Scandalous

by Tilly Bagshawe

  It had been surreal, running into Theresa earlier. By God she’d looked a fright! And aged too, with those deep, dark circles under her eyes, not to mention the old-lady clothes she was wearing. Any lingering doubts he’d had about her prospects of beating him to the job had been well and truly dispelled. She might have Georgia Frobisher and the rest of the politically correct feminist brigade on her side, but she couldn’t seriously hope to be appointed master looking as if she’d just broken out of the local lunatic asylum. Thank God I got rid of her when I did. He shuddered, imagining for a second how different his life and career might look today had Theresa, not Dita, spent the last decade on his arm. Of course, Dita bored him now too. It was time for a new chapter. But as a strategic alliance, that marriage had certainly served its purpose.

  Walking over Waterloo Bridge, Theo’s thoughts turned to this evening. He was meeting some friends, including Ed Gilliam, for dinner at the Chelsea Arts Club. Helena, a stunning undergraduate he’d met at the university library last weekend, was catching the train up to town to join him. After making his friends suitably jealous, he would take her on to Annabel’s, then hopefully back to his apartment in Mayfair to continue the night’s entertainment. It had been a long time since Theo had looked forward to an evening more. His excitement was heightened by the knowledge that this would be his last night of fun for a while. Dita arrived in Cambridge tomorrow morning, just in time for the college’s official launch of the mastership election, a grand lunch-party-cum-press-junket in the grounds. Dita had made it plain that she was coming on sufferance.

  “You know I hate to leave Milo,” she had whined on the phone last week.

  “So bring him. It’s only for a few days, and they’ll be moving here soon enough anyway. Bring them both.”

  “Bring him? To that wet, damp, toxic climate? Do you know how bad his asthma is right now, Theo? Do you care?”

  Theo was tempted to hit back that as the boy was being raised in one of the smoggiest, most polluted cities on earth, he was hardly surprised, but he restrained himself. Soon, if things went according to plan, he would be free of Dita’s tantrums forever. Just a few more weeks of making nice…

  Turning his mobile phone back on, he saw he had a string of messages. Two from Ed, asking how it had gone with Connor Greaves. Theo texted back “Stellar.” One gloriously X-rated message from Helena—perhaps he’d nix Annabel’s and take her straight home after dinner?—and a fourth, a terse voice mail from Tony Greville’s office at St. Michael’s.

  “This is Yasmin Jones. Please call the master as soon as you receive this message.”

  Irritated, Theo switched the phone back off. Fuck you, Greville. I’m not at your beck and call. If it were that urgent, the old letch could pick up the phone himself.

  It was starting to rain. Theo felt the first heavy, ponderous drips on the lapel of his cashmere coat and stuck his hand out. “Taxi!” A black cab appeared immediately, its orange “For hire” light glowing in welcome. Theo hopped inside.

  “Mayfair, please,” he said brightly. This really was turning out to be an excellent day.

  Three hours later, having showered and changed into jeans and a gray Armani Exchange polo-neck sweater that the salesman had told him made the blue of his eyes pop, Theo swaggered into the Chelsea Arts Club with Helena on his arm. Ed Gilliam was already at the table with a group of hangers-on.

  “My, my,” leered Ed, drooling unashamedly at Helena’s legs in the ultrashort yellow sixties minidress she was wearing. “Does Dita know?”

  “Helena’s a friend of mine,” said Theo smugly. “We met at the library in Cambridge last week.”

  “Helping her, were you?” Ed lowered his voice.

  Theo couldn’t resist a grin. “Now, now. Jealousy’ll get you nowhere. She’s a second-year undergraduate. King’s, I believe. As it happens we have a lot in common.”

  “Like what?” Ed guffawed. “Genitals?”

  Dinner went swimmingly. The men around the table made no effort to hide their desire for Helena, nor their envy that Theo was quite clearly bedding her. Everyone asked about his interview, due to be aired tomorrow night, and what it felt like to become master of a Cambridge college after so many years in the spotlight.

  “It’s humbling,” said Theo, looking about as humble as a pig in shit, and plainly delighted by the attention. The only irritating thing was his telephone, which buzzed ceaselessly in his pocket throughout dinner. He’d agreed to keep it on in case there was a problem with Dita’s flight, but every single call had come from St. Michael’s. In the end he gave in, stomping outside onto Old Church Street and grudgingly returning Anthony Greville’s calls.

  “For fuck’s sake, Tony, I’m having dinner. What’s so bloody urgent? I’ll be back in Cambridge tomorrow, can’t it wait until then?”

  “If it could wait, do you think I would have wasted my evening calling you? How dare you screen my calls!” The master’s voice quivered with rage. Theo quickly backtracked.

  “I wasn’t screening. I’m in a club, there’s lousy reception here. What’s up?”

  “What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up, Theo. Either you wire Dom Lawless eight million pounds first thing tomorrow morning, or you can forget about taking my place next year. And that’s a promise.”

  He filled Theo in on the sale of the land adjoining the college and the council’s outrageous plans to build apartments there. “They’ve got some mystery foreign buyer, Arab or Russian I assume, and they’re rushing this thing through. The local press have already got wind of it. Our only hope is to outbid this person and buy the land back ourselves.”

  “I see.” Theo paused. He could hear the anxiety in Greville’s voice, and he understood it. The old man’s entire legacy as master was at stake. But the plain truth was Theo didn’t have eight million pounds. Even if he had, he wasn’t about to hand it over to St. Michael’s. Nor did he appreciate being threatened. “Let’s not do anything rash, Tony. The council may yet be open to persuasion. I have influence in media circles. We can make this look very bad for them, defacing the university’s heritage and all that jazz.”

  “Don’t try that crap with me, Dexter!” the master wheezed furiously. “Either you come up with that money or there is no ‘we.’ I will personally see to it that the college transfers its allegiance to another candidate.”

  “Bullshit,” said Theo firmly. “Like who? Theresa? That geek from Robinson? You think they’re going to pull you out of this hole? It’s your balls on the line here, Tony, not mine. So if you want my help, I suggest you play nice.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Theo could hear the old man’s mind whirring as he weighed up his options. Finally, very quietly, he said, “Be in my office, nine a.m. tomorrow. We’ll talk.”

  Walking back into the club, Theo felt an initial glow of satisfaction. He had called Greville’s bluff. Taking the wind out of the old bastard’s sails had felt good. But it only took a few moments for doubts to start creeping in. What if Greville did turn on him, out of pure spite? Theo knew there was no love for him at St. Michael’s. That the fellows only supported him because they believed he would bring money to the college. If the ship were going down, perhaps they would prefer it to go down with one of their own at the helm? A nice, committed academic? Like Theresa…

  Suddenly he wished he had not waxed quite so lyrical about his future at Cambridge on Connor Greaves’s couch. If the interview aired and Anthony Greville turned on him, he’d become a laughingstock, not just at Cambridge but all over England. He’d have to return to LA and Dita with his tail between his legs.

  “Are you OK?” Helena met him at the door, snaking a proprietorial arm around his waist.

  “Not really,” snapped Theo, removing her hand and handing her a twenty-pound note. “Here. Get yourself a cab back to Liverpool Street.”

  “But…but…what about our night together? I thought…”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m not i
n the mood.”

  Grabbing his coat from the cloakroom, Theo stormed off into the night.

  Ed Gilliam could see to the bill.

  The next morning dawned misty and gray in Cambridge. People loved to moan about the weather, but Theresa adored these sorts of days. The way the fog hung low over the river gave everything a mystic, ethereal look. Plus the drizzle gave one a cast-iron excuse to sit inside wrapped in blankets, eating biscuits and reading, surely one of life’s greatest pleasures.

  Today, however, she felt less joyful than usual. Bumping into Theo yesterday had put a damper on her spirits that no amount of stiff talking-tos had been able to shift. On top of that she’d slept badly, and woken at five gripped by the sort of nausea normally associated with violent sea crossings or the stomach flu. Pulling on a dressing gown weakly, she’d finally managed to stagger downstairs at seven and make herself a cup of black tea and a piece of dry toast. But by the time the post arrived at eight, she still felt distinctly subpar. She had a million things to do today, including a sonogram appointment at Addenbrooke’s this morning, and of course this blasted lunch at St. Michael’s for the official launch of the election. In an ideal world she should wash her hair and dig out her barely used makeup bag. As it was, she barely had the strength to switch on the television, never mind shuffle over to the front door and sort through her post. How she was going to grin and bear it for the press at St. Michael’s she had no idea.

  Chucking a pile of bills onto the hall table, she returned to the couch with the new copy of Varsity. It was a student paper, really, with little in it written directly for the faculty, but Theresa had always enjoyed the gossip and enthusiasm that crammed its pages. Flipping through a piece on Footlights’ latest production, she turned to page three and froze.

  “Oh my God,” she said aloud. “Oh my God, no!”

  Sasha was still in the shower when she heard the phone ringing. Running across her hotel room carpet, naked and dripping, she hunted for it under the mound of papers on her desk.

  “Hello?”

  “Sasha, it’s me.” Theresa was hyperventilating so hard it took Sasha moment to recognize her voice. “Listen, I…I have to pull out of the race.”

  “No!” It was almost a shout. “Why? You can’t. I have news for you, really great news. I was trying to reach you yesterday, didn’t you get my messages?”

  “Sorry,” Theresa said guiltily. “Yesterday was kind of a bad day. But it doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “It does matter! You don’t understand.”

  “No, Sasha. You don’t understand. I’m pregnant.”

  Sasha was silent for a moment. Then she said, “That’s great, isn’t it? Congratulations.”

  Theresa gave a short, cynical laugh. “Thanks, but I’m not sure the St. Michael’s fellows are going to be congratulating me. Not when they read the piece in this morning’s Varsity.”

  She began to read. When she’d finished, Sasha sank down slowly on the bed.

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah. Yikes. There’s no way I can go to the lunch today. Not now.”

  A small, insistent beeping interrupted their conversation. “Theresa, I have my office on the other line,” said Sasha. “Just don’t do anything rash, OK? Let’s talk again before the lunch. I still think you should go.” Theresa started to protest, but Sasha cut her off, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes as she switched calls. “Hello?”

  “Sasha. Thank God.”

  It was Doug Carrabino, her CFO and one of her top right-hand men at Ceres.

  “I take it you heard the news?”

  “What news?” Sasha picked up a towel from the floor and wrapped it around her shivering body. “I just woke up. Hold on, isn’t it the middle of the night where you are?”

  “Yeah, it is, but none of us are getting much sleep. Wrexall is launching a bid for us.”

  Sasha’s heart skipped a beat. Was he kidding?

  “We won’t get the official numbers until markets open tomorrow, but word is they’re pulling out all the stops.”

  “Jackson,” Sasha muttered. I don’t believe it. I thought all that was behind us. I thought we’d buried the hatchet.

  “Actually, I understand that Jackson Dupree fought his own board on this,” said Doug. “That’s the rumor, anyway, that he doesn’t want us back, after all the bad blood.”

  “Of course he wants us!” Sasha snapped. “We’re the best.”

  “Maybe. But we’re vulnerable, and they know it,” Doug countered. “Look, I don’t know what you’re doing over there, Sasha—nor does the market, that’s the problem. But if you want us to have a fighting chance of beating Wrexall off, you need to come back to New York. Right now.”

  He was right, of course. Sasha had left herself wide open, and Jackson had taken a shot. Why wouldn’t he? It was business, after all. Hadn’t that always been her mantra?

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said guardedly.

  “As soon as you can? What does that mean?” Doug Carrabino was incredulous. “Call a taxi and get to the nearest airport, for God’s sake. We’ll have to give a statement by the end of the day tomorrow…I mean today. We need you, Sasha.”

  “I know,” said Sasha. But I need to do this. I’ve waited my whole adult life to get my revenge on that bastard. I can’t stop now. “Whatever their offer is, we rebuff it. I’ll draft you a statement right now. I’ll be there soon, Doug, OK? I promise.”

  She hung up.

  Yesterday, everything had been falling into place. Today, all her carefully laid plans were crumbling into dust. Ceres was under attack. Theresa was pulling out of the mastership race. Theo was going to get what he wanted after all. And Jackson…no, she mustn’t think about Jackson.

  Marching to the wardrobe, Sasha pulled out her smartest cream wool Dior business suit and the killer Jonathan Kelsey heels that made her feel like Alexis Colby on a mission.

  She was on her way to St. Michael’s. It was time to close the deal.

  Back at Willow Tree Cottage, Theresa had put the phone down feeling more confused than ever. Sasha still wanted her to go to the lunch at St. Michael’s, but how could she? Everyone would be staring at her, judging her. She’d be a laughingstock.

  She picked up the Varsity piece and read it again. The headline alone was enough to bring on her nausea: “ST. MIKE’S HOPEFUL PREGNANT AFTER AFFAIR WITH STUDENT.”

  “Theresa O’Connor, a respected university Shakespeare professor and contender for the Mastership of St. Michael’s—in competition with her famous ex-husband, Dr. Theo Dexter—is reportedly four months pregnant, after an affair with one of her students. While Varsity has learned the name of the student, we understand from our sources that the young man himself may not be aware of Professor O’Connor’s condition, and for this reason we have declined to identify him. We can reveal, however, that he was directly supervised by Professor O’Connor, and that he is more than twenty years the professor’s junior.”

  Who? How? Jenny would never have said anything, that much she was sure of. Walking upstairs in a dream, she pulled on a T-shirt and sweater, both of them inside out, and a pair of corduroy gardening trousers. She tried to clean her teeth but gagged when she realized she’d squeezed moisturizer on the toothbrush. The moment she finished spitting it out, the doorbell rang.

  “Go away!” Theresa wailed, putting her hands over her ears. “Whoever you are I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Too bad,” a voice shouted back at her. “I want to talk to you.”

  Horatio! Oh Christ. He sounded angry. Of course he was angry! He must be bloody furious, poor boy. She’d deliberately deceived him. But she’d done it for his own good, for both their goods…

  “Open the door, Theresa.”

  She ran downstairs and opened the door. Horatio was still in his pajamas, with a pair of Wellington boots, a sweater, and a raincoat pulled on over the top. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous. But on him it looked…perfect. Normal. Theres
a longed to throw herself into his arms. Instead she said meekly, “You’d better come in.”

  “Is it true?” He stood in the hallway dripping, a small puddle forming on the flagstones at his feet.

  Theresa nodded miserably.

  “Were you ever going to tell me?”

  “Yes. No. I suppose so. I don’t know.” She sat down on the wooden chair in the hallway, then remembered it was covered with mail and stood up again, wringing her hands awkwardly. “I hadn’t thought it through that far. It was a shock.”

  “A disappointment.” The bitterness in his voice was heartbreaking. “The end of your mastership hopes! Is that why you kept it secret?”

  “I couldn’t care less about the stupid mastership!” Theresa’s eyes welled up with tears. She could take censure from anyone but Horatio. For him to think that she was disappointed by the baby, that she didn’t want it…it was unbearable.

  “You couldn’t care less about me either, could you? What was I, just some sad sperm donor? Go for someone young and healthy with a decent IQ, never mind about his life, his feelings…”

  “I did mind about your feelings! Very much. I’m over the moon about the baby, but what right did I have to saddle you with a child and a family, at your age? And with me, twenty years your senior as whoever wrote that article so graciously pointed out! It was a mistake, Horatio. My mistake.”

  “Our mistake, actually.” Standing in the hallway, shaking with emotion like a tall, wet tree, he suddenly looked a lot older than twenty-three. “You’re keeping it?”