Scandalous (10 page)

Theresa finished her own book in the spring but never published it. 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 had come 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 90 percent of her time at home in this room, dubbed “the office” because it had both their desks in it, but it was 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 real 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-Martha-Stewart-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 midfifties 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 around 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. “I’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 e-mailing 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. “I 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 multiplatform deal, I’m going to need complete control.”

“Multiplatform?” 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 slurped noisily while 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 ironclad 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 shown 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 ironclad.
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?” slurped 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
’s style magazine.

Mrs. Mills answers your problems

Dear Mrs. Mills,

I’ve been seeing a married, older man for over 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 Frant

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’ll 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 unraveling 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 color 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 color coding her underwear 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!