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

‘Yes, well, get over it,’ said Ed. ‘All the big stars endorse over here. Clooney, Pitt, Cruise.’

‘Maybe. But they don’t have to live with Dita while they’re doing it.’

After seven years with Dita, six of them married, the novelty of her celebrity had well and truly worn off. Not that Theo didn’t still revel in the attention, the ubiquitous paparazzi who followed them everywhere, the throngs of screaming fans. But he resented the fact that his fame and Dita’s had become so inextricably linked in the public imagination. Being one half of Hollywood’s golden couple was wearing, particularly when the reality of Theo and Dita’s domestic life was, at best, strained.

Sexually Dita could still do it for him. Unlike most exceptionally beautiful women, Dita was good in bed, a skilled and exciting lover. But although she remained a huge box office draw, physically she was past her prime. The tabloids and gossip magazines ruthlessly scrutinized her every, tiny flaw, photographing her at point-blank range and then printing the shots with red circles drawn around every incipient laughter line or prominent vein. Already deeply insecure, such criticism sent Dita into a frenzy of panicked exercising, Botox injecting and sarong buying. It also made her more than usually demanding of Theo’s attention, a sure-fire way for her to lose it.

Theo couldn’t remember exactly when he’d started cheating on Dita. Probably while she was pregnant with Milo, their eldest, now five. A sweet, sensitive but sickly child, Milo Dexter was allergic to everything and seemed mysteriously to have been born with the lung capacity of a gnat, necessitating frequent, stressful late-night trips to the Emergency Room, often followed by lengthy hospital stays. Dita doted on the boy, transferring all the attention she had previously lavished on Theo to their son. Of course, she still employed nannies, legions of them, which grew into full-scale battalions when their second child, Francesca, arrived two years later. It wasn’t so much the time Dita spent with Milo, reasoned Theo. It was more the way she looked at him, the way they looked at each other, an exclusive little club of two from which he, Theo, would forever be excluded.

Francesca, known as Fran, was much more the sort of child that Theo could identify with. Confident, sensible and utterly self-reliant, she neither needed his love, nor asked for it, but rather accepted his affection as and when he chose to bestow it. If he’d known kids could turn out like this, he’d have adopted with Theresa years ago. Back then Theo would never have believed a three-year-old could be so politely distant, but that’s how Fran was with Dita. Pleasant, unassuming, but fundamentally a little bored by her mother. It drove Dita crazy. ‘Even my own daughter doesn’t love me!’ she would sob melodramatically to Theo, who was trying to download Match of the Day on his PC and wished to God Dita would find somebody else to emote to. Bringing the whole family to Tokyo had been Dita’s idea, part of her drive to ‘deepen my bond’ with Fran.

‘You can spend some time with Milo-pooks too. He’s hardly seen you all year.’

‘Come on, Deets. It’s not my fault the boy’s been in and out of hospital like an asthmatic boomerang. It’s not me he wants when he’s sick, it’s you.’ He didn’t add, and all the rest of the bloody time too, but he felt like it. He knew it was ridiculous to be jealous of a five-year-old, but he couldn’t help himself. ‘Japan will be a nightmare. The jet lag, the paps, the kids going stir crazy in the hotel room. I’ll be back in a few weeks.’

It was no good. Dita had insisted. Theo had had no choice but to call Cassie, his latest twenty-one-year-old bit on the side, and tell her their romantic trip was off. ‘I’ll make it up to you, angel, I promise. We’ll sneak off to the Post Ranch as soon as I’m back.’ Fuming, he’d climbed the stairs into the private jet with Dita and the kids feeling as if he was walking up to the guillotine. This is going to be a nightmare.

Then they got to Tokyo.

And it was much, much worse.

First, Milo picked up some bug on the plane and had to be rushed to the Hachioji children’s hospital. Then Dita was photographed looking haggard and exhausted the day they discharged him, and the picture ran in Star magazine back in the States, alongside an airbrushed photo of Theo looking preposterously handsome, taken from his aftershave campaign. That evening Dita had screamed and screamed in their suite at the Hyatt until Theo had had to call a doctor to sedate her. She was so bad, the nannies had moved with the children to a different floor, as Milo particularly was getting very distressed. The next morning, Dita had refused to let Theo go to work until he’d made love to her, then afterwards sobbed in his arms for an hour. Despite his having come twice, Dita insisted he was ‘faking it’ and didn’t really want her any more. It was mid afternoon before Theo got to the set. As ever, the Japanese crew were unwaveringly polite. But Ed Gilliam had ripped him a new arsehole.

‘For fuck’s sake, Theo! You’re under contract. You can’t just turn up when you feel like it. You realize there’ll be a penalty, a big one. That fuck with Dita probably cost you two million dollars. I hope it was bloody worth it.’

‘It wasn’t,’ said Theo grimly. On days like today, his mind sometimes wandered back to his first marriage. Theresa had been weak, and of course she did let herself go dreadfully towards the end. But she was also funny, and supportive, and never in the least part a drama queen. Even when the scandal with Sasha Miller had been all over the papers, when any rational wife would have had a good excuse to throw her toys out of the pram, Theresa had been so cool, calm and collected, it was almost regal.

Sasha Miller had been on Theo’s mind too lately, for the first time in years. Bizarrely, his former student and paramour seemed to have reinvented herself as some sort of business mogul. Her property company, Ceres, had gone public a month ago, its shares floated at some astronomically inflated price, and suddenly Sasha’s face was all over the business pages. Physically, she’d changed surprisingly little over the years. She still had that youthful, moonlight-white complexion, and of course those incredible pale green eyes that had once gazed into his with such trust and passion. In her early thirties now, she wore her hair shorter than she had as a student, but it still gleamed the same lustrous tar black. Her body, if anything, looked better than it had back then, or at least more to Theo’s taste, leaner, with less puppy fat. But if Sasha looked unchanged, appearances were obviously deceptive. You didn’t get to that sort of position in business or in life without being a tough cookie. When Theo knew Sasha she’d been as soft and malleable as dough, but the intervening years must have baked her hard.

Theo’s first reaction to Sasha’s success was nervousness. The last thing he wanted was for some overenthusiastic journalist to start digging into Sasha’s past and unearthing the stolen-theory scandal all over again. He raised his concerns with Ed Gilliam, but Ed was reassuringly sanguine.

‘It’s very unlikely. That was aeons ago. More importantly, it happened in England. Americans don’t care about scandals in other countries.’

‘Hmmm.’ Theo wasn’t convinced.

‘Look, there’s nothing you can do about it so you may as well stop worrying. What’s the worst that can happen? Someone leaks the story, you and Sasha both make statements about bygones being bygones. If anyone’s reputation’s in danger here it’s hers, not yours, right?’

‘Right,’ said Theo uneasily.

In the years since the scandal, Dexter’s Universe and the theory that launched it had become so much a part of Theo’s self-image, he’d almost forgotten its murky origins. Seeing Sasha Miller’s face again stirred emotions buried deep in his subconscious – an uneasy concoction of guilt and fear that had begun to further sour Theo’s mood. Combined with the increasing strain of dealing with Dita’s meltdowns, and now this horrendous trip to Japan, he was feeling more restless and dissatisfied than he had in years. Ed Gilliam inadvertently made things worse by filling Theo in on the latest gossip amongst the Cambridge physics faculty. Apparently one of Theo’s former students, Mike Green (now Emeritus Professor Michael Green) was sending shockwaves across the scientific world with his ground-breaking research into optical quantum computer chips.

‘He’s quite the new big thing,’ Ed told Theo. ‘I’ve got four publishers in a bidding war for his book. Of course Oxford, Harvard and MIT are all desperate to lure him.’

Theo consoled himself that Mike Green would never have a career like his. For one thing he was so shy he bordered on autistic, and for another he looked like a three-hundred-pound version of Daniel Radcliffe. No one wanted to switch on their television and be mumbled at by a morbidly obese nerd. Even so, Mike’s success rankled. The public might never love him, but his fellow physicists clearly did. Much as he hated to admit it, there was a part of Theo Dexter that still craved approval from his peers. Grinning inanely at the camera today for three hours straight with a giant bottle of aftershave in his hands, Theo felt more nostalgic for Cambridge than he had in years.

One day I’ll go back. I’ll get back to my research, prove to all those envious bastards that I’ve still got what it takes. He turned on his phone. Six missed calls, all of them from Dita.

One day.

Horatio Hollander looked at himself in the bathroom mirror.

Not bad. Not George Clooney, perhaps. Not Theo Dexter, either. But not bad.

At twenty-two years of age, Horatio had finally (thank God) grown out of the acne that had plagued him as a teenager. Tall and skinny, with a shock of thick hair that had never been able to decide if it was red or blond, merry blue eyes and wide nose smattered with freckles, Horatio was generally referred to by girls as ‘sweet’. In his first year at Cambridge, one of the prettier fresher girls had described him as looking a bit like a baby giraffe, and the phrase had stuck. A talented rower with a regular place in Jesus College’s First Eight, Horatio’s crewmates knew him only as ‘Giraffe’. Horatio rolled his eyes, but secretly he rather liked the nickname. After six years of being called ‘pizza face’ and getting the shit kicked out of him at school (what sort of sadists named their son ‘Horatio’ then sent him to the toughest comprehensive in Leeds?), Giraffe was a refreshing change.

This morning, unusually for him, Horatio had made a titanic effort with his appearance. He wore his best tweed jacket, which only had a couple of tiny moth holes, a clean, ironed blue shirt and a pair of French Connection jeans that his friend Mary had assured him made his bum look great. ‘More beefcake, less beanpole,’ had been her exact words. That’s good enough for me.

Of course the real question was whether they’d be good enough for Professor O’Connor. He’d waited long enough. It was time to screw his courage to the sticking place and ask her out before … before what? What am I so scared of?

Horatio had lost count of the nights he’d lain awake, his body racked with longing and his heart crippled with fear, imagining his Shakespeare tutor, Professor O’Connor – Theresa – locked in passionate embrace with another man. In his fevered imaginings, the other man always looked preternaturally handsome, and usually bore a strong resemblance to Professor O’Connor’s ex-husband, the ghastly, white-toothed, perma-tanned Theo Dexter. Theresa had reverted to her maiden name after the divorce, largely to stop people making the connection between her and her world-famous ex. But of course, everyone at Cambridge knew.

This must be what Chris Martin felt, asking Gwyneth Paltrow out after she’d been engaged to Brad Pitt. But look at Chris, eh? He got the girl! Then again, he was a multi-millionaire rock star with legions of screaming fans. Whereas I’m a scruffy student from Leeds with an overdraft and holes in my jacket.

The thing was that Theresa had given him just enough hope – a smile here, a shy glance there – to make Horatio think that perhaps, just perhaps, by some miracle, his affections might be returned. Yes, she was his teacher. And yes, she was twenty years older than him – not to mention twenty times more beautiful and brilliant and funny and kind and …

‘Get a move on, mate!’ Jack, Horatio’s roommate, was banging on the bathroom door. ‘You can’t polish a turd, you know. She’ll either see past your ugly mug or she won’t, so hurry the fuck up, would you? I need a slash.’

Jack was an engineer. Lovely bloke, but no soul whatsoever.

Horatio opened the door. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’ve got no chance,’ said Jack robustly. ‘She’s old enough to be your mother, she’s sworn off men, which is probably code for she’s a lesbo …’

‘She is not a lesbo!’ said Horatio crossly.

‘And, she supervises you, which makes you even more off-limits.’

‘Maybe that’ll be part of my appeal?’ Horatio smiled hopefully. ‘I’m a forbidden fruit.’

‘You’re a forbidden fruit-loop more like it,’ said Jack. ‘Nice jeans though. You don’t look like as much of a scrawnster as you usually do.’ And with that he shut the bathroom door, abandoning his friend to his fate.

Theresa unlocked the outer, heavy wooden door of her college rooms with the same, heavy, palm-sized metal key that its occupants had been using for over two centuries. The romantic in her loved the giant key. Like the rest of her rooms, the rest of Cambridge in fact, it felt magical, like something out of a fairy tale. The key to Rapunzel’s tower perhaps, or to some lost city of gold. Once inside she turned on the lights and the fan heater. It was April, spring according to the newspapers, but Cambridge was still bitterly cold and the college authorities were notoriously parsimonious about luxuries such as central heating. Soon, however, the noisy little fan had expelled the chill sufficiently for Theresa to take off her duffel coat, turn on the kettle, and start leafing through her notes for this morning’s session on Macbeth.

She had a one-on-one supervision this morning with her star pupil, Horatio Hollander, and she was looking forward to it immensely. Horatio’s last essay, on Macbeth’s classic ‘Tomorrow’ soliloquy, was so good it had moved her almost to tears. Then again, that wasn’t hard. Yesterday evening she’d sobbed like a child watching Jenny’s cat, a fat old tabby inappropriately named ‘Ninja,’ give birth to six healthy kittens.

‘What’ll you do with them?’

‘Sell them, I suppose. Or more likely give them away. I doubt people pay for kittens any more. We might keep one, I suppose.’

‘Oh, you can’t do that!’ protested Theresa. ‘Look at them. They’re a little team. They have to stay together.’

‘I’m not housing seven cats, T,’ said Jenny reasonably. ‘JP would divorce me and I wouldn’t blame him.’

‘Well, at least take two,’ pleaded Theresa, watching the blindly crawling fur balls through a haze of tears. ‘They can be company for each other. I’ll have the rest.’

Jenny laughed. ‘All four of them? You’re not serious?’

‘Why not? I like cats. They’re good company.’