Tilly Bagshawe 3-book Bundle: Scandalous, Fame, Friends and Rivals

‘Oh, God, sorry. I don’t know why I’m snivelling. I think I’m a little drunk. Then again, I think you must be too. Either that or blind. I’m the fattest woman here by a million miles.’

The man looked at Theresa’s glorious figure poured into her slinky silver dress and laughed. ‘Nonsense. You’ve lost your confidence, that’s all. Trust me, most men aren’t attracted to anorexic airheads with two bags of silicone glued to their ribcage. Not for more than a few seconds anyway. Harry Meister.’

‘Theresa Dexter.’ Theresa shook his hand. Harry was a TV presenter, also at NBC. It turned out he knew Theo slightly through mutual colleagues.

‘So what is the answer, Mr Meister?’ Theresa asked him. ‘If it’s not to be found at the bottom of a bottle of Famous Grouse?’

‘My advice? Get pregnant. I’ve seen hundreds of guys like your husband, new in town and all starry-eyed. Give them a family and they soon settle down.’

He couldn’t have known it was exactly the wrong thing to say. Theresa barely managed to mumble a ‘nice to meet you’ before she ran outside into the parking lot. Slumped against the service doors to the kitchens, she broke down in tears.

He’s right! The one thing that could save my marriage is the one thing Theo knows I’ll probably never be able to give him.

Alone beneath the stars, Theresa wondered how much longer she would be able to hold her marriage together. Years? Months? Weeks? She tried to think back to where it had all begun to go wrong. Immediately one, single, unforgettable image loomed in her mind.

It was Sasha Miller’s face.

CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_69f40e39-9bc3-5795-a873-f08b43e97814)

Sitting in the front row at McCollum Hall, Harvard Business School’s newly renovated auditorium, Sasha Miller waited excitedly for her name to be read out. As the top graduate in her section, she would have a long wait. Her name, as was the tradition, would be called last, and would undoubtedly prompt a standing ovation from her classmates and professors. But that wasn’t why Sasha was excited.

She was excited because now, at last, she could take the first step towards fulfilling her destiny. The destiny that had brought her to Harvard in the first place. The destiny that had made her quit physics and take an MBA. The destiny that had brought her to America.

Now I can start to destroy Theo Dexter.

After the university ruled against her, things unravelled quickly for Sasha at Cambridge. She didn’t stick around to be formally sent down. She’d suffered enough humiliation for one lifetime. Instead she quietly dropped out, intending to write to the physics faculties at the five other universities who’d accepted her, and finish her degree in peace.

It wasn’t to be. It took six months of pleading letters, phone calls and personal references from every teacher she’d ever met to convince any university to admit her. In the end, University College London took pity on Sasha, mainly because the Head of Admissions, James Trethwick, used to go out with St Agnes’s Deputy Headmistress, Diana Drew, and still held a torch for her.

‘I don’t know what happened with this Dexter fellow, but Sasha’s never done anything remotely like this before,’ Diana told James over dinner. ‘And the girl truly is the most gifted physicist I’ve ever taught.’

That much was true. But James Trethwick still came to regret his decision to admit her. With Theo Dexter’s star inexorably rising, media interest in Sasha refused to die. ‘She’s like Monica Lewinsky to Dexter’s Clinton,’ James complained. ‘Dexter gets interviewed on Parkinson and suddenly there are a hundred photographers loitering outside our labs, trying to get a shot of the Miller girl looking sad or defiant or whatever story they’re peddling this week. It’s distracting.’

Luckily, Sasha’s fellow UCL students weren’t distracted for long. She graduated with a top first not much more than a year after enrolling. Her parents took her out for a celebratory meal in Tunbridge Wells.

‘What now, love?’ Sue Miller asked. ‘You’ll be looking for a research fellowship, I suppose?’

‘With your degree scores you can go wherever you like,’ her dad said proudly. ‘You’ll be beating off offers with a stick.’

‘Actually,’ Sasha took a big slug of red wine to steady her nerves, ‘I’ve decided to go to business school.’

‘Business school?’ Don Miller couldn’t have looked more horrified if she’d said she was enrolling in pole dancing academy or jetting off to a jihadist camp in Afghanistan. ‘That’s ridiculous. You’re a scientist, Sasha. You have been since you were knee high.’

Sasha shrugged. ‘Maybe I grew up.’

‘No.’ Don stood up. He was shaking. ‘I can’t let you do this. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life, Sasha. You can’t just give up on physics.’

Sasha looked at her father sadly. He’d never got to live out his own dream of becoming an astronomer. Instead, he’d lived through her. All her life, she’d been a channel for his hopes. Now she was about to dash them. But she knew she had no choice.

‘I didn’t give up on physics, Dad. It gave up on me. It doesn’t matter how brilliant I am, how hard I work, how many times I prove myself. I’ll always be the girl who tried to steal her professor’s theory. I need to start again.’

Don opened his mouth to speak, but Sue interrupted him. Unlike Don, she had never been obsessed with their daughter’s academic career. All Sue Miller wanted was for Sasha to be happy. If that meant a change of direction, then so be it.

‘Where were you thinking of going? For your MBA? Have you applied anywhere yet?’

Sasha took another slug of wine. This was going to be the hardest part of all.

‘Actually, I’ve been accepted. At Harvard.’

‘America?’ This time her parents’ horror was mutual. ‘You’re going to America?’

I am. Theo Dexter’s in America. I’m going to move there and work my arse off and make a success of my life. I’m going to become rich and powerful. Then I’m going to figure out a way to ruin that bastard’s life, the way he ruined mine.

* * *

Sasha’s only concern about going to Harvard was that it might remind her too painfully of St Michael’s. She needn’t have worried. Cambridge’s charm lay in its slightly dilapidated old-worldliness. Everything was falling down, crumbling and overgrown, from the lecture halls to the underpaid professors’ rickety bicycles. Harvard, especially the business school, was like a well-oiled corporation. Everything was new and perfect and gleaming. At St Michael’s, the libraries smelled of dust, ancient stone and woodworm. At HBS, they smelled of money.

No one, Sasha learned, studied business out of passion. It wasn’t like physics or history or literature. People came to business school for one reason and one reason only: because they wanted to be rich. Unlike in England, where the naked pursuit of wealth was considered vulgar and unseemly, here it was openly celebrated. Of course, there were a few deluded souls who liked to pretend to themselves and others that business really mattered. The ‘I want to make America great again’ brigade, or the ‘I’m doing this for feminism, breaking the glass ceiling for the good of womankind’ bores. For some inexplicable reason, the business ethics seminars were always oversubscribed. They’re trying to justify their greed, thought Sasha. She herself had no need of justification. She knew exactly why she wanted to be rich. She woke up every morning and looked at his picture, Blu-Tacked to her bathroom mirror.

While the rest of her classmates partied and slept around, availing themselves fully of the wild nightlife that Harvard had to offer, Sasha became more and more reclusive, studying by day and waitressing by night to help pay for her tuition. ‘Help’ being the operative word. HBS was prohibitively, insanely expensive – another difference with Cambridge. After three years, becoming rich was no longer an option for most students but a necessity, to pay off their six-figure student loans. At Sue’s Steak House, the restaurant where Sasha worked, customers hit on her nightly. Some of them were good-looking guys, but Sasha wasn’t interested. After Theo Dexter, her libido seemed to have evaporated completely. She’d had sex twice in four years, both one-night stands, both deeply unsatisfying. After that, she gave up.

I’m a born-again virgin. But who cares? I don’t need a man to keep me warm at night. I have the flames of my hatred and the fire of my ambition. I’m complete.

Already a Baker Scholar after her second year, no one was surprised when Sasha Miller graduated top of her section. Least of all Sasha herself. By the time her results came through, she’d already accepted a job at Merrill Lynch in New York. Not because she had the remotest interest in investment banking, but because it offered the highest starting salary and fastest track to directorship of anything else she’d been offered.

‘Miss Sasha Miller.’ The Dean’s voice rang out around the auditorium. Sasha turned and smiled at her parents, seated a few rows behind. This wasn’t their dream, any more than it was hers. But they were here, and proud, their love for her unwavering. One day, Sasha thought, I’ll repay them for everything they’ve done for me. The little cottage in Frant where she’d grown up, and once been so happy, felt farther away than ever. It was almost inconceivable to think that tomorrow Don and Sue would be on a plane back there. And Sasha would be on a plane to New York.

All eyes were on Sasha as she made her way to the podium. One pair of eyes in particular thought, Now that’s a great-looking girl. Why haven’t we interviewed her? If she’s the brightest HBS graduate, she should be with us.

Jackson Dupree made a note in his BlackBerry. ‘Sasha Miller.’ He would make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

Jackson hadn’t really enjoyed his own years at Harvard. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was killing time, spinning his wheels until the real work of his life began, at Wrexall. What he had enjoyed was the sex. All the girls from Harvard College and Wellesley wanted boyfriends from the biz school, rightly perceiving them to be the next generation of American super-rich. Of course, New York had no shortage of stunning women. But at Harvard, the girls had been stunning and bright. Occasionally, bed-hopping from one airheaded Elite model to the next, Jackson missed his college lovers.

That was why he was here. He’d met Rachel at a party in the Hamptons last summer. She was eighteen then and due to start Harvard in the fall. After two blissful weeks of screwing in her stepfather’s guesthouse, they’d parted ways, but Jackson made a point of keeping in touch. When Rachel called him last week to invite him up for the end-of-term celebrations, he’d jumped at the chance. After successfully quashing Bob Massey’s would-be coup and winning his place on Wrexall’s board, he deserved a vacation. The end-of-year celebrations at Harvard were always fabulous, debauched parties on the boathouses along the Charles, drunk, celebratory students running half-naked around Harvard Square, enjoying their brief window of freedom between their finals and the imminent beginning of working life. If he stopped by the Business School to do a spot of recruiting, he could even write it off on expenses. How much would Massey and his cronies love that?

Landing on the lawn outside Spangler Hall in a royal blue Wrexall Dupree chopper, Jackson arrived minutes before the graduation ceremony was due to commence. For once he’d dressed formally, in a dark Armani suit and grey Hermès silk tie, his wild black curls slicked into place and a crisp white handkerchief peeking the regulation half-inch above his breast pocket. All the graduating students and their guests on the way to McCollum Hall turned and stared as Jackson jumped nimbly to the ground, the women lustfully and the men enviously.

‘Who’s that?’ Don Miller asked Sasha. ‘He loves himself a bit, doesn’t he?’

Sasha shrugged, bored. Over the course of the past three years she’d grown used to watching handsome young Americans chest-beating their way through college. Admittedly landing a helicopter on the lawn was pushing it to new extremes. But these men were the golden children, the chosen ones, and they knew it. Showing off was a way of life for them.

‘Some trust-fund brat, I expect,’ she said dismissively. ‘Come on. Let’s get you seats before all the good ones are taken.’

After the ceremony, Sasha put her parents in a taxi back to the hotel. Her mum was still jet lagged and wanted a catnap before they met up again for dinner. She was just heading back to her own rooms in Baker Hall when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Spinning around, she found herself face to face with helicopter guy.

‘Sasha, right? Sasha Miller?’ Up close he was even more ridiculously handsome. And even more self-satisfied. ‘I’m Jackson Dupree.’

He didn’t elaborate. If the name was supposed to mean something to Sasha, it didn’t.