The driver of the big rig slammed on his brakes, but it was too late. Swerving wildly all over the road, he saw a second’s flash of black as Theresa’s car disappeared beneath his wheels. He felt the sickening crunch of metal. Then his head slammed into the dashboard and everything went black.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FIRST THERE WAS blackness. Then there was light. It came in flashes, blinding and painful. There were voices too. Some that she recognized.
Theo: “I can’t believe this is a surprise to you.”
Dita Andreas: “Theo and I love each other.”
Others that were unfamiliar.
“Mrs. Dexter? Can you hear me?”
“Her heart rate’s dropping.”
“We’re losing her again. Mrs. Dexter!”
Theresa longed for the light to fade and the peaceful comfort of the blackness to return. Instead, as her lucid periods grew longer and more frequent, so did her awareness of the pain. Her chest felt as if a herd of elephants had trampled across it. Every intake of breath was agony. Her face was badly bruised, and she had no feeling at all below the waist. But none of these things compared to the pain in her heart. To the desperation of knowing that Theo was gone, that she’d pushed him into the arms of another woman by being so useless and ugly and miserable and…
“Mrs. Dexter. Welcome back. You look a lot better, my dear. A lot better. You know the nurses have nicknamed you Lazarus?”
Theresa recognized the doctor’s face. He was young and preposterously handsome, with the same regular features and straight, gleaming-white teeth that everybody seemed to have in LA. Everybody except her.
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Am I?” Tears rolled down Theresa’s bruised cheeks. “The other driver…?”
“He’s fine,” the doctor reassured her. “Minor bruises. We discharged him three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks?” The accident felt like hours ago. She’d had no inkling of time passing. Was Theo back from Asia already? But of course, he wouldn’t have gone to Asia. He’d have been told of her accident as next of kin. He was probably outside now, waiting to see her, to tell her that this whole ridiculous affair with Dita was over, that it was she, Theresa, he really loved. “Do I…have I had any visitors?”
The doctor’s handsome face fell. “Not in person. But the nurse’s station is starting to look like a florist. Your mom’s called every day. And a lady named Jenny.”
“So my husband…” The words died on her lips.
The doctor perched on the edge of the bed and took her hand. He was a kind man. Like the rest of the staff at St. John’s Hospital, he’d been outraged by Theo Dexter’s callousness. Not only had he flown off to Asia while his wife was still critical, but he’d since gone public about his love for Dita Andreas, painting Theresa as an out-of-control drunk whom he’d been forced to “stop enabling” however much it broke his heart. “Dita and I both pray that this accident will be the wake-up call to Theresa to start getting the help she needs.” Yeah, right. Dickhead.
“Your husband has paid the bills. He’s also written to you. There’s a registered letter waiting outside. But listen to me, Mrs. Dexter. If ever there were a time to focus on yourself, this is it. You broke both your legs, fractured four ribs, and suffered a potentially fatal brain bleed. Don’t worry,” he added, seeing the color drain from Theresa’s face, “we ran every scan under the sun, you’re fine. But as clichéd as it sounds, you are lucky to be alive. You won’t be able to leave here for at least another two weeks. Even after that you’re going to need intensive physical therapy. You can’t afford to let your husband, or anyone else, set back your recovery. Thinking positive is half the battle.”
It’s the half of the battle I’m going to lose, thought Theresa. She knew the doctor was right. But she couldn’t help herself. As soon as he left her, she pressed the call button for the staff nurse. “I’d like to see my messages please.”
The vast stack of get-well cards and presents, most of them postmarked from England, brought a lump to Theresa’s throat. But there was only one letter that really interested her. Pushing the rest aside, she tore open the stiff FedEx envelope with Theo’s handwriting on the address sticker.
He’ll have written to apologize. He probably went to Asia because he was scared. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t want to see him? That I wouldn’t forgive him?
She pulled out the letter, five typed sheets with a “Korol & Velen, Attorneys at Law” letterhead. It took her a few moments to cut through the legalese and process what she was reading.
Divorce papers. I’ve been lying here, fighting for my life, and Theo’s filed for divorce.
Too numb to cry anymore, she closed her eyes and prayed for the darkness to return. Why did I have to survive? Why couldn’t God have put me out of my misery?
In fact it was almost a month before Theresa was allowed out of hospital. She returned to find the Bel Air house empty—Theo and Dita were in Los Cabos, Mexico, enjoying a very public romantic vacation—and a note on the marble kitchen counter.
Two months’ rent and all the staff wages are paid. After that you’ll have to make other arrangements. You can reach me through my lawyer, he’s very efficient. Best, Theo.
It was the “Best” that hurt the most. As if she were some secretary or acquaintance. As if all the years of love and support and passion had been for nothing. Unable to stop herself, Theresa had devoured the TV and magazine coverage of Theo and Dita’s affair from her hospital bed. The strangest part was seeing herself being painted as some sort of unhinged lush, a depressive lunatic whom poor, devoted Theo had cared for as long as he could.
“You should hire a PR firm,” insisted Christine, Theresa’s feisty Filipino nurse. “He obviously has, the bastard. You need to fight back, or people are going to believe this rubbish.”
Theresa hadn’t the energy to argue. Christine wouldn’t have understood anyway, any more than Jenny or her friends back home. I don’t care what people believe. I don’t care about anything. All I want is my life back.
A week after she got out of hospital, Thomas Bree, the head of the English faculty at Cambridge and her former boss, threw Theresa a lifeline.
“Good news!” Thomas’s dry, acerbic English voice crackled down the phone line, like a message from another planet. Theresa could instantly picture him in his rooms at Jesus, knocking back his third Glenfiddich of the afternoon as he marked a stack of Chaucer papers. “You remember Harry Talbot-Smith, from Christ’s?”
“Of course,” said Theresa. “Dear old Harry. How’s he doing?”
“He’s dead,” said Thomas Bree brightly. “Which means there’s an English fellowship open. Of course legally we have to advertise. I’ll have to interview a lot of morons from UCL I daresay, might take a few months. But after that the job’s yours if you want it.”
Theresa burst into tears. “I…I don’t know what to say, Thomas.”
“Well don’t get all American and schmaltzy about it, Theresa. Just get yourself on an airplane and come home.”
Theresa did.
For the first month she stayed in London with friends. Theresa had known Aisling O’Brien since their teenage days in County Antrim. Now married to Richard, a successful investment banker, and living in a sprawling house in Fulham with their three sons, Aisling had changed little from the naughty, life-and-soul-of-the-party schoolgirl that Theresa remembered. She was still a ball of energy and determination, just a slightly more middle-aged ball.
“First thing we do is get you a decent bloody lawyer. Fiona Shackleton, that’s who you need, love. Or someone senior at Mishcon de Reya.”
Theresa laughed. “Do you know what their fees are, Ash? I can’t possibly afford that.”
“Bollocks. Theo can pay. Or they can subtract their fees from the whopping settlement they’re going to get you. No, stop arguing. You’re going, even if I have to frog-march you into their offices myself.”
Theresa went. Charles Ne
wton-Haughbury, the partner who took her case, spoke with such a posh, aristocratic lilt that at first Theresa struggled to understand him. But as certain words floated through to her {“outrageous…laughable…vigorous counter-attack…”} she began to get the gist. Charles wanted her to file her own petition with the UK courts, citing adultery, and to reject Theo’s paltry financial offer out of hand. He also wanted her to hire a public relations firm to address the slanderous things her husband had been saying about her.
“Whoever’s been looking after your interests up till now should be shot. It’s a shower, Theresa, an absolute shower.” He pronounced it shah, which made Theresa want to giggle. “You’ve had a long marriage to an extremely wealthy man. His money may be able to buy him public sympathy across the pond, but it won’t wash in a British courtroom, I can assure you of that. It’s time to get the old boxing gloves on and land a few punches.”
But for once Theresa was firm. “I don’t care about the money, Charles. I don’t want to fight with Theo. All I want is for this nightmare to be over.”
“But Theresa…”
“No. Please. Just accept Theo’s offer and let’s be done with it.”
It had taken all Charles Newton-Haughbury’s powers of persuasion to convince her to make accepting Theo’s terms contingent on a gagging order, preventing either Theo or Dita from speaking about Theresa in the media. “You’re walking away with a fraction of what he owes you. At the very least, protect your reputation. You may not care about money, but a part of you must care about being slandered in this manner. For your family’s sake, if not your own.”
Reluctantly, Theresa agreed. Generally speaking, she’d been sanguine about Theo’s rewriting of their marital history, not because it didn’t hurt, but because it hurt less than everything else, less than him being gone. A week ago, however, she’d been dreadfully upset by an interview Theo gave on Barbara Walters, which showed footage of him touring a Singaporean orphanage. The orphanage they’d been talking about adopting from, just days before her accident.
“Dita’s really changed my mind about the whole idea of adoption and parenthood.” Theo smiled wistfully to camera. “You know, Barbara, when you’re in a relationship with an addict, an alcoholic or whatever, someone who isn’t functioning, you can’t allow yourself to think about children. But Dita’s so maternal, so caring. She’s truly opened my eyes.”
That interview opened Theresa’s eyes. She still loved him and missed him terribly. She couldn’t help it. But the time had come to protect herself, or at least let Charles do it for her.
The divorce came through a few weeks later. Theo paid her legal and medical bills, signed a gagging order, and gave her a one-off, lump sum payment of seven hundred thousand pounds. Aisling took Theresa out to celebrate.
“We’re not toasting the money,” she said sternly. “That settlement was daylight robbery and we both know it. We’re celebrating your freedom. Here’s to the first day of the rest of your life!”
Theresa raised a glass sadly.
“When does the job start?”
“November,” said Theresa. “But I’m going up there on Friday. I need to start house hunting. And working. I haven’t written a line since the accident. I’m sure my brain must have turned to mashed potato.”
“Ah, bollocks,” said Aisling. “You’ll be back in the saddle in no time, dating some good-looking Shakespeare scholar or playwright or whoever it is you genius types like shagging. You’ll see.”
Theresa laughed. She had no intention of dating anyone, still less shagging. Besides, there was no such thing as a good-looking Shakespeare scholar. Everyone knew that.
Dita flipped over onto her back and did a few languid strokes across the swimming pool. Theo watched her flawless naked body, her breasts bobbing on top of the water like two buoys, her legs slightly parted to reveal a tantalizing hint of coral-pink labia as she wiggled her toes, and felt his dick start to harden.
“Come here,” he called across the splashing.
“Why?” Dita smiled coquettishly, opening her thighs wider. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Theo grinned. How the hell did I get this lucky?
He’d moved out of the Bel Air house last month and rented this place in Beverly Hills, nominally for the privacy (Theo and Dita were “so tired” of the relentless press attention) but actually because George Clooney used to own it and Theo thought that was cool. Though smaller than the Bel Air mansion, the house managed to be even more impressive, largely thanks to the gadgetry in every room. This was a bona fide LA party house. Vast outdoor TV screens surrounded the pool, rising up out of the stone at the touch of a button. In the master bedroom, the heart-shaped bath filled from a hidden pump in the ceiling, and the Jacuzzi turned on when you said “bubbles.” But the greatest luxury of all was Dita herself. It wasn’t just her perfect, made-for-sex body or her relentless, unstoppable libido that excited Theo. It was her fame. Being with Dita Andreas was like being sprinkled with Hollywood fairy dust. Overnight, Theo had gone from being a celebrity to being a star. And to think, he’d almost passed on all of this because he was too scared of hurting his image with a divorce. What a fool he’d been!
“You have ten seconds to get out of that pool,” he growled lustfully at Dita, “or I swear to God, I’m coming in to get you.”
“Really?” Dita hauled herself up out of the water and walked toward him dripping, like Bond girl Ursula Andress without the bikini. Perching on the edge of Theo’s sun lounger, she wrung out her hair, deliberately dropping cold water onto his erection.
“Bitch.” He kissed her, reaching between her legs.
“Uh-uh.” Dita stood up and grabbed a towel. “Sorry baby. We don’t have time. We’re meeting Ray, remember?”
Theo groaned. Ray Angelastro was a movie agent, one of the biggest names at CAA. Dita was convinced that Theo had a future on the big screen and had been pushing for this meeting for weeks. Theo wasn’t so sure.
“I’m not an actor, Dita. I’m a scientist.”
“You were a scientist,” Dita corrected him. “Now you’re a brand. Especially since the new Asia deal, a very marketable brand.”
It was true, Theo’s trip to Asia had been successful beyond even his wildest fantasies. Not only had Dexter’s Universe been syndicated in every major market, but he’d been offered an endorsement deal by Canon cameras that would catapult his earnings into the stratosphere. And it didn’t end there. Theo’s combination of all-American good looks, British James Bond suaveness, and scientific credibility was the Holy Grail for Asian consumers. He returned to LA overwhelmed with offers to promote everything from aftershave to coffee to computer games.
“Studios love brands,” Dita assured him. “Any idiot can act.”
Watching her dry herself with a towel and pull a bright-yellow micro-mini sundress over her head, Theo resented the meeting with Angelastro more than ever. All he wanted to do was take Dita upstairs and bang her till she begged him to stop. Not that that would ever happen. But at the same time, he loved her for pushing him. Theresa had never understood his ambition. She was always wanting to hold him back, hankering after the simpler life they’d left behind in England. Well now she could have it. On the paltry divorce settlement he’d made her, she’d be able to live very simply indeed. Briefly, Theo wondered where Theresa was at that moment and whether she was happy. But only briefly.
Now then. What to wear to this morning’s meeting? Ray Angelastro was a flaming homosexual. I’ll wear my new Gucci suit. The one with the tight-fitting pants. It’s formal for Hollywood, but it should get Ray’s motor running.
Theo stood up, stretched, and followed Dita indoors.
“Oh my God. Oh, my GOD!” Jenny Aubrieau stood on the front step of Theresa’s new cottage in Grantchester, gasping for breath. A medieval longhouse painted palest pink with a low, thatched roof and stone-mullioned windows, it was ridiculously Disney-idyllic. “It’s exquisite. Like something out of a Flower Faer
ies illustration.” Turning to her children she roared, “Ben, Amelie! Get out of that flowerbed, now. If you trample so much as one of those gorgeous hollyhocks I will personally run over your PlayStation with your father’s lawnmower.”
“Great place.” Jean Paul, Jenny’s husband, kissed Theresa on the cheek and handed her an expensive bottle of Chablis as his son and daughter charged past them into the house. “We would ’ave left the kids at home, but no babysitter will take them.” He grinned.
“I’d have shot you if you left them behind,” said Theresa. “There’s a tree house in the back garden with a rope swing that goes right out over the river. They’ll love it.”
“Daaaaaad!” Ben’s whoop of delight could be heard all the way to Trumpington Street. “Come and see this!”
To a soundtrack of happily screaming children mingled with late-summer birdsong and Handel’s Messiah on Radio 3, Theresa gave Jenny a tour of the cottage. Inside it was all low beams and inglenook fireplaces. Theresa had only moved in a few weeks ago, but already she’d made the place a home, filling it with books and framed botanical prints and jugs stuffed with wildflowers from the riverbank. She’d left LA with nothing, no furniture, no clothes. Moving to Willow Tree Cottage was a fresh start in every sense of the word. Thanks to her divorce settlement, she’d been able to buy it for cash, with money to spare to spend on furniture, rugs, and the like. Putting the place together had been a godsend, the first thing she’d actually enjoyed doing since Theo left her. She was proud of it.
“Bed’s a bit small,” said Jenny, bouncing on the faded rose-patterned quilt covering Theresa’s barely queen-size four-poster.
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