Scandalous

by Tilly Bagshawe

  “It’s a small room.”

  “Why didn’t you take the bigger one, at the front? There’s easily room for a king in there.”

  “I like the view. And the window seat,” said Theresa, unlatching the ancient, tiny window to reveal a glorious vista of open fields with King’s College spires in the distance.

  “Wow,” sighed Jenny. “If I divorce JP and dump the children, will you adopt me?”

  Theresa smiled. She hadn’t added that she had no need of a king-size bed. That she’d slept in one at Aisling and Richard’s and woken up every morning reaching for an absent Theo.

  Sensing a shift in her mood, Jenny put her arms around her friend. “Are you eating? You feel like skin and bone.”

  “I’m drinking. Does that count?” Theresa joked. It was ironic. All those failed diets and yoga regimens in LA, trying endlessly to get thin for Theo, and the moment he left her the weight fell off like flesh from a well-steamed sea bass. “I made us paella for tonight and tomato salad from the garden. Will the children eat fish?”

  “Amelie will. Ben will eat anything if you drown it in ketchup.”

  Theresa’s face fell. “Oh dear. I’m not sure I have any ketchup.”

  Jenny reached into her capacious mother’s handbag and pulled out a red plastic bottle. “Never fear. We bring our own. Like insulin.”

  Supper was a riot. It was wonderful to be with Jenny and JP again. Theresa hadn’t seen Ben and Amelie since they were toddlers, and while the kids were unrecognizable, their parents were the same funny, charming, understanding people they’d always been. After Theresa’s accident, Jenny called the LA hospital every day and was the first to offer support, both practical and emotional, when Theresa announced she’d be moving back to Cambridge. After a month in her new job at Christ’s she still cried about Theo at least once a day and thought about him constantly. But it was a relief to dive back into the cool, restorative waters of her beloved Shakespeare. As for Cambridge itself, the city never failed to lift her spirits.

  When the Realtor first drove her out to Grantchester, Theresa was resistant. A pretty hamlet a few miles from the town center, best known for being home to the poet Rupert Brooke and latterly to author Jeffrey Archer, it would mean driving in to work every morning. Living in Los Angeles had left Theresa with an abiding hatred of commuting, however short the distance. “I’m sure it’s a charming property. But I really am set on finding something closer to college. I wouldn’t want to waste anyone’s ti—” They turned a corner and there it was: Willow Tree Cottage with its overflowing cottage garden, its lichened gate, its thatch, and its winding swath of lawn rolling down to the river and the eponymous willow tree.

  “It’s perfect,” Theresa sighed. “That’s the one.” To the agent’s delight, she wrote a check for the full asking price on the spot.

  “The starter was delicious,” pronounced Jean Paul, finishing off his third enormous helping of paella while Theresa opened a third bottle of wine. “What is the main course?”

  His wife hit him over the head with a napkin. “Ignore him, T. Il est un cochon.” They kissed and Theresa thought, They’re like teenagers, so in love. Were Theo and I ever like that?

  As if in answer to the question, Jenny asked brusquely, “So is it all over now, the divorce paperwork and stuff? You’re done?”

  “Yes,” said Theresa, unable to keep the note of sadness out of her voice. “We’re done.”

  “Good. You’re well shot of him, T, isn’t she, darling?”

  JP nodded through his last mouthful of rice.

  “Honestly, I could never say it at the time. But he was always an asshole, even before he was famous. Now he’s a plastic, airbrushed, American asshole, which is even worse.”

  Theresa tried to smile.

  “Ooh, this will make you laugh,” said Jenny. “Guess what I read the other day? The name Theodore is Latin for ‘God’s Gift’! Do you think he christened himself?”

  Amelie wandered in from the garden. At nine years old she already looked distinctly teenage, with her blue, chipped nail polish and a Girls Aloud T-shirt that clung to the two tiny, nascent mounds that would eventually become her breasts. Bored of the rope swing, she was deep in some sort of gossip magazine. Quick as a flash, her father yanked it out of her hands.

  “Qu-est-ce que c’est, Amelie, this rubbish? What do you read this for? Whatever ’appened to My Little Horses?”

  “My Little Pony,” said Jenny. “Give it back to her, JP, don’t be annoying.”

  But father and daughter were already caught up in a familiar game, with Jean Paul holding the magazine at arm’s length, out of Amelie’s reach, and reciting passages in his embarrassing-dad voice while she screeched at him to stop.

  “Oh my God, you are so sad, Dad,” she howled. “Mum, make him give it back.”

  “Listen to this,” laughed Jean Paul. “‘Six things your man wants you to do in bed but is too scared to ask.’ Zat one is followed by ‘Angie and Brad, why it’s really over’ and…” He turned the next page then stopped abruptly, blushing. Seizing her chance, Amelie snatched the magazine while his guard was down and dropped it onto the table. There, grinning up at Theresa, were Theo and Dita. They looked picture-perfect, with their matching white smiles and blond haircuts, radiating happiness and love and success.

  “Don’t look at it,” said Jenny, reaching for the offending object. “Don’t give them the satisfaction.” But Theresa stopped her arm. It wasn’t the picture she was looking at. It was the headline:

  “AND BABY MAKES THREE”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “MORE WINE?”

  Sasha looked across the table at the man sitting opposite her. In the soft glow of the candlelight he looked even better than he had in the gym last week, when he’d asked her out after spin class. Tall, athletic, faintly rugged in a hot-plumber-from-Desperate-Housewives sort of way.

  Positives: He’s seen me at my worst, hyperventilating and dripping with sweat, and he still fancies me.

  He’s handsome, charming, and a good conversationalist.

  He hasn’t tried to grope me or stick his tongue down my throat…yet.

  Negatives: His name is Grover.

  Grover! What possessed people to do that to a perfectly innocent little baby? Sasha tried to imagine herself screaming it out in the throes of passion. “Oh, Grover, that’s so good! Don’t stop, Grover!”

  “You’re laughing. What, do I have spaghetti sauce on my chin?”

  “Oh, no!” Sasha blushed. “I’m sorry. I was, er…I was thinking about something else. Please, go on.”

  “Go on with what?” Grover cocked his handsome head to one side, puzzled.

  “With what you were saying.”

  “I wasn’t saying anything. I was offering to refill your glass, but maybe you’ve had enough? Is everything OK, Sasha?”

  Oh God, thought Sasha. I mustn’t sabotage this. I mustn’t. OK, so his name was Grover. And he did overuse the word “awesome.” And vote Republican. But really, he was a decent, solvent, straight, and apparently kind man, and he’d asked her out on a date, and for once she’d actually gone, because if she didn’t have sex again soon she was pretty sure some weird biological process would start to kick in and she wouldn’t be able to do it…

  “Sasha?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. Just a lot going on at work, you know. It’s hard to switch off.”

  It was ironic. In her professional life, Sasha was completely together and successful and brilliant. For the last year, she’d specialized exclusively in retail development and had become one of Wrexall Dupree’s biggest producers. In business meetings Sasha had no trouble conquering her inner geek, the social awkwardness that had dogged her since childhood. She was charming, funny, professional, a natural saleswoman. But put her in a purely social situation—like a date with a hot gym guy, for example—and she flailed around helplessly like a fish out of water.

  Theo Dexter still haunted her dreams at night. Sh
e was still no nearer to exacting her revenge. With every passing season Theo seemed to become more famous, more successful, more happy with his film-star girlfriend, and more out of Sasha’s reach. But by day it was Jackson Dupree who consumed all her mental energy. The rivalry between Wrexall’s future chairman and Sasha Miller, the firm’s undisputed star, was an open secret on Wall Street. Within Wrexall itself, the sparring between Jackson and his one-time protégée acted as a sort of atomic generator at the heart of the company, spewing out energy and igniting a feverish fireball of deal-making that had catapulted them to the top of the market. Jackson’s “team” were the hotel and residential divisions. The relationship between his executives and Sasha’s retail group was akin to gang warfare, with each side vying daily and hourly to outperform the other. At first, the rest of the board was wary of the open hostility that blazed between Jackson and Sasha. But as the results rolled in and the stock price continued to rise, they backed off. A controlled nuclear explosion was clearly exactly what Wrexall Dupree needed.

  Between fighting with Jackson, building her business, and obsessing about Theo Dexter, Sasha had had neither the time nor the energy for a personal life. But it was January, and her New Year’s resolution was to stop turning down flat every male who approached her and to force herself to go on at least three dates a month.

  The first one had been a disaster. A lawyer named Simon Tooley who had been on the other side of one of Sasha’s M&A deals. At work he’d seemed completely normal, blond, clean-cut, perhaps even a little preppy. But over a four-hundred-dollar dinner at Masa, a pretentious Japanese restaurant with no menu in the Time Warner Center, he waxed suicidal over the edamame about his broken marriage, drank his body weight in sake, then collapsed in tears, confessing to Sasha that he was a lifelong cross-dresser and how would she feel about maybe letting him wear her panties later? When Sasha politely declined, he took umbrage and stung her for half the bill.

  Grover Hammond was a lot better, not that that was hard. He was thirty-five, worked in publishing, had never been married, and (at least by the time dessert arrived) had not asked to borrow any of Sasha’s clothing, not even her outerwear.

  Grover had just started telling her a funny story about one of his authors’ diva-fits when the door to the restaurant opened and a mind-blowingly attractive redhead sashayed in. Close to six feet tall and pin thin, she was obviously a model. Even dressed down in Hudson jeans and an Abercrombie polo-neck sweater, with no visible makeup, she was the sort of beauty people couldn’t help but stare at. Every man, woman, and child turned to look at her, including Sasha.

  “Wow,” she said admiringly. Sasha wasn’t given to envy. “I think that may be the best-looking human being in the universe.” But her smile faded when she saw the redhead’s date walk in behind her and wrap a possessive arm around her waist.

  “We’d like your best table.” Jackson’s arrogant voice jarred on Sasha’s nerves like nails on a blackboard.

  “I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing available at the moment. As you can see, we’re fully booked. Did you have a reservation?”

  “I don’t make reservations. Tell Marcel I’m here; he’ll make room. And you can bring us two glasses of Cristal while we wait.” Pulling the redhead closer, Jackson turned around to survey the room, smiling proudly, like a tribal king showing off his latest bride to his adoring subjects. His eyes soon fell on one less-than-adoring subject, however, and the smile vanished. He walked over to Sasha’s table.

  “Sasha.”

  “Jackson.”

  “I’m surprised to see you out and about so late. Surely you should be hanging upside down in a cave somewhere by now? Or home polishing your cauldron?”

  In vintage Levi’s and a thick, blue cashmere Ralph Lauren sweater, with snowflakes still clinging to his wild, black hair, Jackson looked as effortlessly desirable as the stunner he’d walked in with. Unlike the girl, though, who seemed sweet if a little bit vacant, Jackson knew it. He positively radiated vanity.

  “Waiting on a table for three, are you, Jackson? Just you, your lady friend, and your ego. How romantic.” Sasha turned back to Grover. To Jackson’s surprise, she took his hand. “Jackson, this is Grover Hammond, a friend of mine. Grover’s a publisher.”

  Jackson nodded a curt acknowledgement.

  “Grover, this is Jackson Dupree, a work colleague. Jackson’s a penis.”

  It was so unexpected, and so totally rude, Grover burst out laughing. Jackson glanced over his shoulder to see if the redhead had heard, but she was engrossed in her BlackBerry. At that moment Marcel, the restaurant owner, rushed over and began fawning over Jackson, clapping his fat little hands excitedly as a new table and linens were carried out from the kitchens. Jackson contemplated firing a shot back at Sasha. If she wanted to embarrass him in front of his date, two could play that game. But the moment had passed. Besides, he’d look a lot cooler to Leilani, the redhead, if he laughed it off and didn’t stoop to Sasha’s level.

  Once Jackson and Leilani were seated, at the opposite end of the room, Grover asked Sasha, “What was that about? You just blew that guy out of the water. Is he an ex or something?”

  “An ex?” Sasha looked disgusted. “Eeeugh. I wouldn’t date Jackson Dupree if the survival of the human race depended on it. No, I told you. He’s a colleague. And he’s a penis. That’s the kindest word I can use to describe him.”

  “He’s famous, right?”

  “In his own mind,” Sasha scoffed.

  “No, really. I’m sure I’ve heard of him.”

  “You might have. When you get home tomorrow, google ‘world’s biggest penis’ and see if his face pops up. I’m just going to run to the ladies’. Should we get the bill first?”

  Now it was Grover’s turn to look disgusted. “Please. I’ll get the check. I may not be as rich as your buddy Jackson Dupree, but if I take a girl out for dinner, I pay.”

  Sasha smiled. Maybe dating wasn’t going to be such an ordeal after all.

  A few minutes after Sasha and Grover left, laughing, into the night, Jackson was about to order appetizers when Leilani suddenly stood up.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look pale. Is everything OK?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Look, I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, OK? Really. But I can’t help you. No one can.” She started putting on her scarf.

  Jackson looked blank. “What?”

  Leilani squeezed his hand sympathetically. “Being gay. It’s not something you can be cured of. It’s genetic. I have two gay brothers, I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Well that makes one of us. What on earth makes you think I’m gay?”

  “Look, it’s OK, truly. Your friend told me everything, in the ladies’ room. I know you’re really super Christian, and you probably think you’re trying to do the right thing by fucking it out of your system. But if it’s Brian you love…”

  “Brian? Who the fuck is Brian? If I were going to be gay, you think I’d date someone called Brian?”

  “You need to start loving yourself for who you are,” Leilani said earnestly. “And I need to do the same.”

  Jackson sat and watched as she walked out into the street. Slowly, he felt his anger start to rise, like a building wave about to break.

  OK, so it probably wouldn’t have worked out with Leilani anyway. Yes, she was a knockout, but she had the IQ of a small piece of cheese, not to mention that gentle, save-the-whales vibe about her that, in Jackson’s experience, invariably translated to being shit in bed. But even so. That little bitch Sasha Miller had successfully sabotaged his evening. He pictured Sasha in a cab right now, laughing at him in between getting down and dirty with Elmo or whatever the fuck the guy’s name was.

  Fine, sweetheart. You want this to get personal?

  Just you watch how personal I can be.

  Two weeks later, a package arrived on Sasha’s desk. It was beautifully wrapped in expensive silver paper with an oversized red silk bow on the top.
>
  “Where did this come from?”

  Jeanne, her secretary, shrugged. A middle-aged matron from New Jersey with a sharp eye for detail and an even sharper tongue, Jeanne Grogan was Sasha’s right-hand woman. Other than Lottie Grainger, who wouldn’t have hurt a fly if it were injecting her with malaria, Jeanne was the only person at Wrexall whom Sasha totally trusted.

  “I have no idea. I was picking up a fax from the machine, and when I got back to my desk, there it was. It’s not ticking, is it?”

  Sasha held it up to her ear. “I don’t think so. Should I open it?”

  “No. You should marinate it in chili sauce and slow roast it for six hours. Of course you should open it! What else are you gonna do?”

  The wrapping was so perfect, Sasha almost felt guilty tearing into it. For a moment she was transported back to childhood Christmases in Frant and her mother carefully saving the nicest wrapping paper, smoothing it out under the encyclopedia to be used again another year. These days Sasha was comfortably earning seven figures a year. If I ever have children, they won’t need to save wrapping paper, she thought idly. For some reason the thought made her sad.

  “What is it?” Jeanne’s harsh, nasal tones brought her back to reality.

  “It’s DVDs.” Sasha sounded nonplussed. “A box set.” Turning them over in her hands, she saw that she had in fact been given a “Best of Dita Andreas Limited Edition Holiday Collection.” She blushed.

  “Who sent me this?”

  “I told you already. I have no idea. Who knows you’re a Dita Andreas fan?”

  No one. No one would have any reason to link me with Dita Andreas. Other than maybe my parents and a few old friends from Cambridge. But a friend wouldn’t send me this. Besides, there’s no postmark. It was hand delivered.

  Oh shit. Her heart sank as the obvious truth dawned. Two minutes later she barged into Jackson’s office, slamming the door shut behind her.

  “Is this meant to be a joke?” She waved the DVDs in his face. “Because it’s not funny.”