Scandalous (45 page)

What about her job? How would a baby fit in to her cloistered, academic life? Clearly the mastership of St. Michael’s was now out of the question, but what about her fellowship, her teaching and writing commitments? Instinctively, she didn’t want to tell anyone about the pregnancy until she knew the baby was healthy, except for Jenny, of course. But even that had its drawbacks. Naturally Jen would want to know who the father was. Which meant Theresa would have to confess about Horatio, and then what? Tell him, presumably, although just
how
she was going to do that she had no idea. It was all too much to take in.

Pushing aside the half-eaten packet of biscuits, she dialed Jenny’s number and was half relieved when it went to voice mail. “I’ve got some news,” she said cautiously. “Call me back when you get this. Or better still, come over. I think I need some advice.”

Feeling relieved—Jenny was practical and organized; she would know what to do—Theresa slumped back against the cushions of her couch and promptly fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

She woke to the sound of knocking on the front door.
Jenny.
“Hold on!” Rubbing her eyes blearily, she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was still only seven fifteen, so she couldn’t have been asleep for long. Even so, it was disconcerting, the way that tiredness seemed to overtake her these days. “Just coming.”

The cats scuttled nervously out of her way as she heaved herself off the sofa and out to the hallway, which made Theresa feel
guilty again.
Must not become one of those horrid, cranky pregnant witches who snap at everyone. Must teach cats and offspring to get along by being an oasis of maternal calm at all times.

Then she opened the door, and all pretense of maternal calm flew out the window. “Good God. What on earth are
you
doing here?”

S
ASHA TOOK IN
the shocked, angry face glaring at her from the cottage doorway and thought,
I made a mistake. I should never have come.

She’d been focused on this moment since she’d made the decision at Christmas. But there had been so much to
do
since then, finishing up her outstanding deals at Ceres, arranging for a three-month leave of absence without scaring her partners and investors (no mean feat when you can’t tell anybody where you are going or why), that she realized now she’d forgotten about the biggest hurdle of all. What if Theresa Dexter didn’t
want
her help? What if she refused to give her the time of day
?

It hadn’t been hard to find out where she lived. The porters at Jesus were more than happy to accommodate an “old friend” and give out the professor’s address. “It’s not Dexter anymore though, love. She goes by O’Connor these days. Must be a while since you’ve seen her.”

“It is,” said Sasha.
A lifetime ago.

And yet now, shivering on the doorstep of Theresa’s picture-perfect cottage in Grantchester, it was as if no time had passed, and the two women were facing each other once more across the Senate House, both of their futures in the balance.

“What do you want?” The anger in Theresa’s voice was palpable. Sasha wondered what she’d been expecting. A warm welcome?

“I’d like to talk to you. It’s about”—she was about to say “Theo,” then suddenly worried that it might sound overfamiliar—“about your ex-husband.”

Theresa felt her happiness bubble pop like a pricked balloon. Today of all days, Theo was the last person she wanted to talk about, and Sasha bloody Miller was the last person she wanted to talk about him with. Ever.

“No thanks.” She started to close the door.

“Please!” Sasha stuck out her arm, keeping the door open. It was an aggressive gesture, an intrusion. Theresa’s eyes narrowed even farther. “It’ll only take a few minutes. I know you don’t owe me anything but…I’ve come a long way,” she finished lamely.

Reluctantly, Theresa let her in. Angry as she was, she could hardly let the girl stay out there on the doorstep and catch hypothermia. Inside, in the light, the two women got a better look at each other. It had been a long time, more than a decade, since they’d seen each other last. On the surface, Theresa concluded with irritation, Sasha Miller had barely aged. She was thinner and wore her dark hair in a shorter, more professional bob. Underdressed for the so-called spring night in an expensive-looking but thin black wool coat and suede pumps, her
style
was more urban and mature, but her alabaster skin remained resolutely lineless. And then of course there were the eyes, that wonderful, mesmerizing light green. Theresa had seen at the time why Theo had fallen for Sasha, and she could still see it now.

“Thank you,” said Sasha politely. She started to take off her coat, then hesitated again. “May I?”

Theresa nodded. “Sure. There’s a chair over there with a bit less cat hair on it.”

Sasha laid her coat over the back of the chair. Beneath it she looked even thinner, too thin, in a pair of gray Gucci cigarette
pants and a thin black polo-neck sweater from Brora. Theresa felt like a whale swimming beside a baby eel. She wondered idly whether Sasha had been ill. Was that why she was here, to make amends because she had cancer or something awful? In Theresa’s experience, only cancer or heartbreak could make a woman get that skinny.

“I’ll get to the point,” said Sasha. “I heard that Theo applied for the mastership of St. Michael’s.”

“That’s right,” said Theresa, warily.

“I also heard that you were in the running for the job.”

Theresa was about to say “not anymore” but thought better of it. She wasn’t about to confide the most important news in her life to the girl who had been the beginning of the end of her marriage. Instead she folded her arms defensively and said, “And?”

“And I would like to prevent Theo from getting the job. I would like to sabotage his chances. I would like to ruin him.”

Sasha said this last so matter-of-factly, it took a moment for Theresa to process her words. When she did, curiosity got the better of her hostility. “Why?”

“Why?” Sasha looked genuinely surprised. “Because he ruined my life, of course. An eye for an eye and all that.”

“Ruined…I don’t understand. How did Theo ruin
your
life? You’re the one who tried to steal
his
theory, remember?”

Sasha looked at her with incredulity. “Do you still believe that? Honestly?”

Theresa looked perplexed. It was all so long ago. She hadn’t thought about the case, or about the theory that launched Theo’s career, for longer than she cared to remember. She’d believed Theo at the time. Then again, she’d believed Theo about a lot of things.

“I never took anything from Theo,” said Sasha, with unexpected vehemence. “Never. He, on the other hand, took everything from me. My career, my future, my reputation. My heart,
at the time,” she added bitterly. “Look, if you don’t want to get involved, I understand. I realize that you suffered too.”

“That’s big of you!” Theresa spluttered. “I was his
wife
.”

“I know,” said Sasha. “And I’m sorry, I am. But I was nineteen. I was his student, I was just a kid.” Theresa thought about Horatio and blushed. “I’d like to tell you the truth about what happened,” said Sasha. “Of course it’s up to you whether you believe me or not. Or whether you decide you want to help me, or you’d rather leave the past in the past. But I want you to know.”

Theresa hesitated. Leaving the past in the past sounded like a wonderful idea. Recently, however, her past seemed determined to hunt her down. She had a feeling if she turned Sasha Miller away tonight, she would only be delaying the inevitable. And despite herself, she
was
intrigued to hear the girl’s side of the story. All these years later, how could it hurt?

“You’d better have a seat,” she said. “I’ll make us some tea.”

An hour later and Theresa was still sitting, spellbound, opposite Sasha as she finished her long, painful story. There were tears in her eyes by the end, as Sasha related what happened after the university court’s decision—her struggle to get into another university, the hate mail she and her parents received from
Daily Mail
readers for years afterward.

Until recently, when she’d learned about him coming back to Cambridge, Theresa hadn’t thought about Theo in years, and certainly not with any lingering feelings of pain or regret. Looking at Sasha Miller tonight, Theresa could see it had not been the same for her. Beneath her success, her beauty, her wealth, Sasha was still the same, scarred, heartbroken nineteen-year-old from all those years ago. She had never gotten over him. It was tragic.

It was also quite clear to Theresa that Sasha was telling the truth. She hadn’t seduced Theo. Of course she hadn’t! It was
entirely the other way around. Theo had lied to her and used her and strung her along, the same way he did with all his girls. But of course, in Sasha’s case, it was far worse than that. Theo had taken Sasha’s research, her brilliance, and passed it off as his own. Everything he’d achieved since then, his fame, his wealth, his global stature as a genius to rival Hawking—it was nothing more than stolen goods. No wonder she hated him. That was a lot to let go.

“I’m sorry I was so standoffish when I let you in,” said Theresa. “I didn’t know. Plus I’d already had a rather, um, surprising afternoon.”

“Please,” said Sasha. “It’s entirely my fault. I should have called.”

For a few moments silence fell, neither woman sure what was supposed to happen next. Finally, Sasha spoke. “So what do you think? About the mastership? Will you help me stop him?”

Theresa sighed deeply. “I’m afraid that’s a lost cause. Theo has money and a media profile, two things St. Michael’s needs desperately. Short of a natural disaster, I don’t see how anyone can stop him.”

“I am a natural disaster,” said Sasha. “Think of me as Hurricane Miller.”

Theresa smiled. “Even so.”

“I’m not expecting an answer now,” said Sasha, standing up to go. “I’ve already taken up much too much of your evening. But if I
were
to come up with a way to stop him…
if
…would you help me?”

No. I can’t get involved. I’m pregnant, for God’s sake. I have enough on my plate.

“Yes,” Theresa heard herself saying. “I would. If you can think of a way to get that bastard out of Cambridge and out of both our lives for good, I’ll be right behind you.”

“No.” Jackson said the word with finality, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms to emphasize the point. “We’re not doing it.”

“Now, wait a minute, Jackson,” Bob Massey fumed. “You can’t just reject the proposal out of hand.”

“Yes I can. I’m chairman, I have a veto, I’m vetoing.”

“For God’s sake!” Bob spluttered. The years had not been kind to Bob. Always short and with a tendency to run to fat, he was now properly obese. The fat hung off his jowls, giving him the look of an angry bulldog. An angry bulldog with mange, if the last remaining wisps of hair clinging forlornly to his bald head were anything to go by.

“Slow down, Bob.” Dan Peters, as usual, was the voice of reason. “Jackson, can you tell us why you’re so opposed?”