Scandalous (48 page)

It had been surreal, running into Theresa earlier. By God she’d looked a fright! And aged too, with those deep, dark circles under her eyes, not to mention the old-lady clothes she was wearing. Any lingering doubts he’d had about her prospects of beating him to the job had been well and truly dispelled. She might have Georgia Frobisher and the rest of the politically correct feminist brigade on her side, but she couldn’t seriously hope to be appointed master looking as if she’d just broken out of the local lunatic asylum.
Thank God I got rid of her when I did.
He shuddered, imagining for a second how different his life and career might look today had Theresa, not Dita, spent the last decade on his arm. Of course, Dita bored him now too. It was time for a new chapter. But as a strategic alliance, that marriage had certainly served its purpose.

Walking over Waterloo Bridge, Theo’s thoughts turned to this evening. He was meeting some friends, including Ed Gilliam, for dinner at the Chelsea Arts Club. Helena, a stunning undergraduate he’d met at the university library last weekend,
was catching the train up to town to join him. After making his friends suitably jealous, he would take her on to Annabel’s, then hopefully back to his apartment in Mayfair to continue the night’s entertainment. It had been a long time since Theo had looked forward to an evening more. His excitement was heightened by the knowledge that this would be his last night of fun for a while. Dita arrived in Cambridge tomorrow morning, just in time for the college’s official launch of the mastership election, a grand lunch-party-cum-press-junket in the grounds. Dita had made it plain that she was coming on sufferance.

“You know I hate to leave Milo,” she had whined on the phone last week.

“So bring him. It’s only for a few days, and they’ll be moving here soon enough anyway. Bring them both.”

“
Bring
him? To that wet, damp, toxic climate? Do you
know
how bad his asthma is right now, Theo? Do you care?”

Theo was tempted to hit back that as the boy was being raised in one of the smoggiest, most polluted cities on earth, he was hardly surprised, but he restrained himself. Soon, if things went according to plan, he would be free of Dita’s tantrums forever. Just a few more weeks of making nice…

Turning his mobile phone back on, he saw he had a string of messages. Two from Ed, asking how it had gone with Connor Greaves. Theo texted back “Stellar.” One gloriously X-rated message from Helena—perhaps he’d nix Annabel’s and take her straight home after dinner?—and a fourth, a terse voice mail from Tony Greville’s office at St. Michael’s.

“This is Yasmin Jones. Please call the master as soon as you receive this message.”

Irritated, Theo switched the phone back off.
Fuck you, Greville. I’m not at your beck and call.
If it were that urgent, the old letch could pick up the phone himself.

It was starting to rain. Theo felt the first heavy, ponderous drips on the lapel of his cashmere coat and stuck his hand out.
“Taxi!” A black cab appeared immediately, its orange “For hire” light glowing in welcome. Theo hopped inside.

“Mayfair, please,” he said brightly. This really was turning out to be an excellent day.

Three hours later, having showered and changed into jeans and a gray Armani Exchange polo-neck sweater that the salesman had told him made the blue of his eyes pop, Theo swaggered into the Chelsea Arts Club with Helena on his arm. Ed Gilliam was already at the table with a group of hangers-on.

“My, my,” leered Ed, drooling unashamedly at Helena’s legs in the ultrashort yellow sixties minidress she was wearing. “Does Dita know?”

“Helena’s a friend of mine,” said Theo smugly. “We met at the library in Cambridge last week.”

“Helping her, were you?” Ed lowered his voice.

Theo couldn’t resist a grin. “Now, now. Jealousy’ll get you nowhere. She’s a second-year undergraduate. King’s, I believe. As it happens we have a lot in common.”

“Like what?” Ed guffawed. “Genitals?”

Dinner went swimmingly. The men around the table made no effort to hide their desire for Helena, nor their envy that Theo was quite clearly bedding her. Everyone asked about his interview, due to be aired tomorrow night, and what it felt like to become master of a Cambridge college after so many years in the spotlight.

“It’s humbling,” said Theo, looking about as humble as a pig in shit, and plainly delighted by the attention. The only irritating thing was his telephone, which buzzed ceaselessly in his pocket throughout dinner. He’d agreed to keep it on in case there was a problem with Dita’s flight, but every single call had come from St. Michael’s. In the end he gave in, stomping outside
onto Old Church Street and grudgingly returning Anthony Greville’s calls.

“For fuck’s sake, Tony, I’m having dinner. What’s so bloody urgent? I’ll be back in Cambridge tomorrow, can’t it wait until then?”

“If it could wait, do you think I would have wasted my evening calling you? How dare you screen my calls!” The master’s voice quivered with rage. Theo quickly backtracked.

“I wasn’t screening. I’m in a club, there’s lousy reception here. What’s up?”

“What’s
up
? I’ll tell you what’s up, Theo. Either you wire Dom Lawless eight million pounds first thing tomorrow morning, or you can forget about taking my place next year. And that’s a promise.”

He filled Theo in on the sale of the land adjoining the college and the council’s outrageous plans to build apartments there. “They’ve got some mystery foreign buyer, Arab or Russian I assume, and they’re rushing this thing through. The local press have already got wind of it. Our only hope is to outbid this person and buy the land back ourselves.”

“I see.” Theo paused. He could hear the anxiety in Greville’s voice, and he understood it. The old man’s entire legacy as master was at stake. But the plain truth was Theo didn’t have eight million pounds. Even if he had, he wasn’t about to hand it over to St. Michael’s. Nor did he appreciate being threatened. “Let’s not do anything rash, Tony. The council may yet be open to persuasion. I have influence in media circles. We can make this look very bad for them, defacing the university’s heritage and all that jazz.”

“Don’t try that crap with me, Dexter!” the master wheezed furiously. “Either you come up with that money or there is no ‘we.’ I will personally see to it that the college transfers its allegiance to another candidate.”

“Bullshit,” said Theo firmly. “Like who? Theresa? That geek from Robinson? You think
they’re
going to pull you out of this
hole? It’s your balls on the line here, Tony, not mine. So if you want my help, I suggest you play nice.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Theo could hear the old man’s mind whirring as he weighed up his options. Finally, very quietly, he said, “Be in my office, nine a.m. tomorrow. We’ll talk.”

Walking back into the club, Theo felt an initial glow of satisfaction. He had called Greville’s bluff. Taking the wind out of the old bastard’s sails had felt good. But it only took a few moments for doubts to start creeping in. What if Greville
did
turn on him, out of pure spite? Theo knew there was no love for him at St. Michael’s. That the fellows only supported him because they believed he would bring money to the college. If the ship were going down, perhaps they would prefer it to go down with one of their own at the helm? A nice, committed academic? Like Theresa…

Suddenly he wished he had not waxed quite so lyrical about his future at Cambridge on Connor Greaves’s couch. If the interview aired and Anthony Greville turned on him, he’d become a laughingstock, not just at Cambridge but all over England. He’d have to return to LA and Dita with his tail between his legs.

“Are you OK?” Helena met him at the door, snaking a proprietorial arm around his waist.

“Not really,” snapped Theo, removing her hand and handing her a twenty-pound note. “Here. Get yourself a cab back to Liverpool Street.”

“But…but…what about our night together? I thought…”

“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m not in the mood.”

Grabbing his coat from the cloakroom, Theo stormed off into the night.

Ed Gilliam could see to the bill.

The next morning dawned misty and gray in Cambridge. People loved to moan about the weather, but Theresa adored these sorts of days. The way the fog hung low over the river gave everything a mystic, ethereal look. Plus the drizzle gave one a cast-iron excuse to sit inside wrapped in blankets, eating biscuits and reading, surely one of life’s greatest pleasures.

Today, however, she felt less joyful than usual. Bumping into Theo yesterday had put a damper on her spirits that no amount of stiff talking-tos had been able to shift. On top of that she’d slept badly, and woken at five gripped by the sort of nausea normally associated with violent sea crossings or the stomach flu. Pulling on a dressing gown weakly, she’d finally managed to stagger downstairs at seven and make herself a cup of black tea and a piece of dry toast. But by the time the post arrived at eight, she still felt distinctly subpar. She had a million things to do today, including a sonogram appointment at Addenbrooke’s this morning, and of course this blasted lunch at St. Michael’s for the official launch of the election. In an ideal world she should wash her hair and dig out her barely used makeup bag. As it was, she barely had the strength to switch on the television, never mind shuffle over to the front door and sort through her post. How she was going to grin and bear it for the press at St. Michael’s she had no idea.

Chucking a pile of bills onto the hall table, she returned to the couch with the new copy of
Varsity
. It was a student paper, really, with little in it written directly for the faculty, but Theresa had always enjoyed the gossip and enthusiasm that crammed its pages. Flipping through a piece on
Footlights’
latest production, she turned to page three and froze.

“Oh my God,” she said aloud. “Oh my God, no!”

Sasha was still in the shower when she heard the phone ringing. Running across her hotel room carpet, naked and dripping, she hunted for it under the mound of papers on her desk.

“Hello?”

“Sasha, it’s me.” Theresa was hyperventilating so hard it took Sasha moment to recognize her voice. “Listen, I…I have to pull out of the race.”

“No!” It was almost a shout. “Why? You can’t. I have news for you, really great news. I was trying to reach you yesterday, didn’t you get my messages?”

“Sorry,” Theresa said guiltily. “Yesterday was kind of a bad day. But it doesn’t matter anyway.”

“It does matter! You don’t understand.”

“No, Sasha.
You
don’t understand. I’m pregnant.”

Sasha was silent for a moment. Then she said, “That’s great, isn’t it? Congratulations.”

Theresa gave a short, cynical laugh. “Thanks, but I’m not sure the St. Michael’s fellows are going to be congratulating me. Not when they read the piece in this morning’s
Varsity
.”

She began to read. When she’d finished, Sasha sank down slowly on the bed.

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. Yikes. There’s no way I can go to the lunch today. Not now.”

A small, insistent beeping interrupted their conversation. “Theresa, I have my office on the other line,” said Sasha. “Just don’t do anything rash, OK? Let’s talk again before the lunch. I still think you should go.” Theresa started to protest, but Sasha cut her off, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes as she switched calls. “Hello?”