What are you talking about, Theo? You stole my theory! I just saw you on the BBC bloody news, telling people my thesis was your idea.’

‘I think you’re a wee bit confused, sweetheart.’ There was an edge to Theo’s voice that hadn’t been there before. T’ve been working on this theory for years. Long, long before I met you. Now, granted, you developed a couple of my ideas further than I had. Your paper really got me thinking

‘Liar!’ Sasha exploded. T didn’t develop your ideas! They were my ideas and you know it.’

‘Come on, Sash. This is nonsense. I don’t know anything of the kind. Listen, I’m jumping into a cab now. Can we talk about this tomorrow, when you’ve calmed down?’

Sasha hung up on him.

When Don Miller walked into the garden ten minutes later, he found his daughter pacing the stone path, mumbling to herself like a lunatic.

‘Sash, love? What is it? Your mum and I are worried about you. Won’t you tell us what’s happened?’

Sasha stopped mumbling, stared at him and burst into tears.

When she finally stopped crying, she told him everything. Her affair with Theo, how it had started, his marital problems, the secrecy, and how it had alienated her from her friends and family. Finally she told him about her theory, a simplified version but Don got the gist. How she had trusted Theo to advise her on it and he had stolen it and was trying to pass it off as his own work.

Don Miller listened in silence. When Sasha finally finished talking, he said gently, ‘I see. So what are you going to do?’

‘Do?’ Sasha looked at him blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean what are you going to do? I hope you’re not thinking of letting this wanker get away with it. Are you?’

‘But Dad, it’ll be his word against mine.’

‘So?’

‘He’s a fellow, a respected, professional scientist. I’m just a student about to start her second year.’

‘So?’

‘So no one will believe me.’

Don Miller took his daughter’s hand. ‘I believe you, Sasha. You’ve got right on your side. The truth will come to light in the end, but not if you don’t fight for it. Mum and I will be behind you all the way. We’ll get you a lawyer. We’ll sell the house if we have to.’

Sasha was so touched she started to cry again.

‘I loved him, Dad.’

‘No, love. You just thought you did.’

Her dad was right. She couldn’t just sit back and let Dexter get away with this.

I’ll take him to court. I’ll win back my theory and expose him as a liar and a fraud.

Theo Dexter was going to curse the day he underestimated Sasha Miller.




CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_e9031146-8bb5-530a-a467-2446a9e03e21)


Sasha squeezed both her parents’ hands as the members of the Regent House filed back into the room. The Regent House was the official governing body of the University of Cambridge. Usually it only ever met in the grand, neo-classical Senate House on King’s Parade to award degrees, or to elect a new chancellor. But today, sensationally, the Master of St Michael’s had summoned a special congregation – Cambridge’s equivalent of a court martial – to settle the increasingly embarrassing and bitter dispute between Professor Theo Dexter and his second-year pupil, Sasha Miller.

Of course, today was only the university’s decision. Theoretically, Sasha could still pursue Theo in the British courts. But the six-hundred-pounds-an-hour lawyer Don Miller had engaged was blunt about her chances.

‘If the university goes against you, it will be very difficult to win a civil case. I hesitate to say impossible. But if you pursue Dexter and you lose, the court will most likely award him damages and costs. Add that to your own legal fees and you could be looking at a bill running into millions of pounds.’

‘We’ll do whatever it takes/ Don said defiantly. But they all knew it wasn’t an option. Everything rested on today’s decision. Up until a couple of hours ago, Sasha had been sure she was going to lose. In the last two months, since the British press had got hold of the juicy story about the hunky Cambridge professor and his teenage undergraduate lover, Sasha had seen her good name raked through the mud. Like flies swarming round a turd, the university establishment had rallied around Theo Dexter. No one, other than Sasha’s student friends, had agreed to speak up for her.

Until this afternoon.

Harold Grier, a senior American physicist on secondment from Harvard, had been one of Sasha’s lab partners at the Cavendish. Grier had witnessed much of Sasha’s early research work on what was already now being referred to as ‘Dexter’s Law’. If he spoke up for her, she had a shot. Unfortunately for Sasha, Harold Grier was also a pathologically private man and so shy he was borderline autistic. He had refused all her entreaties to testify at the Senate House. ‘I can’t be dragged into as…scandal. I’m sorry. My work is too important.’

Sasha had given up trying to change Harold’s mind weeks ago. But today, after the lunchtime recess, a miracle had occurred. Walking out of the ladies, she saw Harold Grier standing alone in the grand foyer of the Senate House with a sheaf of papers in his hand. Harold saw her too, and smiled.

‘Who’s that?’ Sasha’s dad asked her, watching Harold take his seat. Don noticed the way that the Dexter camp’s eyes had all turned to follow him as he made his way to the front of the court.

‘I very much hope that’s my knight in shining armour,’ whispered Sasha.

The Master of St Michael’s took his seat. ‘In curia nostra, hodie est dies juridicus. Sedete silentio si commodum est.’

This is it.

Theresa Dexter held her husband’s hand and kept her eyes fixed firmly on the robed figures in front of her. Sometimes the urge to turn around and look at Sasha Miller was so strong it made her neck hurt. But she knew that if she made eye contact she wouldn’t be able to restrain herself from running over and strangling the girl with her bare hands. Better to be here than down the road in the Crown Court, on trial for murder, Theresa told herself. In an hour this nightmare will be over.

The last two months had been the worst of Theresa Dexter’s life. It was August when Theo had come home, ashen-faced, and told her that he was afraid one of his undergraduates was going to try to lay claim to his theory.

‘But why? I mean, that’s ridiculous. How could she possibly lay claim to it?’

‘We worked together.’ Theo shrugged. ‘I trusted her. You know, she’s a bright girl, she showed a lot of promise. I thought it would be exciting for her to be involved with something like this. Something ground-breaking.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I suppose I was naive.’

Theresa had been outraged on Theo’s behalf, sympathetic and practical. ‘We’ll talk to Ed Gilliam. He’ll know what to do. Try not to worry, darling. At best this girl’s delusional and at worst she’s a liar. Either way, she can’t hurt you. The truth will out.’

The next morning, Theo gave the same spiel to Ed Gilliam. When he’d finished, Ed said, ‘You prick. You were sleeping with her, weren’t you?’

‘Sleeping with…? Of course I wasn’t sleeping with her!’ Theo blustered. ‘How dare you imply…’

‘I’m going to give you five seconds to stop talking shit and tell me the truth. And if you don’t, I’m going to hang up, play a nice round of golf, and forget you ever existed. OK?’

Theo hesitated. ‘All right. Yes, OK, I did sleep with her. A couple of times. But it was nothing, a silly fling. She seduced me. Sasha can be very persuasive, you know.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Ed. ‘Pretty young girl plays the victim on Richard and Judy’s couch and next thing you know you’re a paedophile. No one will give a fuck whose theory this is after that. By the way, just out of interest, did you nick it?’

‘No! Of course I didn’t. The whole thing’s preposterous.’

‘Good. Now listen, you leave the PR side of this to me. It’s a nightmare, but I’ve handled worse. The trick is to hit back first, not wait for Lolita to leak the story. I’m going to tell you what to do, and you’re going to do it, no questions asked. We can salvage this thing but we have to act fast. And, Theo?’

‘Yes, Ed?’

‘Stop lying to me. Save your energy for all the other people you’re going to have to lie to.’

Following Ed Gilliam’s instructions, Theo admitted his affair with Sasha to Theresa that evening, albeit a heavily edited version.

‘But…but…we’ve been so happy’ Theresa blinked back tears.

‘I know.’ Theo hugged her. ‘I’ve been a fool, T. I am happy with you. Sasha was just so vulnerable and so needy. She kept on and on, pursuing me, begging me to be with her. It was relentless. I didn’t realize how psychologically disturbed she was until it was too late. Can you ever forgive me?’

His remorse was so heartfelt Theresa couldn’t help but forgive him, but she was desperately hurt. There was no time to process her feelings, however. The very next morning, a double-page spread ran in the Daily Mail, salivating over British science’s newest star’s liaison with his beautiful protégée.

At the breakfast table, Theo shook the newspaper angrily. ‘Bitch. I can’t believe she’s gone public already. Has she no shame? I mean it’s not just me she’s hurting. It’s you, and St Michael’s. The whole physics community gets tainted with this shit. How could she?’

‘It’s all right, darling.’ Theresa touched his arm consolingly. ‘We’ll get through it together.’

Half an hour later, Theo called Ed Gilliam from the car.

‘Nice piece.’

‘Yeah. It should do the job. Remember, say nothing to the press, not till I get you that statement. If they doorstep you, keep your cool and look remorseful.’

‘Remorseful. Got it.’

‘This is only the opening salvo, you know. The war hasn’t begun. Now we have to get the university on side.’

‘Leave that to me,’ said Theo.

When Sasha read the Daily Mail article she was nearly sick.

‘Where do they get this stuff? And who the hell are these “insiders” I’m supposed to have confided in? They make it sound like I leaked the story’

It was only two days since she’d watched Theo on the evening news. She hadn’t even worded her formal complaint to the physics faculty yet, never mind talked to the press.

‘He’s playing hardball, isn’t he, the creep,’ said Don Miller contemptuously. ‘We need to get you a lawyer, pronto.’

Theresa sat at Jenny and Jean Paul’s kitchen table, sobbing. Jenny put her arms around her. ‘It’s all right, lovie. You can cry. Theo’s put you through hell.’

Theresa looked up, wiping her nose on her sleeve like a child. ‘Oh no. You mustn’t blame Theo. It’s this vicious girl. I mean, yes, Theo made a mistake…’

Jenny raised an eyebrow. ‘A bit more than a mistake, T’

‘If you could see how sorry he was, Jen. He hates himself for it. And now he stands to lose everything, everything he’s ever worked for. It’s much harder for him than it is for me.’

Jenny’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

‘I know I’ve got to be strong, to hold it all together for him. But I…I…’ Theresa broke down again. T started bleeding this morning. I haven’t been to the doctor yet, but I just know. I really thought this time we might be lucky’

Jenny put her arms around her friend. She knew how hopeful Theresa had been about this new round of IVF. ‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s the stress. Reading all this stuff in the newspapers. This little cow Sasha just doesn’t care. She doesn’t give a damn.’

Jenny was silent. There was so much to say, but she knew Theresa didn’t want to hear any of it.

Theo Dexter had a lot to answer for.

‘So you’ve made a formal complaint to the college authorities and to the physics faculty?’

‘Yes.’ Sasha’s eyes wandered over the lawyer’s office. It looked more like a five-star hotel suite than a place of work, all antique armoires and cashmere-covered cushions. No wonder with the fees he charged. All around the room, silver-framed photographs of his ridiculously photogenic family beamed perfect smiles at her. They looked like a toothpaste advertisement.

‘And their response was…?’

‘They’ve taken it under advisement.’

Don Miller lost his temper. ‘Look, Mr Farley. We’ve been through all this. You know what happened. You’ve seen Sasha’s evidence, her research files. The university’s doing nothing. What we want to know is, can you help us?’

The lawyer sighed. Td like to, Mr Miller, ft does appear that Sasha has been very poorly treated by this chap. But the problem is, from what I’ve seen so far, it’s going to come down to a case of Sasha’s word against his.’

I told you so.

What you really need are witnesses.’ He turned to Sasha. ‘Was there anyone other than Dexter who observed you developing this theory? Anyone who could prove that you came up with it first? We’d need dates.’

Sasha immediately thought of Harold Grier. ‘There was one person. But I don’t know if he’d want to get involved.’

‘Convince him,’ said the lawyer. ‘That’s the best advice f can give you.’

Fat chance, thought Sasha.

‘This is very bad for the college, Dexter. Very bad.’ Anthony Greville, St Michael’s Master, stated the obvious, ‘In a few weeks the girl’s going to be here, beginning her second year. We’ll be overrun with reporters and cameramen. The Porters’ Lodge is already overwhelmed with calls from the gutter press.’

‘I know, Master. And I’m truly sorry, believe me. But Sasha’s the one stirring this up in the media, not me. I think we need to keep sight of the bigger picture here. My theory could change the very nature of our understanding of the universe. It’s huge. Huge. If we don’t let this scandal overshadow it, it could bring immense cachet to the college. Just think what an incredible fundraising tool that could be.’

Anthony Greville thought about it. St Michael’s, as ever, was in dire need of new funds. The chapel was not going to reroof itself. Trinity and St John’s were both swimming in money, but the smaller St Michael’s had always had to make-do and mend. Perhaps Dexter’s theory could change all that? If one tiresome, sex-mad undergraduate didn ‘t ruin it for all of them.

‘What would you have me do, Theo? I can’t send her down and keep you here. How would that look? Especially since she’s still claiming you stole her work.’

‘Call an emergency session of the Regent House. You can chair it. Let the university decide whose theory this is.’

‘What good will that do?’

‘It will put an end to all this once and for all. But on your terms. If, God forbid, the congregation rule against me, I’ll resign and go back to America. If they don’t, then you’re free to send Sasha down. She’ll be out of St Michael’s, out of Cambridge, out of all our lives.’

‘I’d just like her out of The News of the bloody World,’ grumbled the Master.

‘Once the case is closed the press will lose interest,’ Theo assured him. ‘Especially when they start to realize just how seismic this theory is. If the college and the faculty back me, we can kill this thing. We want the same things, Master.’

‘Absolutely not.’ Margaret Haines was livid. ‘Why the hell should I lie for that arsehole?’

‘My dear Margaret. Is such fragrant language really necessary?’ The Master sat at his desk, radiating pomposity. ‘No one is asking you to lie. Merely to focus on the matter in hand and not encourage the Regent House to be distracted by shall we say the more salacious elements of this whole sorry affair.’

‘You mean the fact that Dexter’s been boning his students, in clear violation of the university’s code of ethics? Sasha Miller wasn’t the first, you know.’

‘Be that as it may, this theory of Professor Dexter’s could prove extremely important. And not just to the scientific world. To the college.’

Anthony Greville said this last as if it silenced all further conversation on the matter. Margaret Haines disagreed.

‘And what if it really was this young girl’s work? Have you considered that? What if she’s telling the truth and Dexter ripped her off?’

‘You can’t honestly believe that.’

‘Can’t I? Why not? We already know Dexter’s a liar with the morals of an alley cat and the discretion of a town crier.’

‘She’s an undergraduate.’

‘Yes, and by all accounts a brilliant one. Unlike your friend Professor Dexter. No, Master. I won’t be silenced on this. We should be backing the girl.’

Anthony Greville’s eyes narrowed. He’d always lusted after Margaret Haines. He liked her feistiness and her sharp wit and the way her bosom jiggled underneath her sweater when she got agitated, as she was now. But if she threatened the reputation of St Michael’s, he would have no compunction in getting rid of her.

‘The Senior Common Room are all in agreement. If you go against us on this, Margaret, your position here may become very difficult.’

Margaret Haines looked at the squat, elderly toad sitting opposite her. Her contempt oozed from every pore. ‘Is that a threat, Anthony?’

‘Not at all, my dear. But as Master I must think of the good of the entire college. Testifying on young Miss Miller’s behalf would not be in any of our best interests. Including yours. Think about that, Margaret.’

Margaret Haines did speak up for Sasha. But it didn’t help. For one thing, the overwhelmingly male Regent House already knew that Theo Dexter was an inveterate womanizer who preyed on his prettier students, and they couldn’t have cared less. For another, by the time the Cambridge authorities finally sat down to hear evidence, Ed Gilliam had done such a thorough character assassination of Sasha in the press it was a wonder her own mother was still speaking to her.

‘TEENAGE LOLITA WRECKS GENIUS PROFESSOR’S MARRIAGE’

‘HOME-WRECKING FANTASIST STALKED DEXTER “FOR MONTHS’”

Margaret’s only regret was having to add to poor Theresa Dexter’s anguish by publicly running through the litany of Theo’s student conquests. She needn’t have worried. Theresa didn’t believe a word of it.

‘I swear on my life, T, it isn’t true,’ said Theo. ‘Margaret’s always had it in for me, the old battleaxe. She’s jealous of my success. She knows Sasha’s weakened me so she’s moving in for the kill.’

After Margaret’s testimony, the court broke for an hour’s lunch. Not wanting to brave the hordes of press outside, Sasha and her family ate their sandwiches on a bench in the Senate House lobby. None of them spoke. It was pretty clear which way the congregation was leaning. It’s like the condemned man’s last meal, thought Sasha.

And then Harold Grier showed up.

Harold took his place on the dais. Anthony Greville, St Michael’s Master, was chairing proceedings. He read out some lines of Latin, and Harold replied.

I’ll be gracious in victory, thought Sasha. I’m not interested in fame and glory. All I want is to be allowed to finish my research in peace.

‘Professor Grier, you worked as Miss Miller’s laboratory partner at the Cavendish during the Easter term, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

Throughout the proceedings, Sasha had resisted the urge to look at Theo. A few short months ago, just the sight of him across a room would have made her heart race. Now his proximity made her physically ill. Re’s so fake. So vain and bland and…empty. What did I ever see in him? But as Harold Grier began his testimony, she couldn’t resist stealing a triumphant glance. I’ve got you now, you lying bastard.

Feeling her gaze, Theo turned around. Sasha wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Fear, perhaps, at the prospect of his imminent exposure and disgrace? Guilt? Regret? Instead the look on her one-time lover’s face could only be described as…pity. That’s odd. Why would he feel sorry for me? He must know what’s coming. He must know Grier’s testimony is going to blow his case out of the water.

Harold Grier was talking. ‘She was very excited about working with Professor Dexter. She told me she felt inspired by him, and fortunate to have him as a supervisor.’

‘And how familiar were you with Miss Miller’s research work?’

‘Very familiar. We worked together over a period of weeks. It was an exciting time.’

‘You recognized the importance of the work she was doing?’

‘Oh yes. Absolutely. And so did she. As I say she was thrilled Professor Dexter had given her the opportunity to work with him on it. Not many undergraduates would have been given such a chance.’

Sasha cocked her head to one side. Had she misheard him?

Anthony Greville leaned forward eagerly in his seat. ‘Miss Miller implied to you that the theory was, in fact, Professor Dexter’s? That he had invited her to assist him?’

No!

‘Yes. Well, she didn’t imply it. She was quite explicit about it.’

‘That’s not true!’ Sasha was on her feet, yelling from the gallery. The black-robed figures of the Regent House glared at her as one.

‘Sit down please, Miss Miller, or I will have to ask you to leave.’

‘But he’s lying! Tell them the truth, Harold, for God’s sake!’

Sue Miller took her daughter’s hand and pulled her physically down into her seat. ‘It won’t help, love,’ she whispered. Sasha sat down.

Harold Grier kept talking, calmly, rationally, convincingly. Every word was a bullet in Sasha’s heart. She was too stunned to take in much of the Master’s summing up, but the few words that sunk in left no room for doubt…tragic, unnecessary case…slanderous claims…overwhelming evidence to suggest…confused, troubled young woman…

The black-robed men began filing out. All around Sasha, people were on their feet. She tried to stand up but her legs had turned to water. Her dad put an arm around her waist. ‘It’s all right Sash. Let’s go home.’

It wasn’t all right.

Outside the Senate House, King’s Parade was choked with reporters. Theo Dexter stood on the steps, hand in hand with his wife, holding court. ‘No, I don’t feel victorious,’ he told the Times correspondent. ‘I’m relieved this is over. I’m relieved I can get back to work. I’m heartbroken at the pain I’ve caused my wife.’ He looked at Theresa, his eyes welling with tears.

‘How do you feel about Sasha Miller?’ another journalist shouted. ‘Will you be pursuing any legal action against her?’

Theo shook his head magnanimously. T think it’s clear that Miss Miller is a gravely troubled young person. I have no desire for vengeance. I wish her the best and I hope her family are able to get her the help she needs.’

As he finished speaking, Sasha emerged from the building, propped up like a drunk between her bewildered parents.

‘Are you going to make any statement, Sasha?’

‘Will you be going back to St Michael’s?’

‘The university has asked for a formal retraction. Any comment on that?’

‘No comment!’ Don Miller roared. It was like walking through a pack of wolves. ‘Get the hell away from my daughter.’

‘Are you sorry, Sasha?’

Sasha looked up. Am I sorry? Yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ever laid eyes on Theo Dexter. I’m sorry I put my family through this. I’m sorry that none of you can open your eyes and see the truth.

The mob followed her to the car. Cameras clattered against the sides of Don’s tatty Volvo as the family drove away. Sasha stared out of the window at the colleges, their towers and steeples and portcullises bathed in late afternoon light. She remembered the day she had first arrived at St Michael’s, full of hope and promise and excitement, her head full of thoughts of Will Temple, the boy she’d left back home. It was only a year ago. But it felt like a lifetime.

That girl is gone forever, thought Sasha.

She knew she would never return to Cambridge again.

It was almost midnight before Theo had a chance to call Ed Gilliam. What with all the press to deal with, and the celebratory drinks party at the Master’s lodge, followed by a romantic, thank-you-for-standing-by-me supper with Theresa, he hadn’t had a second alone since the verdict.

‘I didn’t wake you, did I?’

Gilliam laughed. ‘Not likely. I’m so wired I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again.’

‘So come on, put me out of my misery. How did you do it?’

‘Harold Grier, you mean?’

‘When I saw him after recess I thought we were sunk. How did you get him to change his mind?’

‘The same way you get anyone to change their mind. I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.’

‘Money?’

‘Better than that. I told him I’d get him a book deal for his new thesis. That and a sponsor for his next five years of research.’

‘But Grier’s research is impenetrable. Not even physicists can understand it.’

‘Hey, I didn’t say the book would sell. I told him we’d publish it.’

‘Who’s going to sponsor him?’

‘You are, Theo. Or rather, your TV production company. Once your show gets syndicated globally, believe me, the payments to dear old Harold will be a drop in the ocean.’

‘My show? What show?’

Ed Gilliam laughed out loud. ‘Get some sleep, Theo. You’re about to become a very, very busy man.’



PART TWO (#ulink_d9af7704-e036-5fa5-bd9e-9f8013cb368e)




CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_37eaf330-2a91-5895-91b1-a591cc4573ba)

New York, five years later


Jackson Dupree emerged from the elevator like a rock star walking on stage. With good reason. On Wall Street, Jackson Dupree was a rock star. And Wrexall Dupree, the commercial real estate giant founded by his great-grandfather, was his stage. Striding confidently towards the boardroom, past the desks of swooning secretaries, Jackson smiled. He was about to give the performance of his life.

A regular in the gossip columns and New York society press, Jackson Amory Dupree was one of America’s most eligible bachelors. The only son of real estate mogul Walker Dupree and his socialite wife, Mitzi, Jackson was born a prince. As befitted royalty, he was not only rich beyond most ordinary people’s imagination. He was also supremely gifted in every other aspect of his life: academically, physically, socially and, as he grew into adulthood, sexually. Despite being a brilliant sportsman – polo and tennis were his games of choice, but Jackson made the first team at everything – he was the antithesis of a jock. With his wild, jet-black hair, his lean, almost skinny figure, high cheekbones and sensual, predatory, almond eyes, Jackson looked more like the product of two passionate gypsy dancers than what he actually was: heir apparent to one of the oldest families on the east coast.

Now twenty-eight, Jackson’s reputation as the most lusted-after playboy of his generation was well established. Famously estranged from his father (Walker Dupree found his son’s womanizing and partying a grave embarrassment), Jackson’s exploits in the bedrooms (and bathrooms and kitchens and offices and cars) of some of the world’s most desirable women, many of them married, had become part of Manhattan folklore. Less well documented was his prowess as a scholar. Jackson graduated top of his section at Harvard Business School (despite spending two-thirds of his final semester satisfying the bottomless sexual demands of the dean’s wife, Karen). He was fluent in French, Italian, Spanish and German. A natural communicator, with an easy, unpretentious manner, Jackson won over friends, teachers and later clients as effortlessly as he alienated husbands across the land. Husbands and, it had recently emerged, the twelve-man board of Wrexall Dupree.

It’s my own fault, Jackson thought bitterly, the night he heard about the coup. I took my eye off the ball.

If it hadn’t been for Liana, the improbably proportioned personal assistant to Bob Massey, Wrexall’s irascible head of sales, he would never have known what the board was up to. As it was, Jackson was on the floor of Bob’s office last month, happily exploring the smooth, waxed heaven between Liana’s quivering thighs, when the girl burst into tears.

‘It’s all right, angel,’ Jackson said comfortingly. He was used to women sobbing after he brought them to orgasm. Who wanted to come down from that sort of high? ‘We can do it again in a minute.’

‘It’s not that,’ snivelled Liana. ‘It’s Mr Massey. I overheard him talking with Mr Peters and some of the other board members. He made me swear to keep it to myself. He said if I told anyone, I’d lose my job.’

‘Told anyone what?’ asked Jackson, bored, running the tip of his tongue over Liana’s left nipple. He wasn’t in the mood for careers counselling.

‘That they’re going to veto your promotion.’

Now she had Jackson’s attention. Dropping her breast like a dog that’s lost interest in its chew-toy, he sat bolt upright. ‘What do you mean “veto” it? They can’t. I have an automatic right of entry to Wrexall Dupree’s board after five years of service. It’s in the statutes.’

‘According to Mr Massey, there’s a sub-clause in there that says if you fail to meet some target or other, I can’t remember…and if the veto were to be unanimous…I shouldn’t have told you. But now that we’re a couple, you know…’ She reached for his cock.





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