Scandalous

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Dita Andreas looked at the clock on her dashboard: 12:55 p.m. She should have been on set over an hour ago. Carl Sams, the director of Lies, Dita’s latest blockbuster (not to mention her sometime lover), would be spitting teeth. But that was no bad thing. Recently, Carl seemed to have gotten it into his head that he was Dita’s boss. Dita checked her flawless makeup in the rearview mirror of her vintage Aston Martin and thought, I’m the star of this picture. It’s about time somebody reminded Mr. Sams of that fact.

  Not that today was about Carl. Carl Sams was an afterthought. Even more of an afterthought than Brett Graham, Dita’s soon-to-be-ex-husband and the director of her last film, Heaven’s Gate. Note to self, thought Dita, stop sleeping with all your directors. Or at least stop marrying them. Dita’s passion for matrimony was proving to be one of her more expensive hobbies. Her divorce attorney, Lorna McIntyre, had become one of her closest friends. Lorna had told her in no uncertain terms that her divorce from Brett would be the most costly yet. “He’ll go for the house, Deets. You do realize that?”

  “I don’t care.” Dita shrugged. “He can have it. All I want is my freedom.”

  It was unlike her to be so devil-may-care, at least when it came to money. Born to working-class parents in Detroit, the youngest of four children and the only daughter, Dita Andreas knew what it meant to be poor. Sure, she had always had a roof over her head and food on the table. But there were never any luxuries in the Andreas household. No brand-name sneakers, no hired limos on prom night, no out-of-state vacations. No vacations at all. Dita’s parents were good people who worked their fingers to the bone to provide for their kids. Dita loved them but did not understand their choices, especially her mother’s.

  “But you’re beautiful, Mom,” Dita used to tell her, watching her mother brushing her hair before bed. “You could have married anyone. A millionaire or a rock star. You could have gotten out of here.”

  It was true. With her Swedish blonde hair, endless legs, and full, sensual mouth, Mimi Andreas was the prettiest girl at every school she’d ever been to. She could easily have married or modeled her way out of Motor City. But Mimi was a romantic. One smile from Georgious Andreas, Dita’s charming car mechanic father, and it was all over.

  “Why would I want to marry a rock star, baby? Your dad’s worth a hundred Mick Jaggers to me. Besides, where you live is just geography. And you can’t measure happiness in dollars and cents. You’ll learn that as you get older, Dita.”

  Dita hadn’t learned it. In fact she’d learned the opposite. Geography was important. Who wanted to waste their life in Detroit, a dying city full of factories and despair, whose very name sounded like a grind, when they could choose to live in Malibu or Bel Air or Beverly Hills? And why would anyone choose to love a poor man when there were so many rich men out there to love? Too many, Dita sometimes thought. At fifteen Dita signed her first modeling contract, courtesy of a married, forty-two-year-old agency boss named Nick Capri. Nick Capri was obsessed with the young and (he thought) innocent Dita, moving her into an apartment downtown and eventually leaving his wife for her on Dita’s eighteenth birthday. By then Dita was already earning a seven-figure salary as the face of Lancôme’s teen makeup line. A few months later, Nick was showing her off to one of his Hollywood friends at a party, a producer named Mike Reynolds, and boasting about how incredible his teenage girlfriend was in bed. Dita celebrated her nineteenth birthday in Los Angeles, in Mike Reynolds’s bed. She got her first leading role in a movie the next morning and never looked back.

  But as far as Dita Andreas had run from her past, there were pieces of it that she still carried with her. She would never forget what it felt like to be poor and anonymous. Unlike most of the leading box-office actresses of her generation, Dita had no interest in making the occasional art-house movie, still less in taking a prestigious but low-paid role on Broadway. Not only did she never lower her fees on a movie, no matter how awesome the director, but she always clawed herself a piece of the action on merchandising as well, milking the studios she worked for every last possible cent. If Dita Andreas showed up at a party or a club opening, the chances were she’d been paid to be there. Her avarice and business acumen were matched only by her extortionate spending. The girl who’d gone to grade school parties in Target jeans and Kmart sneakers now dropped more on designer clothes in a week than her parents spent on food and rent in a year. Dita’s closet was full of Marc Jacobs originals and exquisite vintage Chanel pieces, still with their price tags attached. She spent not for the pleasure of owning things but for the thrill of buying them. With every purchase her craving intensified, like a junkie coming down after a hit.

  As much as she spent on herself, Dita Andreas was notoriously mean when it came to spending on others: her staff, her friends, even her family. In the case of her latest divorce, however, she’d thrown caution to the wind. Brett could take whatever he wanted, just as long as he disappeared. All Dita cared about was being with Theo.

  Theo Dexter was unlike any of Dita’s previous lovers. For one thing, he was a genius. Dita had always been more of a six-pack-abs and eight-figure-bank-balance girl than an IQ whore, but Theo had it all: fame, looks, money, and brains. I’m maturing, Dita thought with a smile. I’ve outgrown Brett and his shallow aspirations. Brett Graham wants to change Hollywood. Theodore Dexter wants to change the universe.

  But it wasn’t only Theo’s intelligence that attracted her. It was his arrogance. In Theo Dexter, Dita Andreas had found something she had come to believe did not exist in nature: a human being more ambitious, more self-obsessed than she was. Dita was used to holding all the cards in her relationships and having the men in her life do all the running. Being with Theo made her realize how bored she’d become of being the goddess. For the first time in her life, she’d found a man who wasn’t prepared to jump when she said jump. Yes, Theo adored her; yes, he worshipped her. But when Dita had asked him to come on vacation with her he’d point-blank refused.

  “I’m a married man, Dita. I can’t just take off to Bermuda with you. What if we were photographed together?”

  “What if we were?” Dita pouted. “Do you care about your miserable, fat wife’s feelings more than mine? I need you.”

  “Too bad,” Theo said brutally.

  It was wonderful!

  Dita quickly learned that it wasn’t spousal devotion that kept him true to tiresome Theresa. It was a pathological concern for his image and what a scandalous affair and divorce might do to Dexter’s Universe’s ratings.

  “For heaven’s sake, darling,” Dita complained. “Do you think you’re the first TV star to dump his wife? No one cares.”

  “Not in LA, they don’t. Perhaps not in America. But DU airs all over the world. It’s huge in Muslim countries. I’m not prepared to risk that, not when I don’t have to.”

  Oh yeah? Well now you do have to. I’m divorcing Brett, and I’m going to tell the world I’m in love with you. Screw your precious image.

  As much as Dita delighted in Theo’s take-it-or-leave-it attitude and apparent nonchalance about their affair, she was not prepared to put up and shut up. She was tired of being his mistress. She wanted to be his wife. And what Dita Andreas wanted, Dita Andreas always got in the end.

  Turning right off of Sunset Boulevard through Bel Air’s ornate West Gate, Dita sped up Bellagio toward the Dexters’ mansion. Her plan was simple. She would walk into Theo’s office, rip his clothes off, fuck him like the superstar that she was until he was screaming for more, then tell him that she was leaving Brett and going public about their affair, whether he liked it or not. Together they would be a power couple unrivaled on the world stage.

  I wonder if he’ll put up a fight? she thought, feeling a frisson of sexual excitement pulse between her legs. I do hope so.

  Theresa looked at her face in the mirror and panicked.

  “But…it’s all blotchy! I look like a fourteen-year-old with hives!”

  She’d booked herself in for a faci
al, the first of her life, in hopes of looking fresh-faced for Theo on the last night before his big trip. Instead she looked as if she’d been mugged.

  The dermatologist at Allen Edwards looked as patronizing as she could through a face full of Fraxel. “It’s an oxygenating deep cleanse and peel, Mrs. Dexter. You don’t see the results right away. Especially with older, neglected skin, there can be redness.”

  Can be? There’s no “can be” about it! My chin looks like a baboon’s backside.

  “It’ll calm down.”

  “When?”

  “Within a day or two. That’ll be two hundred and sixty dollars. Would you like to leave a gratuity?”

  It was a ten-minute drive back to UCLA, where Theresa had a class to teach at 2:30. Home and her minimal makeup supplies were twenty minutes away. She looked at her watch: 1:15 p.m. Theo was supposed to meet her after class today. He had a list of things he needed her to do while he was away (“Please try to remember, T. I really can’t keep doing everything”) and wanted to run through it with her, item by item. I can’t let him see me looking like this. She made a left at Barrington and headed up the hill toward Bel Air.

  Theo lay on the floor of his home office, a vast, wood-paneled room that Theresa called the Beauty and the Beast library because it looked like something out of a Disney cartoon, with his pants around his ankles. Above him, Dita Andreas’s magnificent breasts jiggled from side to side as she straddled him, arching her back and expertly moving herself up and down his cock. He was tempted to pinch himself. I’m fucking Dita Andreas. Dita Andreas! But he was too caught up in the moment to focus on anything but the wave of pleasure drowning him.

  “Tell me you love me!” Dita commanded, clenching her muscles more tightly around his erection and reaching down to play with his asshole. Theo had had scores of lovers since he came to LA and learned a number of new and exciting party tricks. But no one came close to Dita. If she hadn’t been a world-famous movie star she would have made an astonishingly successful hooker. He groaned.

  “Christ, Dita. I’m coming!”

  “No!” She stopped dead, releasing him. “Not till you tell me you love me.”

  Reaching up, Theo pulled her head down to meet his own and kissed her full on the lips. “You know I love you,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.”

  Theo was many things, but he was not stupid. From the first time he laid eyes on her at the Make-A-Wish ball, surrounded by sycophants and hangers-on, he knew that he would have to differentiate himself from every other suitor if he wanted to have a shot at Dita Andreas. What he didn’t know was how easy that would be; that the key to Dita’s pussy, if not her heart, was as simple as putting himself first. If there was one thing Theo Dexter knew how to do, it was to put himself first.

  Dita started to rock her hips again, and Theo closed his eyes. It doesn’t get any better than this. I’ve got the world’s sexiest woman balancing on my balls, a hit TV show that just keeps getting bigger, and tomorrow I’m off to Asia for three wonderful weeks. Most western celebrities loathed promoting in Asia. They hated the jet lag, the humidity, the soulless hotels and weird-looking food. Theo loved it. As excited as he was by Dita, he thrived on variety. In Tokyo, even the hookers acted like virgins, demure and submissive and so young. It was like owning Le Caprice but being invited to dinner at Nobu. What’s not to like? After a few weeks of on-demand sex from Japanese teenagers, he would return to Dita hungrier than ever. And of course, she’d have missed him…

  Neither Dita nor Theo heard the front door open. Theo was lost in his own ecstatic world, and Dita was letting out little rhythmic gasps of pleasure as he thrust deeper inside her. She would tell him about Brett and the divorce afterward. This was too good a fuck to be interrupted.

  By the time Theo opened his eyes, Theresa had already been standing in the office doorway for a full twenty seconds. Too shell-shocked to speak, she watched the pair of them writhing on the parquet floor, feeling like a zoologist observing the mating habits of some rare species. The girl was stunning, at least from behind. Irrationally, Theresa found herself thinking, That’s what I’d like my body to look like. I wonder who her trainer is?

  “Theresa!” Theo stared at her. The look on his face was more irritated than ashamed, as if he resented the interruption. “What are you doing here?”

  “Getting my makeup,” said Theresa. Her voice sounded like someone else’s. Is this really happening? Wriggling out from underneath Dita, Theo pulled up his trousers. Only then did Dita turn around and cast a languid eye over her lover’s wife.

  “She’s exactly like you described,” she said bitchily to Theo.

  “You’re Dita Andreas,” Theresa gasped.

  “Last time I checked.” Dita stood up, stark naked, and held out her hand. Theresa couldn’t help but stare at her crotch, which had been waxed completely hairless. It looked horrible, like a baby bird hatched too soon. “How do you do.”

  Numb with shock, Theresa shook Dita’s hand. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  No. I’m not fine. This is not fine. I’m shaking hands with a naked film star who’s just shagged my husband on the floor of our home.

  Shaking, Theresa turned to Theo. “I don’t understand. I thought things were better. You seemed so much happier. The adoption…”

  “He was happier because he’s been with me,” said Dita. She’d been planning on using her divorce from Brett to force the issue with Theo. But his wife catching the two of them in flagrante was even better. Theo would have no choice but to end his marriage now.

  “Shut up!” wailed Theresa. “And put some clothes on for Christ’s sake. This is between me and my husband.”

  Dita looked to Theo for support. Instead he threw her her clothes and said, “Perhaps it’s best if you go, darling. I’ll handle Theresa.”

  “You will not handle me,” sobbed Theresa. “I’m not some bloody puppy you need to house-train! I’m your wife.” She was getting hysterical.

  “Fine.” Dita pouted, stalking into the hallway. Still naked, she didn’t seem in the least perturbed that the cleaning staff had all stopped to stare at her. “I’ll leave. For now. But this isn’t over.” She glared at Theresa. “Theo and I love each other. We’re going to be together, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  After Dita had gone, Theo locked the study door. Then he poured a glass of whisky and handed it to Theresa.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Drink it,” he insisted. “It’ll help.”

  Theresa drank. The amber liquid scorched her throat and made her eyes water. She sat down on the couch, feeling more disorientated than ever.

  “I can’t believe this is a surprise to you,” said Theo.

  “Can’t you?”

  “We’ve been unhappy for years now. The best thing will be to work out a clean, quiet divorce. There’s no need to let things get ugly or confrontational.”

  “The best thing? The best thing for whom? For you and that slut?”

  “Don’t be puerile. Insulting Dita isn’t going to make this any easier,” said Theo piously.

  “Actually it makes things a lot easier for me. Are you in love with her?”

  Theo hesitated. Eventually he said, “We’re similar, Dita and I. I need someone like that in my life, T. Someone ambitious and vital and strong and…”

  “…thin?” said Theresa bleakly.

  “I was going to say confident. But I won’t deny that image is important. Come on, Theresa. When we met, we both lived in a different world. We’ve come a long way from Maddingley Road. I’ve come a long way,” he corrected himself. “Can’t we just say we had a good twelve years and call it quits? End this as friends, with dignity?”

  Dignity? thought Theresa. Five minutes ago you were on the floor with your trousers around your ankles. If it weren’t happening to her she would have laughed.

  “I don’t want to be friends, Theo. I love you. If you were planning to leave me, why did you tell me you wanted to adopt? Why di
d you set up those appointments with the orphanage in Singapore?”

  Theo ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know why. I was trying to do the right thing, I suppose. Obviously it was a mistake.” He couldn’t tell her the truth. That a week ago he’d had no intention of divorcing her. That what happened today had brought things to a head. That he was as trapped as she was, because there could be no way back with Dita now. “Look, I’m going to stay in a hotel tonight. We’ll talk more when I get back from Asia. Work out the practicalities. That’ll give us both time to get our head around things.”

  Theresa sat like a statue, watching him walk out of the room.

  I don’t want to get my head around things. I want you, and a baby, and my life back. Theo’s dalliances with researchers and students had hurt her. But she knew that none of those girls meant anything to him, not really. While his affairs remained casual, she’d been able to cling to the hope of reviving her marriage. This was different. This was Dita Andreas! How on God’s earth was Theresa supposed to compete with that?

  Ten minutes later she heard the trunk of Theo’s Lamborghini slam shut and his car roar out of the gates. Standing up, she walked unsteadily over to the drinks cabinet and poured herself another whisky. It tasted smoother this time, and the burn was less intense. The third was even better. The fourth was bliss. By the time she staggered out of the house and got back into her own car, the sun was starting to set. She turned on the ignition. I’ll be late for my class. The students will be waiting. I can’t let everyone down. I have to be organized. I have to show Theo I can cope. That I’m strong, like Dita Andreas. The gates at the end of the driveway opened automatically as her car approached. Theresa was dimly aware of Manuel, the gardener, in her rearview mirror, waving his arms frantically as she drove out onto Chalon Road, scraping the side of her Mercedes on the gatepost. But then he was gone, and she was rolling down the hill, early-evening light dappling the windshield as she sped past palm trees and mansions and manicured lawns and sprinklers. She didn’t even see the stop sign.