Scandalous (25 page)

Dita flipped over onto her back and did a few languid strokes across the swimming pool. Theo watched her flawless naked body, her breasts bobbing on top of the water like two buoys, her legs slightly parted to reveal a tantalizing hint of coral-pink labia as she wiggled her toes, and felt his dick start to harden.

“Come here,” he called across the splashing.

“Why?” Dita smiled coquettishly, opening her thighs wider. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Theo grinned.
How the hell did I get this lucky?

He’d moved out of the Bel Air house last month and rented this place in Beverly Hills, nominally for the privacy (Theo and Dita were “so tired” of the relentless press attention) but actually because George Clooney used to own it and Theo thought that was cool. Though smaller than the Bel Air mansion, the house managed to be even more impressive, largely thanks to the gadgetry in every room. This was a bona fide LA party house.
Vast outdoor TV screens surrounded the pool, rising up out of the stone at the touch of a button. In the master bedroom, the heart-shaped bath filled from a hidden pump in the ceiling, and the Jacuzzi turned on when you said “bubbles.” But the greatest luxury of all was Dita herself. It wasn’t just her perfect, made-for-sex body or her relentless, unstoppable libido that excited Theo. It was her fame. Being with Dita Andreas was like being sprinkled with Hollywood fairy dust. Overnight, Theo had gone from being a celebrity to being a star. And to think, he’d almost passed on all of this because he was too scared of hurting his image with a divorce. What a fool he’d been!

“You have ten seconds to get out of that pool,” he growled lustfully at Dita, “or I swear to God, I’m coming in to get you.”

“Really?” Dita hauled herself up out of the water and walked toward him dripping, like Bond girl Ursula Andress without the bikini. Perching on the edge of Theo’s sun lounger, she wrung out her hair, deliberately dropping cold water onto his erection.

“Bitch.” He kissed her, reaching between her legs.

“Uh-uh.” Dita stood up and grabbed a towel. “Sorry baby. We don’t have time. We’re meeting Ray, remember?”

Theo groaned. Ray Angelastro was a movie agent, one of the biggest names at CAA. Dita was convinced that Theo had a future on the big screen and had been pushing for this meeting for weeks. Theo wasn’t so sure.

“I’m not an actor, Dita. I’m a scientist.”

“You
were
a scientist,” Dita corrected him. “Now you’re a brand. Especially since the new Asia deal, a very marketable brand.”

It was true, Theo’s trip to Asia had been successful beyond even his wildest fantasies. Not only had
Dexter’s Universe
been syndicated in every major market, but he’d been offered an endorsement deal by Canon cameras that would catapult his earnings into the stratosphere. And it didn’t end there. Theo’s combination of all-American good looks, British James Bond
suaveness, and scientific credibility was the Holy Grail for Asian consumers. He returned to LA overwhelmed with offers to promote everything from aftershave to coffee to computer games.

“Studios love brands,” Dita assured him. “Any idiot can act.”

Watching her dry herself with a towel and pull a bright-yellow micro-mini sundress over her head, Theo resented the meeting with Angelastro more than ever. All he wanted to do was take Dita upstairs and bang her till she begged him to stop. Not that that would ever happen. But at the same time, he loved her for pushing him. Theresa had never understood his ambition. She was always wanting to hold him back, hankering after the simpler life they’d left behind in England. Well now she could have it. On the paltry divorce settlement he’d made her, she’d be able to live very simply indeed. Briefly, Theo wondered where Theresa was at that moment and whether she was happy. But only briefly.

Now then. What to wear to this morning’s meeting?
Ray Angelastro was a flaming homosexual.
I’ll wear my new Gucci suit. The one with the tight-fitting pants. It’s formal for Hollywood, but it should get Ray’s motor running.

Theo stood up, stretched, and followed Dita indoors.

“Oh my God.
Oh
, my
GOD
!” Jenny Aubrieau stood on the front step of Theresa’s new cottage in Grantchester, gasping for breath. A medieval longhouse painted palest pink with a low, thatched roof and stone-mullioned windows, it was ridiculously Disney-idyllic. “It’s exquisite. Like something out of a
Flower Faeries
illustration.” Turning to her children she roared, “Ben, Amelie! Get
out
of that flowerbed,
now
. If you trample so much as one of those gorgeous hollyhocks I will personally run over your PlayStation with your father’s lawnmower.”

“Great place.” Jean Paul, Jenny’s husband, kissed Theresa on the cheek and handed her an expensive bottle of Chablis as his son and daughter charged past them into the house. “We would ’ave left the kids at home, but no babysitter will take them.” He grinned.

“I’d have shot you if you left them behind,” said Theresa. “There’s a tree house in the back garden with a rope swing that goes right out over the river. They’ll love it.”

“Daaaaaad!” Ben’s whoop of delight could be heard all the way to Trumpington Street. “Come and see this!”

To a soundtrack of happily screaming children mingled with late-summer birdsong and Handel’s
Messiah
on Radio 3, Theresa gave Jenny a tour of the cottage. Inside it was all low beams and inglenook fireplaces. Theresa had only moved in a few weeks ago, but already she’d made the place a home, filling it with books and framed botanical prints and jugs stuffed with wildflowers from the riverbank. She’d left LA with nothing, no furniture, no clothes. Moving to Willow Tree Cottage was a fresh start in every sense of the word. Thanks to her divorce settlement, she’d been able to buy it for cash, with money to spare to spend on furniture, rugs, and the like. Putting the place together had been a godsend, the first thing she’d actually enjoyed doing since Theo left her. She was proud of it.

“Bed’s a bit small,” said Jenny, bouncing on the faded rose-patterned quilt covering Theresa’s barely queen-size four-poster.

“It’s a small room.”

“Why didn’t you take the bigger one, at the front? There’s easily room for a king in there.”

“I like the view. And the window seat,” said Theresa, unlatching the ancient, tiny window to reveal a glorious vista of open fields with King’s College spires in the distance.

“Wow,” sighed Jenny. “If I divorce JP and dump the children, will you adopt me?”

Theresa smiled. She hadn’t added that she had no need of a king-size bed. That she’d slept in one at Aisling and Richard’s and woken up every morning reaching for an absent Theo.

Sensing a shift in her mood, Jenny put her arms around her friend. “Are you eating? You feel like skin and bone.”

“I’m drinking. Does that count?” Theresa joked. It was ironic. All those failed diets and yoga regimens in LA, trying endlessly to get thin for Theo, and the moment he left her the weight fell off like flesh from a well-steamed sea bass. “I made us paella for tonight and tomato salad from the garden. Will the children eat fish?”

“Amelie will. Ben will eat anything if you drown it in ketchup.”

Theresa’s face fell. “Oh dear. I’m not sure I have any ketchup.”

Jenny reached into her capacious mother’s handbag and pulled out a red plastic bottle. “Never fear. We bring our own. Like insulin.”

Supper was a riot. It was wonderful to be with Jenny and JP again. Theresa hadn’t seen Ben and Amelie since they were toddlers, and while the kids were unrecognizable, their parents were the same funny, charming, understanding people they’d always been. After Theresa’s accident, Jenny called the LA hospital every day and was the first to offer support, both practical and emotional, when Theresa announced she’d be moving back to Cambridge. After a month in her new job at Christ’s she still cried about Theo at least once a day and thought about him constantly. But it was a relief to dive back into the cool, restorative waters of her beloved Shakespeare. As for Cambridge itself, the city never failed to lift her spirits.

When the Realtor first drove her out to Grantchester, Theresa was resistant. A pretty hamlet a few miles from the town center, best known for being home to the poet Rupert Brooke and latterly to author Jeffrey Archer, it would mean driving in to work every morning. Living in Los Angeles had left Theresa with an
abiding hatred of commuting, however short the distance. “I’m sure it’s a charming property. But I really am set on finding something closer to college. I wouldn’t want to waste anyone’s ti—” They turned a corner and there it was: Willow Tree Cottage with its overflowing cottage garden, its lichened gate, its thatch, and its winding swath of lawn rolling down to the river and the eponymous willow tree.

“It’s perfect,” Theresa sighed. “That’s the one.” To the agent’s delight, she wrote a check for the full asking price on the spot.

“The starter was delicious,” pronounced Jean Paul, finishing off his third enormous helping of paella while Theresa opened a third bottle of wine. “What is the main course?”

His wife hit him over the head with a napkin. “Ignore him, T.
Il est un cochon
.” They kissed and Theresa thought,
They’re like teenagers, so in love. Were Theo and I ever like that?

As if in answer to the question, Jenny asked brusquely, “So is it all over now, the divorce paperwork and stuff? You’re done?”

“Yes,” said Theresa, unable to keep the note of sadness out of her voice. “We’re done.”

“Good. You’re well shot of him, T, isn’t she, darling?”

JP nodded through his last mouthful of rice.

“Honestly, I could never say it at the time. But he was always an asshole, even before he was famous. Now he’s a plastic, airbrushed, American asshole, which is even worse.”

Theresa tried to smile.

“Ooh, this will make you laugh,” said Jenny. “Guess what I read the other day? The name Theodore is Latin for ‘God’s Gift’! Do you think he christened himself?”

Amelie wandered in from the garden. At nine years old she already looked distinctly teenage, with her blue, chipped nail polish and a Girls Aloud T-shirt that clung to the two tiny, nascent mounds that would eventually become her breasts. Bored of the rope swing, she was deep in some sort of gossip
magazine. Quick as a flash, her father yanked it out of her hands.

“
Qu-est-ce que c’est
, Amelie, this rubbish? What do you read this for? Whatever ’appened to My Little Horses?”

“My Little Pony,” said Jenny. “Give it back to her, JP, don’t be annoying.”

But father and daughter were already caught up in a familiar game, with Jean Paul holding the magazine at arm’s length, out of Amelie’s reach, and reciting passages in his embarrassing-dad voice while she screeched at him to stop.

“Oh my God, you are so
sad
, Dad,” she howled. “Mum, make him give it back.”

“Listen to this,” laughed Jean Paul. “‘Six things your man wants you to do in bed but is too scared to ask.’ Zat one is followed by ‘Angie and Brad, why it’s
really
over’ and…” He turned the next page then stopped abruptly, blushing. Seizing her chance, Amelie snatched the magazine while his guard was down and dropped it onto the table. There, grinning up at Theresa, were Theo and Dita. They looked picture-perfect, with their matching white smiles and blond haircuts, radiating happiness and love and success.

“Don’t look at it,” said Jenny, reaching for the offending object. “Don’t give them the satisfaction.” But Theresa stopped her arm. It wasn’t the picture she was looking at. It was the headline:

“AND BABY MAKES THREE”

“M
ORE WINE
?”

Sasha looked across the table at the man sitting opposite her. In the soft glow of the candlelight he looked even better than he had in the gym last week, when he’d asked her out after spin class. Tall, athletic, faintly rugged in a hot-plumber-from-
Desperate-Housewives
sort of way.

Positives: He’s seen me at my worst, hyperventilating and dripping with sweat, and he still fancies me.