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

‘Your mother and I saw him on some “ Hollywood Special ” the other night. I don’t know what he’s done to his face but he looks more and more like Joe 90 every time I see him, all waxy and frozen. No glasses though, obviously. Just those damn stupid teeth. You can see them from space, I bet, the colour they are. Looks like he’s got a mouthful of burning magnesium. And his house was just ridiculous, all marble and gold, like a bloody brothel.’

‘Hmmm.’ Sasha did not want to talk about Theo Dexter. Not today, not ever. His continued existence, prosperity and apparent happiness all reminded her of her own abject failure.

‘I wonder what his old muckers at Cambridge think of him now? Whether any of ’em have thought twice about what they did to you, taking his word over yours?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Sasha, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘He was part of their little boys’ club. I wasn’t. They were real scientists. I was just a kid.’

‘Maybe, back then,’ said Don. ‘But no one thinks of Dexter as a real scientist now. He’s more like an actor, isn’t he? A celebrity.’ Don’s lip curled with distaste at the word. ‘I’ll bet they all hate him these days.’

It was an interesting thought, one that, oddly, had never occurred to Sasha. As she remembered, the Cambridge establishment was notoriously bitchy. Many of Theo’s contemporaries had disliked him even before his big break, back when he was still a tutor at St Michael’s, sleeping with all the prettiest students. She wondered if it ever bothered Theo, being cast out into the scientific wilderness, even if it was into the welcoming arms of Hollywood? Sasha herself had grieved intensely for physics and Cambridge and the life she’d left behind. At Harvard Business School she had recurring nightmares of the university court, her utter humiliation and devastation at being branded a liar, at seeing her work appropriated by someone else, someone she had loved. Back then she thought often of her fellow undergraduates, of Georgia and Josie and her St Michael’s friends, but more often of her rivals in the physics faculty, guys like Owen McDermott from Caius or the fat, nerdy Hugo Cryer who spent his days locked in the particle physics labs at the Cavendish. What had happened to them? To their research? Had they gone on to make breakthroughs, to become professors, to make a difference in the physics world, the real world, the only world that mattered?

Over the years, Sasha had learned to stop tormenting herself with such thoughts. Her life had moved on, first to Wrexall, then Ceres, and soon there was no time to brood on what might have been, the doors left unopened. But it was curious to imagine Theo Dexter having the same thoughts. Most people, looking at his life, would have thought it laughable, the idea of a global TV star pining for academia. But Sasha knew better than anyone that wealth and fame weren’t everything. Physics was Theo’s first love, just as it was hers. You never got over your first love, not really.

‘I read something the other day about St Michael’s. What was his name, that old git who was Master there in your day?’

Sasha gritted her teeth. ‘Anthony Greville.’ The name would be engraved in her memory until the day she died. Greville had chaired the show trial that had ruled in Theo’s favour, sealing her fate.

‘Greville, that’s it. Well he’s finally retiring. They’re holding elections for a new Master, next spring, I believe.’

‘Oh,’ said Sasha, not sure how she was supposed to react. It was getting dark. The mist sank lower over the rolling chalk hills, wrapping the landscape in a cold, wet blanket. Sasha shivered, thinking of her mother’s homemade fruit cake and the crackling log fire that would be waiting for them back at the cottage. ‘Come on, Dad. It’s late. We should be getting back.’

They turned and walked back to the car, with Don still muttering, ‘I’m serious about Will Temple, you know. You’re a modern girl. Ask him out for dinner.’

‘Virgin flight twenty-four to New York, boarding at gate twelve.’

The tannoy announcement brought Sasha back to her senses. Tired of window shopping she’d made her way up to the first-class lounge where she sat staring into space, an untouched plate of cheese and crackers in her lap. A number of her fellow passengers recognized her, but she’d grown adept at tuning out the nudges and whispers and disappearing into her own world.

Gathering up her hand-luggage bag, she made her way down to the plane where the upper-class passengers were boarding first. A kind-looking, slightly podgy stewardess showed her to her seat, her large bottom straining against the red fabric of her skirt as she bent down to offer Sasha various things she didn’t want: a glass of champagne, warm cashew nuts, a hot towel. ‘I’ll just leave you these, and I’ll get out of your way. They’re all new,’ she said cheerfully, dumping a stack of fashion and gossip magazines into Sasha’s lap.

Sasha flipped through them idly. Vogue’s Ten Must-Have’s for Winter! Fashion had always bored her, and she found it bizarre the way that her own outfits were analyzed and commented on in the press. Most of the time her PA, Jeanne, shopped for her online. In winter Sasha wore whatever was nearest and warmest. Passing Vogue to her neighbour, she opened People magazine and immediately wished she hadn’t.

‘JACKSON DUPREE’S FAIRYTALE WEDDING TO LONG-TIME LOVE, CHARLOTTE GRAINGER!’ There were six pages of it. Six! Despite herself, Sasha turned to them immediately, skimming through shot after shot of Lottie smiling beatifically. Jackson looked happy too, feeding her wedding cake, holding her close for the first dance as every socialite in New York looked enviously on. It did look like a fairytale. Just not hers.

‘Excuse me.’ Sasha stopped the stewardess. ‘I don’t need these.’ She handed the magazines back to her. ‘Do you happen to have today’s Wall Street Journal?’

‘Of course. I’ll bring it right over.’

Work, that was what she needed. Tomorrow she’d be back in the office, back in the fray, with no more free time to think about things like Jackson and Lottie, or the St Michael’s Mastership, or what Theo Dexter was or wasn’t thinking.

Holidays were definitely over-rated.

‘Come on, baby. Harder! Do it like you mean it.’

Even in bed she wants to direct, thought Theo with a sigh. Putting a hand over his wife’s mouth – Dita wouldn’t mind, she liked it when he was masterful – he continued fucking her. But his heart wasn’t in it.

Yesterday he’d had a call from his accountant, Perry Margolis.

‘I’m just going to give it to you straight, Theo. You’re living beyond your means. Something’s going to have to give, and fast. I’m not kidding.’

‘But, Perry, how is that possible? My salary on Universe just went up. I’ve got the aftershave deal, Kenco coffee renewed. I know Sony haven’t signed on the dotted line yet, but …’

‘This is nothing to do with Sony. Your income’s healthy, that’s not the problem.’

Theo sighed deeply. ‘I know.’

The problem was four letters long, and it was lying beneath him now, sucking the very life out of him like a fucking preying mantis. Dita’s spending, always excessive, always impulsive, had recently become borderline pathological. It was as if there were a direct link between her self-esteem and the bills she ran up on her Amex card – one went down and the other went up. In the last six months, Dita had been passed over for two major movie roles, in both cases for younger actresses. The irony was that she still looked fantastic. But keeping her that way was like running a grand old stately home. It required an army of professionals, hair-dressers, stylists, personal shoppers, make-up artists, trainers, facialists, yoga instructors and therapists just to get Dita out of bed in the mornings, and all of them were on full-time payroll. That was before you got to the nannies, tutors and tennis coaches for the children, the French ballet instructress for Fran, the twenty-four-hour on-call allergist for Milo.

‘Your staff alone cost more than you’re earning for the new season of Dexter’s Universe,’ said Perry. ‘I’ve seen countries run more cheaply. You have to let at least a third of them go.’

Theo had broached the subject with Dita last night, and again this morning. ‘No,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’m not going to live like a pauper because you can’t manage our finances.’

Theo had lost his temper, pointing out that if it weren’t for his earnings they would have lost the house years ago. Dita shot back that without her stardom, he would never have made those earnings; that all his endorsement deals, not to mention his film career, such as it was, were a direct result of his marriage to her; that he was little more than a gigolo – a gigolo who, quite frankly, had become lazy and boring and no longer excited her in bed. Theo raised a hand to slap her, Dita grabbed his arm, and before they knew it they were making love, clawing at one another like a pair of wild animals in heat.

The sex had been great until Dita started talking, goading and taunting Theo (she called it ‘coaching’) until he could happily have ripped her head off with his bare hands. Now it was all he could do to finish the job, forcing thoughts of bills and unpaid IRS demands out of his head and fantasizing about Lorna Fox, the teenage actress who had ‘stolen’ Dita’s latest role, just to get himself to come.

Thankfully Dita came too, her nails digging painfully into Theo’s buttocks as she moaned and gasped beneath him. ‘Not bad,’ she said, lighting a cigarette as he rolled off her. ‘At least you’re making an effort.’

Ignoring her, Theo walked into the bathroom. Pressing a button on the wall, a torrent of hot rain exploded out of the ceiling in the far corner of the room. The ‘invisible shower’ was another of Dita’s extravagances, but in this case Theo wasn’t complaining. The hot jets of water felt wonderful on his back, invigorating and relaxing at the same time.

His depressing conversation with Perry yesterday wasn’t the only thing on his mind. Ed Gilliam had forwarded him an email, a news piece about his old Cambridge college, St Michael’s. Apparently, old Tony Greville was retiring and elections were being held for a new Master. Ed had only sent it as a piece of idle gossip, something it might amuse Theo to know. But the news had opened up a floodgate of feelings in Theo that he’d barely had time to process.

He could picture St Michael’s now, as if he’d never left. The ivy-clad, medieval courts, the formal gardens rolling down to the peaceful Cam, his rooms in First Court and all the exciting, intelligent, adoring young women he’d taken to bed there. He still had young lovers in LA of course, physically perfect specimens all. And Dita, to give her fair credit, was no slacker in either the looks or the lovemaking department. But it was a long time, a long time, since Theo had fucked a truly intelligent woman.

What would it be like to go back to Cambridge now? To return as the conquering hero? As a fantasy, it had a lot of appeal, though it was hard – impossible – to fit Dita and the children into that picture. Plus Perry had made it painfully clear that now would not be a good time for Theo to walk away from his lucrative endorsement deals, never mind jack in the TV show that had made him.

Drying and dressing in long shorts and a James Perse t-shirt, his LA uniform, Theo came down to breakfast in a thoughtful mood. Unusually, Dita was up already, wrapped in a silk robe and picking at a waffle with Milo on her lap when he came in.

‘Hi, Dad,’ Milo said shyly. It irritated Theo, the way the boy was always so nervous around him, clinging to Dita like Bambi to his mother, but he tried not to show it.

‘Morning, Milo. How’s that cough this morning?’

‘Better,’ he smiled wanly. ‘I think I can go to school today. I feel fine.’

‘That’s great,’ said Theo, but Dita shook her head.

‘Not today, honey. Rosetta said he was wheezing a lot in the night,’ she explained to Theo. ‘I want Dr Gray to see him before we make any decisions.’ She sprinkled powdered sugar into a square of waffle and fed it to her son, as if he were a helpless baby bird. Theo felt his anger building.

‘He just said he feels fine.’

‘Drop it, Theo, OK?’ Dita snarled. ‘You know nothing about how to care for Milo. You never have.’

Unwilling to be drawn into yet another fight in front of the kids, Theo changed the subject.

‘I heard something interesting yesterday,’ he said pouring himself a bowl of Kashi GoLean cereal and ruffling his daughter’s hair. Throughout her parents’ tense exchange, three-year-old Fran had continued happily stuffing her face with Cheerios, washed down with chocolate milk. ‘St Michael’s is looking for a new Master.’

Dita frowned. ‘What is that, code? You wanna be a priest, now? Or a spy?’

Theo looked at her and thought, You really are a deeply stupid person.