Scandalous (51 page)

T
HERESA WALKED DOWN
the Fulham Road, idly looking in the windows of some of the more froufrou baby shops. Were there really people prepared to pay a hundred and twenty pounds for a pair of cashmere booties? She supposed there must be.

She’d come to London to get away. There was no way she could stay in Cambridge after the
Varsity
story broke. After Horatio left Willow Tree Cottage, Theresa drove straight to her sonogram appointment and promptly burst into tears all over her obstetrician.

“Professor O’Connor,” the doctor told her sternly, when Theresa finished explaining what had happened, “you must rest. Your blood pressure is elevated. Clearly you are in great emotional distress. Is there somewhere you can go, for a few days at least? Somewhere quiet?”

Willow Tree Cottage was quiet, but it wouldn’t be for long. By this evening she would have become a local celebrity of the worst possible sort, and the phone and doorbell would not stop ringing. She could go to Jenny and JP’s, but the Aubrieau household, though welcoming, could hardly be described as “quiet,” still less restful.

“Ideally, you should get out of Cambridge.”

Theresa’s thoughts immediately turned to Aisling. Her old friend’s house in Parson’s Green had been a sanctuary once before when her life was falling apart.
Not that my life is falling apart
, she told herself firmly.
I’m having a baby and I refuse to be unhappy about it.
But still, things were undoubtedly complicated. Sasha Miller called as Theresa was leaving Addenbrooke’s, begging her not to withdraw her name from the St. Michael’s mastership ballot.

“If I don’t withdraw voluntarily they’ll kick me off,” said Theresa. “I’m not sure how much humiliation I can take in one week.”

“They won’t kick you off. I promise you that.”

“But how
can
you promise me? There are rules, Sasha…”

“Which you haven’t broken,” Sasha interrupted.

“…and traditions, which I certainly
have
broken. Truthfully, I don’t even know if I want this anymore. Perhaps Theo
is
more suited to the job than I am.”

In the end, Sasha had been so insistent, so vociferous, that Theresa hadn’t the energy to fight about it. Sasha had problems of her own to deal with, some work crisis or other, but she’d made Theresa promise not to withdraw before she left. That afternoon Theresa caught the train to King’s Cross, confidently expecting her phone to ring at any moment and Anthony Greville to start delivering the inevitable blow: “Under the circumstances…college’s reputation…” but miraculously the call never came, not that day, nor the next. It occurred to Theresa that perhaps the St. Michael’s master couldn’t get through, what with all the other calls she’d been getting, from the English faculty, the university authorities, the Jesus College Council, not to mention friends, family, and of course, the press. The only person who hadn’t called was Horatio. Horatio, and Anthony Greville.

This morning was election day. After Theresa’s phone rang three times during breakfast, Aisling leaned across the table and swiped it. Switching it off, she slipped it into her jacket pocket.

“That’s it. I’m confiscating this bloody thing.”

“You can’t confiscate my phone, Aisling!” Theresa laughed. “I need it.”

“Bollocks. You need to rest. That’s what you’re here for. Besides, I just did confiscate it. Go and have a facial or something. Go shopping. Go do whatever it is you do to relax.”

Unable to think of anything except curling up in Horatio Hollander’s arms by the fire at Willow Tree Cottage, Theresa turned on the television. She was immediately punished by seeing Theo’s face twinkling back at her. The morning shows were running highlights from his interview with Connor Greaves, which had drawn huge ratings last night. Listening to him ramble on about “coming full circle” and his “need to give back,” Theresa wondered how she had ever been in love with him. Everything about him, from the words coming out of his mouth to his Hollywood-white smile and perfectly youthful blond mop of hair, was fake. She touched her belly lovingly and switched him off.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go for a walk.”

Strolling past Bambino’s, possibly West London’s most overpriced baby shop, she stopped at a secondhand bookstore and picked up a couple of dog-eared Dr. Seuss books—whatever kind of kid she produced, she could not imagine it turning its nose up at
Green Eggs and Ham
—then ducked into a Starbucks for some tea and cake. She thought idly about Sasha and her work crisis. It was strange how, for all her money and success, Sasha hadn’t been able to let Theo go.
She cares more about the mastership of St. Michael’s than I do
, thought Theresa, picturing Sasha at a desk in some palatial, glass-walled corner office, waiting anxiously for tonight’s results. She hoped she wasn’t going to be too disappointed.

Sasha
was
sitting in a palatial, glass-walled corner office. And she was disappointed. But it had nothing to do with Theo Dexter.

Last night, Ceres’s senior staff had voted overwhelmingly to accept Wrexall’s offer. After Doug Carrabino’s call, Sasha had rushed home to fight off a hostile takeover bid, only to discover that her colleagues seemed to view it as a love-marriage. Sasha felt like a jilted wife, watching her husband run off into the sunset with his mistress.

“You still have a controlling share of the company,” Doug reminded her. “You can veto.”

“And what, watch all my people start hating me? Sit here while they leave, one by one? I’d rather be shot in the heart than slowly bleed to death.”

“Don’t you think you’re looking at this a little bleakly?” said Doug. “Wrexall Dupree made us a great offer. You’re going to make a ton of money, have a seat on the board of the biggest real-estate giant in the world. The synergies are incredible…”

“Please.” Sasha held up a hand and fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Do
not
say ‘synergies.’ You sound like a business school handbook.”

“I know you’ve had your issues with the culture there. But we can change them.”

Sasha laughed. “Sure, Doug.” How many dynamic boutique companies had sold out to leviathans like Wrexall, doped up on promises that they could preserve their culture, their uniqueness, their entrepreneurial spirit?
Give it a year and Ceres’ll be completely subsumed. Two years and no one will even remember the name. We didn’t get married. We got eaten.

But no one else saw it that way. The markets roared their approval of the “merger.” Sasha’s phone had been ringing off the hook all day with excited
Wall Street Journal
reporters wanting a punchy, upbeat quote from the woman who was about to become one of the wealthiest on Wall Street. But both Sasha Miller and Wrexall’s chairman, Jackson Dupree, had remained bizarrely silent, letting their henchmen give the statements and do the cartwheels for them.

At six p.m., Sasha left the office, still looking like a woman in mourning. It was election day at St. Michael’s today, but there would be no result for hours. Since she’d got back to New York, Sasha had been plunged so deeply into crisis management she hadn’t had a second to think about what was happening in Cambridge, still less to chase Anthony Greville. Would he be able to bring his colleagues around and get them to vote for Theresa? Sasha figured his chances at fifty-fifty. Of course, if he didn’t, and if Theo Dexter was appointed master, she still had no intention of building those apartments. She didn’t need the money, that was for sure. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have wanted to be the woman who defaced the most beautiful town in England. But Greville didn’t know that. He would try his best. The only question was whether his best would be good enough.

Outside on Wall Street, the warm, late-spring evening seemed to have brought the usually weary commuters to life. Some were heading home after a long day at their computer screens. Others were on the way to the bar, secretaries in laughing, sisterly groups, traders sparring with each other as they walked, still pumped full of testosterone and unexpended energy from the high-stakes tension of the day. Too depressed to go straight home but too morose for company, Sasha decided to do something she never did. Go shopping.

“Bergdorf Goodman, please,” she told the cab driver, jumping into the first car in the long yellow line outside her office. Everyone kept telling her how rich she was about to become. It was time for a little retail therapy.

All the way to Fifth Avenue, Sasha tried to think about clothes, things that she wanted. Half of America seemed to view her as some sort of fashion role model, but the truth was she’d never been very interested in the things other women were interested in. Shoes, handbags, Chloé cocktail dresses, and Balmain smoking jackets, it was all just so much
stuff
. Still, she had nothing else to do. And perhaps if she looked good, she might start
feeling good? She had yet to officially decline Wrexall’s offer of a seat on the board. Until the deal went through it would be foolish to rock the boat. But she knew that there was about as much chance of her working with Jackson Dupree every day as of America winning the World Cup. No, the merger would be the end of an era for Sasha. She must find something else to do, something else to live for. She realized with a sinking heart that she had no idea what that something might be.

They’d arrived. Pulling herself together, Sasha handed the driver a twenty and stepped outside. Just as she did so she was almost knocked flying by the woman taking her cab. “Hey! Watch where you’re going,” she said indignantly. The woman was more shopping bag than person. Every time she turned she was in danger of knocking another hapless pedestrian off their feet.

“Sorry,” yelped a voice from beneath the pile of bags. It had been years, but it was a voice Sasha knew instantly.

“Lottie?”

“Sasha?”

The cab driver was getting impatient. “Hey. Lady. D’you want a ride or not?”

“Not,” said Lottie, absentmindedly. Dropping her purchases with a clatter, she stared at Sasha as if she’d just seen a ghost. Sasha stared back. On Lottie’s tiny frame the bump was unmistakable. Either she’d just shoplifted a basketball or she was pregnant.
A baby. Jackson’s baby.
Just at that moment, like a walk-on cameo in some terrible, predictable horror movie, Jackson himself emerged from the store.

“Hey, Lottie, did we forget the…” The words died on his lips. Unlike the two women, however, he managed to recover himself sufficiently to speak. “Sasha. How are you? I’ve been meaning to call you directly. I should have, I know, but this deal’s had me swamped and I…”

“I know. It’s OK. I understand,” said Sasha. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Lottie’s swollen belly had a lock on
her eyes like some kind of torturous magnet. She felt like Luke Skywalker being sucked in toward the Death Star.

“Congratulations on the merger.” Lottie finally found her voice. “Everyone seems pleased.”

“Thanks,” said Sasha. There wasn’t much else to say. Jackson was staring at her so forcefully she had no choice but to look up. When she did she saw an expression in his eyes that she couldn’t read. It was part anguish, part anger, as if he were making an important point but she’d failed to understand him.

“I didn’t vote for it, you know. The merger. It was Bob Massey’s baby.”

Sasha’s eyes narrowed.
Unbelievable! He wants to wriggle off the hook.
“You’re the chairman. You could have vetoed.”

“So could you,” said Jackson.

Sasha opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Partly because he was, of course, right. And partly because she realized that she didn’t care anymore. Merger or no merger, Lottie was still standing there, still pregnant, still about to get into a car with Jackson and drive away, forever. It took every ounce of Sasha’s strength to look Lottie in the eye, smile, and say what she should have said the moment she saw her.

“Congratulations on the baby. When are you due?”

“August.” Lottie’s eyes lit up. She wasn’t gloating; she wasn’t capable of it. She just radiated happiness.
That pregnant glow.

“We should be going.” Jackson stepped forward, relieving Lottie of her shopping bags and helping her into a cab. He was frowning again, angry, though at what Sasha had no idea. Surely if anyone had a right to be upset it was she? “Nice to see you, Sasha. Take care.” And with a slam of the car door, they were gone.

Sasha stood on the sidewalk for a long time, unsure what to do. She could hardly go in and buy dresses. But where else should she go? The urge to burst into tears was getting stronger and must, she realized, be resisted at all costs. People were already looking at her oddly as they walked past. Many of them, she knew, must
recognize her.
I have to get out of here.
Finally she jumped in a cab and went home. Once safely inside the cocoon of her apartment, she kicked off her shoes, walked into the kitchen, and unearthed a year-old bottle of Scotch. Pouring it into a mug as if it were tea, she sank down at the table and took a long, deep slug. It burned, but it was good, warming, comforting. She drank again, and again, and with each swallow the image of Jackson’s face faded. When the mug was finished she poured herself another. Soon Jackson Dupree, along with everything else, was gone.