Scandalous (54 page)

“Jackson, come
on
. She’s talking about their affair now. The first one. This is killer stuff.”

Jackson stood stiffly beside the couch, listening to Sasha talk about how Dexter had seduced her as a teenager and admitting that they had slept together again the night she taped his confession.

“I’m sure it’s hard for people to understand how that happened. It’s hard for
me
to understand. This was the man who destroyed my life, after all. But maybe it’s
because
of that. There’s always been a connection between us.”

“Do you regret it?” Oprah asked. Lottie held her breath.

“I do,” Sasha said somberly. “I regret that part of it. He was married, after all. It was wrong, but it happened. It will certainly
never
happen again!”

The audience laughed. So did Lottie. Jackson felt his jaw tighten like a vise.

“But you know, maybe without that he would never have opened up the way that he did? I needed to hear him admit that he’d lied. I needed the world to know that I
hadn’t
lied. And Dita Andreas has called me since, offering her support.”

Jackson picked up the remote and switched the TV off.

“Hey!” Lottie protested. “What are you doing?”

“Let’s go out,” he said briskly. “I need some fresh air.”

“After the interview,” said Lottie, turning the TV back on. “You know, I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make decisions for both of us like that. I was watching. I’m interested.”

“Fine,” said Jackson petulantly. “Suit yourself.”

A few seconds later Lottie heard the front door slam. She tried to refocus on
Oprah
but it was impossible. Once again, Jackson had spoiled the moment.

In the kitchen of the Master’s Lodge at St. Michael’s, Theresa was watching the recording of the same
Oprah
interview with Sasha, curled up in an armchair by the stove, with four cats asleep at her feet. It was so gripping, she kept forgetting to chew her Monster Munch chips, so they fizzed and melted in her mouth and lost all their crunch.

Lysander, the oldest and fattest of her feline family, hopped up onto her lap, and Theresa stroked him mindlessly. She was happy for Sasha. There was no doubt who was the victor in this explosive media war. But the vilification of Theo had become so intense; she was reaching the point where she almost felt sorry for him. All those years ago he’d seduced Sasha and tricked her out of her life’s work. This time, it was Sasha who had seduced him, falsely won his trust, and destroyed
his
life’s work. There was certainly a satisfying symmetry to it all. Some might call it justice. But all the betrayal and seduction left a bitter taste in Theresa’s mouth that no amount of Monster Munch could fully eradicate.

Suddenly Lysander leaped to his feet with a screech and jumped to the floor. Theresa put a hand on her belly and laughed out loud. Either she had some extremely serious digestive problems or the baby had just kicked for the first time. She turned off the television and sat very still, willing him—for some reason she had come to think of the baby as a “him”—to do it again. Sure
enough, about a minute later, her stomach jumped visibly. This was not the “fluttering sensation” she’d read about in baby books. This was a very firm, apparently deliberate punch. A “hello, I’m here” punch, not painful, but decidedly
solid
.

Theresa felt a wave of happiness rise up within her. Then, looking around the kitchen still piled high with unpacked boxes, she realized with a pang that she had no one to share it with. Her girlfriends were all AWOL. Jenny was out of town at a conference. Aisling, who’d phoned a lot in recent weeks since Theresa was appointed master of St. Michael’s, was on a romantic break in Tahiti with her husband. And Sasha, whom Theresa did now count as a real friend, was doubtless in another TV studio somewhere in America, throwing another live grenade into the shattered remains of Theo’s career.

But it wasn’t her girlfriends that Theresa wanted.

Horatio had officially dropped out of college the day after Theresa moved into the lodge. He’d written her a sweet letter, enclosing a check for two hundred pounds that she knew he couldn’t afford, and promising to be back in touch before the birth. “I need some time to get my head together. And get a job,” he wrote. “Many congratulations on your job, by the way. You deserve it.” But that was it. Since the letter she’d heard nothing and had no idea how to get in touch with him should she need to. They still hadn’t spoken about anything practical, like when he was going to see the baby or whether he would want to be at the birth.

You did the right thing
, Theresa told herself firmly.
You had to let him go.

She hoped that someday soon she would start to believe it.

“So are we done with the interviews? You want me to tell Conan O’Brien no?”

Sasha’s newly appointed temporary media agent, a pushy powerhouse of a woman named Sarah Rosen, failed to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She wished all her clients were like Sasha Miller. The woman just had to sit down on camera and people fell in love with her.

Sasha was in bed in her apartment, with the phone in one hand and a tub of Cool Whip in the other. She had realized about an hour ago that, unless you counted coffee, she hadn’t eaten in almost two days and was suddenly feeling ravenous.

“Yeah, tell him no. We did what we set out to do.”

“OK.” Sarah Rosen hadn’t known her client long, but she was a seasoned enough agent to appreciate when no meant no. “And what about the business shows? The Ceres sale went through today. MSNBC
Squawk Box
has been calling me. You wanna do that?”

“No.” This time she was even more categoric. “I gave a statement. I’m cashed out of the business. I’m officially retired.”

“Lucky you,” said Sarah, though she knew in her heart that retirement was just another word for death. When the time came, someone would have to prize Sarah Rosen’s Rolodex and BlackBerry out of her cold, dead hands. But maybe retirement would suit Sasha Miller? She was still a young woman. She could do what she wanted, travel, adventure, get married, enjoy her life. “Good luck, Sasha. You know where I am if you need me.”

Sasha threw the phone onto the pillow beside her and ate another spoonful of Cool Whip. It was done. Over.

Theo Dexter was discredited. More than that. He was ruined.

Sasha’s reputation, as a scientist and as a person, was fully restored.

Theresa O’Connor, the other woman Theo had betrayed, had been given her happy ending.

And at the close of markets today, on paper anyway, Sasha was worth over two hundred million dollars.

If ever there were a time to feely truly, deeply happy, surely this was it?

That’s the trouble with closure
, thought Sasha.
It means something’s finished. It’s accomplished. It’s done.

So what happens now?

She’d already decided she would go back to science. Astronomy was her first love, and it called to her now more loudly and plaintively than ever. She would probably also go back to England. There was nothing here for her now.
I’ll look for a research post somewhere—they won’t have to worry about funding me! I’ll spend the rest of my life devoted to something important, something more meaningful than numbers on a balance sheet.

It was the life she’d always dreamed of. But something was missing.

Something will always be missing.

Four months later, Christmas Eve

“Keep pushing, Theresa! Keep pushing! You’re almost there.”

It was the “almost” that really rankled. That and the implied suggestion that she could do anything other than keep pushing. It felt like someone had inserted a melon in her cervix for Christ’s sake. What was she going to do, suck it back up?

“Hold my hand. Squeeze it.” Jenny Aubrieau tried to distract her from the midwife’s irritating coaching.

“It hurts,” Theresa groaned weakly.

“I know it does, darling. Next baby, go for the epidural.”

Next baby?!
Despite the agony, Theresa laughed, immediately triggering another contraction. Seconds later she felt a slithering sensation between her legs and a cessation of pain so blissful it made her want to cry.

“Oh, T, it’s a boy!” gasped Jenny.

The midwife stepped in and did her thing, patting the baby’s back, expertly checking his reflexes.

“A boy? Is he all right?” Theresa sounded panicked. “Why isn’t he crying?”

“He’s fine,” said the midwife, scooping the baby up and laying him on Theresa’s chest. “Breathing beautifully. Not all
newborns cry, you know. Looks like he’s happy to be here, aren’t you, chicken?”

Theresa gazed down at the scrunched, bloody face of her son. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even cry. No reaction, no gesture could come close to conveying what she felt in that moment.

“I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes,” whispered Jenny, backing quietly out the door. Theresa didn’t even notice her go. Nor did she notice it five minutes later when the door opened and a man walked in.
Blasted doctors. Why can’t they leave us alone?

“I missed it. I don’t believe it. How could I have missed it?”

Horatio looked terrible. His hair, never neat at the best of times, was too long and sticking out at more-than-usually gravity-defying angles. He was wearing a pair of dirty rain boots, two pairs of tracksuit bottoms pulled on one over the other, an inside-out sweater, and a parka coat of some indeterminate color best described as sludge.

Theresa’s eyes lit up. Too happy to be cautious with her emotions, she couldn’t hide anything today.

“It doesn’t matter,” she beamed. “You’re here now. Come and meet him.”

Horatio walked over to the bed. His son was basically a white, blanketed cocoon with a small circle of mottle-skinned face poking out at the top. His eyes were tightly closed, and his miniature rosebud lips twitched in his sleep, presumably sucking on an imaginary nipple. “He looks a bit like a glow worm.”

Theresa gasped. “He does not look anything like a glowworm! He looks lovely.”

“You look lovely,” said Horatio. He kissed her on the lips, gently at first, then passionately, holding her face in his hands. Theresa didn’t stop him. “I love you,” he said, as he pulled away.

“Horatio…”

“No, stop it. I’ve had enough. If you really don’t love me, you need to tell me now, to my face.” He looked at her defiantly. To his dismay, she burst suddenly and violently into tears.

“I can’t tell you that,” she sobbed. “I
do
love you. But it would never work.”

“Oh
bollocks
,” said Horatio, kissing her again. “It would work. It
will
work. You, me, and William. It’ll be perfect.”

“William?”

“William.”

Theresa looked down at the baby’s face. It
was
rather William-ish. Just then a midwife bustled in, followed by the obstetrician and rather sheepish-looking Jenny.

“I’m not interrupting anything vital, am I?” she asked, beaming at Horatio. “It’s just JP called a minute ago; he was trying to heat up some mince pies in the gas oven and somehow managed to cause a fire. Half the kitchen’s burnt to a crisp, apparently; they had the fire brigade out and everything.”