Scandalous (46 page)

Ever since Lucius Monroe had dropped dead of a heart attack last year and Jackson had assumed the chairmanship of Wrexall Dupree, the tension in the boardroom had risen exponentially. Jackson had never fully forgiven Bob Massey for trying to oust him years earlier. And Massey remained dismissive of Jackson’s talents and distrustful of his motives. Today was a case in point. The entire board had voted in favor of launching a takeover bid for Ceres. Sasha Miller’s inexplicable leave of absence had left the market jittery and the company vulnerable. There were sound business reasons for reintegrating what was still, at its heart, an ex-Wrexall group. By recombining the two companies, their position as market leader would be unassailable. Even Raj Patel was on board. It hadn’t occurred to any of them that Jackson Dupree of all people might object. Jackson who had protested so much when they let the Ceres guys go in the first place.

“I think we’d all rest easier if we understood the basis for your objection,” Dan Peters said reasonably.

“It’s not a good fit, that’s all.” Jackson sounded defensive.

“Sure it is. Did you even look at the numbers?” snapped Bob.

“Numbers aren’t everything. Those guys left us once, whining about our ‘hostile corporate culture’ and what a nightmare we were to work for. We don’t need that kind of attitude. Besides, Raj’s division is doing great as it is.”

“They’re number two in the sector,” said Dan Peters. “Ceres is still number one. It’s very unlikely we’ll get an opportunity like this again, Jackson. With Sasha Miller gone they’re uniquely vulnerable. In a few months she’ll most likely be back, and then the window will have closed.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Harvey Tyler, the newest and youngest board member piped up from the back of the room. Harvey rarely contributed at meetings. He was more of the shy, cerebral, number-crunching type. Everyone turned to stare at him. “The rumor on the street is that she’s sick. It could be another Steve Jobs situation.”

Hearing him refer to the Apple founder’s famously secretive battle with pancreatic cancer some years back made Jackson feel ill.
Who said Sasha had cancer? That’s ridiculous. She’d taken a break for personal reasons and that was all there was to it.
He got to his feet. “We are not going to launch a bid for Ceres. If you want a reason, Bob, try this: it’s never the right time to buy the wrong company.” With this pronouncement he swept regally out of the room.

The board watched him go. A deep feeling of unease settled over the table. Inevitably, Bob Massey was the first to voice it.

“Am I the only person sick to my stomach right now?
Not a good fit!
It’s the perfect fucking fit. What the hell is he doing?”

“Maybe he knows something we don’t,” said the head of compliance.

“Maybe he’s just too fried to think about it,” suggested the CFO. “My secretary heard from
his
secretary that his wife’s pregnant. Apparently his stress levels are through the roof.”

“Yeah, well he can join the club,” said Bob Massey with feeling. “We need to stand together on this. We should demand a
clear, written analysis of his objections. Ceres is down, it’s weak, it’s on the goddamn floor. If we don’t go in for the kill now, we will wind up regretting it for the next ten years.”

His colleagues nodded silently. They all agreed.

“You can go ahead and ‘demand’ what you want,” said Dan Peters, gathering up his papers. He was as disappointed as any of them by Jackson’s decision, but he was also a realist. “The fact is, he has a veto, and if he wants to use it, he will. Forget it, Bob. The deal is dead.”

Down the hall in his office, Jackson squeezed the executive stress ball Lottie had bought him until his fingers were numb. He knew that Bob Massey was right. They should go after Ceres. Sasha had founded the company by striking while
he
was absent without leave. What was stopping him doing the same to her, in the name of good business? Some misplaced idea about gentlemanly conduct? He didn’t know himself, and that made him mad.
Why am I protecting her? If I can’t stick the knife in, if I don’t have the stomach for it, then I shouldn’t be in the fight, still less commanding the troops.

He thought about Lottie. When he left their apartment this morning she’d been on her knees, slumped over the toilet with morning sickness. But nothing could dim her happiness about the baby, her certainty that the little person growing inside her would bring the two of them closer together. Jackson tried to share her joy. He tried so hard, the effort of it made his limbs ache, almost as if he had flu.

I have to get a grip
, he told himself.
It’s my old fear of commitment, that’s all, except this time it’s fatherhood I’m running away from. I need to relax, go with the flow.
He was gripping the stress ball so tightly, it shot out of his hand and rolled across the floor. Wearily, Jackson walked over and picked it up. He knew he hadn’t heard the last about a Ceres takeover. Bob Massey wasn’t a man who gave up easily, especially when he was right. The longer Sasha stayed away, the harder it would be for him to defend his position.

Where the hell is she?

T
HEO SAT BY
the fire in the grand drawing room of the St. Michael’s Master’s Lodge, admiring the priceless artwork. There were two Constables on either side of the full-height sash window, and an enormous Turner hanging above the fireplace.
I could get used to this
, he thought, sipping his freshly filled glass of Château d’Ychem.
It already feels like home.

Anthony Greville had thrown a small welcome-back-to-Cambridge soiree in Theo’s honor. Greville had made no secret of the fact that Dexter was his preferred successor as master. He was supported in this by the bulk of the fellowship, who all wanted a share of the profits they assumed a “star” like Theo would bring to the college. But supporting Theo’s candidacy and stomaching him as a person were two very different things. Jealousy and loathing hung in the air like thick cigar smoke.

“Didn’t you bring your wife?” Thomas Dean, the head of engineering, was a new face since Theo’s day. Thin to the point of emaciation, with ugly, angular features and flaky skin, he reminded Theo of a statue he once saw at the Getty Museum in LA, a male figure made out of wire coat hangers. “She’s the big draw, you know. It’s Dita we all want to see, not your ugly mug!”

It was delivered as a joke, but the hostility beneath Tom Dean’s yellow smile was transparent.

“She’ll be joining me in a few weeks,” said Theo smoothly, “once the children start spring break. We don’t want to unsettle them more than we have to. Not until we’re sure we’re moving here permanently.”

“Nonsense.” Anthony Greville tottered over.
Christ, he looks old
, thought Theo,
like he might drop dead any minute
. “Of course you’re moving here permanently. The whole college supports you, isn’t that right, Johnny?”

Another frail, elderly man had joined the group by the fire. It took Theo a moment to recognize him as Jonathan Cavendish, head of history and one of his bêtes noirs from the old days.

“Hmm?” Johnny tapped his hearing aid. “Oh, yes, yes, jolly good.”

The Johnny Cavendish Theo remembered was a booming Friar Tuck of a man, hugely fat, drinking and smoking himself to an early grave. Or so Theo had thought.
How on earth did he make old bones?

“Not the
whole
college, Anthony. You really must try not to be so sweeping.”

Theo looked up. Now
that
was more like it. A very attractive blonde woman in her early thirties was helping herself to a canapé from the tray next to him. She wore a subtly clinging gray jersey dress with black tights and boots, and she positively radiated disapproval.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Theo stood up and offered her his hand. “Theo Dexter.”

“Georgia Frobisher,” said the blonde, shaking hands stiffly. “And we have met, as it happens. Many years ago. I was an undergraduate here when you were teaching.”

“I don’t think so.” Theo looked at her meaningfully, giving her the benefit of his practiced Hollywood smolder. “I wouldn’t have forgotten a face like yours.”

The blonde’s look of disapproval intensified. “You didn’t teach
me
. You taught a friend of mine. Sasha Miller.”

The smile melted on Theo’s face. “Oh.”

“Professor Frobisher is our director of studies for architecture,” said Anthony Greville, without enthusiasm. “Our resident feminist, aren’t you Georgia?”

“Fuck off, Master,” said Georgia robustly, helping herself to two more smoked salmon blinis before walking away.

Theo raised an eyebrow. You wouldn’t have got away with insubordination like that in his day.
When I’m master, she’ll be the first to go.

The elections were in three weeks’ time. Three weeks in which Theo intended to make the most of Dita’s absence and enjoy all that Cambridge had to offer. She’d agreed to make at least one trip over, to help him campaign, but it shouldn’t be for more than a few days. He wondered how hard it would be to seduce the prickly Professor Frobisher before then. Fucking her
and
firing her would be double the thrill. But perhaps he should make life easy on himself and stick with pretty undergraduates instead? That was like shooting fish in a barrel—all the satisfaction but none of the challenge.

He was thinking wistfully about a redhead he’d seen walking across Second Court only this morning when he realized he was being spoken to.

“…reach our fund-raising targets. I’d like to carve out some time with you if I may. There are a number of urgent projects we need to prioritize…”

Dominic Lawless, the college bursar, was as dull an accountant as one could ever hope to meet. Theo struggled to focus on his monotonous drone as he driveled on about interest rates and alumni donors.

“Of course, Dom. That’s a priority for me, too.”

Theo was well aware that his support base for the mastership was founded on a belief that he was wildly wealthy, with access to mythical, limitless amounts of cash, cash that he would be happy to channel into St. Michael’s College coffers. Had any
of the fellows seen Dita’s latest livid-red credit card statement, not to mention the lawsuits pending against Theo’s production company for a web of unpaid loans, their enthusiasm for his candidacy might well evaporate.

For the next month Theo would have to walk a tightrope, hinting at money and connections while keeping his specific promises vague. Then, after he was master, he would gently lower expectations. After all, it wasn’t as if he were broke or anything, and he
could
raise St. Michael’s profile, something that the other candidates, including poor old Theresa, had no hope of doing. Hugh Mullaney-Stoop from Robinson was grayer than a misty morning in Scotland, the sort of man who faded into a crowd even when there was no one else in the room. Graham North was an engineer, which everyone knew was code for “socially inadequate.” He could barely make eye contact, never mind raise money. Andrew Gray, the other St. Michael’s fellow who’d been in the running, had pulled his name out once he heard Theo had applied for the job. It was fair to say they weren’t exactly awash with options. Theo had come back to Cambridge to save money, not spend it. Poor Dom was in for a shock.

“This week I’m completely snowed, as you can imagine,” he said soothingly. “But maybe we can sit down next week. Get a handle on the big picture?”

“Sure, sure, absolutely.” Dom nodded like a dashboard dog.

Theo was used to obsequiousness. The world of television was full of yes-men. But it wasn’t the same as being kowtowed to by one’s intellectual equals. He had missed Cambridge more than he realized. It was good to be back.

Theresa pushed her cart down the frozen food aisle at Waitrose, trying to think of anything she was allowed to eat that didn’t make her feel nauseous. It wasn’t easy, partly because her obstetrician
had given her a printout as long as her arm about avoiding mercury, vitamin A, uncooked this and overcooked that, and partly because most days even the thought of food made her sick as a dog. All the advice on pregnancy seemed contradictory. Keep active but don’t overexercise. Eat fish, but avoid mercury. Eggs are good, but easy on the cholesterol.
It’s a wonder anyone ever had a healthy baby with this minefield to navigate. Never mind actually held down a job.