Scandalous (16 page)

It had been four years since Theresa and Theo Dexter moved to LA. Four years in which Theo had gone from being a minor British celebrity (his first TV series for Channel Four,
Space
, had started shooting days after his dispute with Sasha Miller ended and had quickly become a ratings winner) to a world-famous television star. At first Theo had been reluctant to leave England, dividing his time between Cambridge, where he still taught a half-weekly schedule at St. Michael’s, and London; he reveled in the sensation of being the biggest fish in a relatively small pond. Unlike Theresa, who avoided it as much as possible, Theo found
the London media scene wildly exciting. He joined the Groucho Club and Soho House and got invited to private screenings at the BBC and book launch parties at the V&A. His book,
The New Universe
, had kept its position in the
Sunday Times
top ten bestseller list for a record twenty-two consecutive weeks, and ITV was already bidding against Channel Four for a second series of
Space
. Then
TV Times
magazine described him, much to Theo’s chagrin, as “Science’s answer to Alan Titchmarsh”—referring to England’s most televised—and boring—gardening expert. The comparison compelled Theo to take Ed Gilliam’s entreaties seriously.

“You’re wasting your time over here, Theo. We need to take you to America. Start flirting with the big boys, NBC, CBS. Unless of course you’re happy to end your career as a guest DJ for Radio 2.”

The Dexters’ “Good-bye to Cambridge” party was filled with enough celebrities to warrant a full page in the
Daily Mail
and a six-page photo special in
Hello!
magazine. Theo looked blonder and more glamorous than ever, his newly streaked hair perfectly offsetting the blue linen of his Paul Smith suit. Theresa, swollen-eyed from crying, stood beside him in an orange Next maxi dress that did nothing for her figure, a lone ugly duckling amid the twenty-something TV presenters in their Luella minidresses and Vivienne Westwood boots.

“For God’s sake, cheer up, T,” Theo snapped at her between photo calls. “Anyone would think I was dragging you to Beirut, not Bel Air.”

He was right, of course. LA would be an amazing opportunity. Theresa already had a teaching job lined up at UCLA that paid three times what she was earning now, and a grant to continue her Shakespeare research. Just because Los Angeles didn’t have thousand-year-old libraries, or original Shakespeare folios, or churches with entombed medieval knights, or dry-stone walls, or Christmas carols in King’s College Chapel…she started to cry again.

They flew out first class on Virgin. That part was fun. Theresa got tipsy on free champagne and blubbered loudly watching chick flicks on her personal in-flight movie screen, in between stuffing her face with warmed (
warmed!
) cashew nuts. Theo, doing his best to look like a world-weary, regular first-class traveler, put in his earplugs and pretended to go to sleep. He longed to make his bed go flat so he could rest properly, but didn’t want the sexy Asian stewardess to think he didn’t know how to operate the seat. As a result, by the time they landed at LAX, Theo was tired and irritable and Theresa badly hungover. It took them an hour to hire a rental car and another two to reach their rented property in Bel Air, thanks to traffic on the 405 and Theresa’s poor map-reading skills. On first impression LA seemed to be little more than a giant network of freeways, vast, supersized eight-lane roads endlessly intersecting beneath a flawless blue sky.
It’s hideous
, thought Theresa bleakly. It wasn’t until they reached Sunset Boulevard that the city began to look more like the tourist brochures. Tall, skinny palm trees swayed regally above them, and on both sides of the road, immaculately manicured mansions vied to outdo each other in the conspicuous consumption stakes. The West Gate of Bel Air was, it turned out, conveniently situated directly opposite the UCLA campus. As Theo and Theresa’s car wove its way up the hillside into the confusing maze of streets—Chalon, Somera, Roscomare, back to Chalon—the properties seemed to become more and more sumptuous. Theresa spotted two with what looked like gold-plated gates and one that
appeared
to be an exact replica of the Disneyland castle. When they finally arrived at the address they’d been given, they both thought it was the wrong house.

“This can’t be it,” gasped Theresa. “It’s enormous. It looks like the Ritz Carlton.” But a telephone call to Ed Gilliam confirmed that the sprawling French country mansion was indeed “home.”

“Welcome to the big time, Theo. Now get some sleep, for God’s sake. You’ve got a meeting at NBC at eleven o’clock
tomorrow morning. Six months’ rent is paid, but if you want to stay there longer than that, you’re going to have to start earning.”

And Theo did. Within three weeks, the contracts were inked on his new American science series,
Dexter’s Universe
. The combination of his unquestioned genius as a physicist, his telegenic looks, and best of all, his panty-melting British accent, had the commissioning editors at NBC salivating with excitement.
People
magazine gave
Dexter’s Universe
’s pilot episode a five-star review, dubbing Theo “Brad Pitt with Brains.” Theo was ecstatic. It sure beat “Science’s answer to Alan Titchmarsh.” He celebrated by going out to Hyde, Hollywood’s hottest nightclub, and getting off very publicly with Molly Meyer, the nineteen-year-old star of Disney’s latest hit show,
What Molly Did Next
. The following week, the pictures were all over
US Weekly
. Theresa was horrified, but Theo was unapologetic.

“You were the one who didn’t want to come out with me.”

“I was working! I had fifteen papers to mark that night! Besides, does that give you the right to go make out with whoever you like? Look at her. You’re old enough to be her father.”

“I can’t help it if young women are attracted to me,” said Theo, crossly. “Anyway it was only a kiss. Stop overreacting.”

Theresa thought,
Am I overreacting?
Countless people had warned her that Theo being on network television would mean him getting a lot of unwanted attention. Lisa Jay, the wife of Howard Jay,
Dexter’s Universe
’s executive producer, told Theresa over dinner, “You need the hide of a rhino to survive in this town. Women here are shameless. They’ll throw themselves at your husband right in front of you. I get it with Howard all the time.” Theresa looked over at the five-foot, bald figure of Howard Jay as he slurped his soup and tried to picture him being hounded by Hollywood hotties. “As long as you and Theo trust
each other
. That’s the key.” Lisa smiled.

Since the affair with Sasha Miller, Theresa had worked hard to rebuild her trust in her husband. In the immediate aftermath,
it was easy. Theo was remorseful and grateful and had made a real effort to get things back on track between them. But as the months went by and his fame and confidence grew, things began to change. Theo spent more and more time shooting on location, or at the studio, and less and less time at home. Since they’d moved to LA, being at work meant being surrounded by model-perfect women 24/7. Researchers, PR girls, stylists, every single one of them seemed to Theresa to have walked off the pages of
Sports Illustrated
. Even at UCLA, where Theo taught one day a week to keep his “hand in” and his academic credentials current, his students all looked like cheerleaders.

What happened to all the nerds?
Theresa wondered.
Were they exterminated at birth? Or sent to some secret farm of shame beyond the borders of Southern California?
It was the same story with the staff as with the students. At Cambridge, most professors rode knackered old bicycles, had arthritis or hemorrhoids or both, wore shoes with holes to match their socks, and held their trousers up with string. At UCLA, the teachers all looked like newscasters, rich, shiny, and as polished as their expensive sports cars. Worse still was the faux, have-a-nice-day friendliness. Everyone on campus sucked up to Theresa because she was Theo Dexter’s wife. But even after a year working there, there was no one whom Theresa could confide in or share a laugh with the way she used to with Jenny and Jean Paul or her colleagues in the English faculty at Cambridge. Nor was she buffered by the cocoon of protective silence that had kept her in the dark about Theo’s affairs back home. Cambridge was like a giant family. People were kind and tactful and discreet. UCLA was the opposite, sleek and cutthroat and riven with politics, like a corporation. Here, no one shielded Theresa from the gossip about Theo’s philandering. Eventually it reached a point where even Theresa could no longer ignore it. Theo was sleeping with every good-looking woman who crossed his path: students, colleagues at work, waitresses, models, air stewardesses (on his long trips
to promote
Dexter’s Universe
in Europe and Asia), fans, journalists. When she challenged him about a specific rumor he would either deny the liaison outright or turn things around to try to blame his wandering eye on Theresa. She was unsupportive. She was miserable. She embarrassed him with her frumpy clothes. She never made an effort. Depressed, lonely, and demoralized, Theresa had started comfort eating, and drinking, knocking back her first strong gin and tonic the second the clock struck six each night. By the end of their second year in LA, she had gained almost forty pounds.

“Dr. Dexter!”

Theresa spun around. She’d finally been awarded her doctorate six months ago. It still felt strange, and gratifying, when people referred to her by her new title.

“Do you have a second?” Theresa recognized the girl from her seminar on
As You Like It
. Even by UCLA standards she was strikingly beautiful, with flawless, dark Persian skin and an oil slick of lustrous black hair, like Aladdin’s Princess Jasmine.

“Of course,” Theresa said kindly. Shakespeare’s comedies were more complex than many scholars gave them credit for. Theresa always enjoyed leading a new generation of students through their mysteries. “How can I help?”

The girl blushed. “Actually, I was kinda hoping you would give this to Theo…Professor Dexter for me. It’s a copy of my résumé. He said he might be able to put in a word for me about an internship at the studio?”

Theresa thought,
Why do American girls insist on pronouncing every statement as if it were a question?
Then she thought,
I wonder if Theo’s already slept with her?

“Sure.” She took the résumé, not knowing what else to do. “I’ll pass it along.”

Driving home in the expensive car Theo had bought for her—how she missed her old Beetle!—Theresa fought back depression like King Canute fighting back the waves. Tonight was the
Make-A-Wish charity fundraiser at the Beverly Hills Hotel, one of the most glamorous social events in the Hollywood calendar. For once, Theo had insisted Theresa go with him. “It’s a family event. People will expect to see you there. But do
please
try to make an effort. All sorts of bigwigs from our sponsors are going to be there. I need to look credible.”

“Credible” was Theo’s latest buzzword. Theresa wondered,
Credible to whom, and for what?
She failed to see how squeezing her fat rolls into a Spanx bodysuit and plastering on the makeup was going to make the slightest difference to Theo’s career. Especially as, no matter how hard she tried, she could never hope to compete with the size zero, Herve Leger shrink-wrapped bimbos that thronged to events like these.

But I must try. I must. He’s only running around with other women because I always look such a fright.
Passing a hair salon in Brentwood that had “Walk Ins Welcome” embossed in cheery red paint across the front window, Theresa pulled over.

Theo leaned on his horn. “Bloody traffic,” he moaned. “This city is ridiculous. It’s seven at night and you still can’t move on bloody Sunset.” He beeped again, setting off an echo of irritated replies from the cars in front of them.

“Try to keep calm, darling,” said Theresa. “We’re only five minutes late.”

Theo looked over at the passenger seat. Theresa, for once, looked half decent tonight. She could still stand to lose twenty pounds, at least. But the floor-length, silver Elie Saab dress she was wearing flattered her figure, making her look womanly rather than fat and showcasing her undeniably marvelous (and natural) cleavage. Her red hair was swept into a sixties-inspired updo, a look that was topped off with thick, black Marilyn Monroe eyeliner. All in all the effect was a satisfactorily fifties sex-siren.
I might even screw her tonight
, Theo thought idly.
God knows it’s been awhile.

He was in a bad mood thanks to an e-mail he’d received that afternoon from the editor at the
New Scientist
, politely but firmly rejecting his offer to write a regular column on the changing face of physics. The little dweeb had had the temerity to imply that Theo’s academic credentials weren’t lofty enough for his shitty, second-rate magazine. “It’s an amazingly generous offer, Professor Dexter, especially from a figure as high profile and, I don’t doubt, busy as yourself. But our readership is primarily research scientists, working in the field. I’m sure you’ll understand that their needs and interests are very different from your audience’s. As editor, I need to be mindful of that.”