“Here you go.” She pressed a packet of frozen peas onto his hand. It was an entirely maternal gesture, but Horatio seized the moment, and the physical contact, and clasped her hand in his.
“Have dinner with me,” he mumbled.
Theresa looked up at him, surprised, but said nothing. The tap was still running. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him?
“I love you,” he said, more loudly, just as Theresa turned off the tap. The words boomed around the small room like a public announcement in a railway station waiting room. Blushing, Horatio continued. “I’m in love with you, Profe…Theresa. I adore you. Have dinner with me.”
Now it was Theresa’s turn to blush. It had not escaped her notice that Horatio Hollander was one of the more attractive of her students. Not handsome in any classical sense, but tall and kind and intelligent, the sort of man she might have gone for had he been twenty years older, and had she been in the market for a man, which, quite plainly, she wasn’t.
“May I have my hand back, Horatio?” she said kindly.
Horatio thought about saying, “Not till you give me an answer!” the way all the dominant, manly heroes did in romantic fiction novels. Mentally, he tried the words on for size, but on him they simply sounded ridiculous.
“Of course.” He released her hand. “I meant what I said, though.”
“I can see that.” He looked so earnest, Theresa couldn’t bear it. Part of her felt like kissing him right then and there, but it was a small part and she squashed it. “You do realize how old I am?”
“I’ve no idea how old you are,” he lied. “All I know is how beautiful you are.”
“I’m forty-two,” said Theresa. “How old is your mother?”
Horatio hesitated. “Older.”
“How much older?”
“Have dinner with me, and I’ll tell you.” He smiled, Theresa laughed, and mercifully the tension was broken. “How can I persuade you? There must be something I can do.”
“There isn’t,” she said, passing him back the peas and walking back to the sofa where she taught her supervisions. “I’m your supervisor. I like you very much, Horatio. I mean that sincerely.” His face lit up. “But you have to forget about this, or I won’t be able to teach you anymore.”
Morosely, he followed her into the sitting room and sank into his usual armchair. “You think I’m an idiot for asking you.”
“Not at all,” said Theresa. “I’m flattered. But you don’t need an old woman like me, for heaven’s sake. I’m sure you have a line of drop-dead-gorgeous twenty-year-olds lined up outside your rooms as we speak.”
I wouldn’t bet on it, thought Horatio.
“Now come on. Macbeth. Impress me!”
He watched her eyes light up, the way they always did when she spoke about Shakespeare, and felt himself fall a few feet deeper into the bottomless pit of unrequited love. One day, he vowed, she’ll look that way for me.
There was a key to Theresa O’Connor’s heart. There had to be.
All he had to do was find it.
At dinner that night with Jenny and JP, Theresa told them the whole story.
“I think it’s adorable,” said Jenny, knocking back a second glass of Bordeaux. They were at Henri’s, a new French bistro on Jesus Lane that JP had pronounced “acceptable,” his equivalent of at least two Michelin stars. “From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, a pair of star-cross’d lovers!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Theresa. “Horatio Hollander and I are nothing like Romeo and Juliet. And please don’t use the word ‘loins’ when we’re talking about my students. It’s enough to put me off my foie gras.”
“Methinks thou art protesting too much,” teased Jenny. “I’m sure you’ve mentioned this kid to me before. Admit it, you think he’s cute.”
“He is cute. For a kid,” said Theresa. “You aren’t seriously suggesting I accept a dinner invitation from one of my students? My top student, as it happens.”
“But not your ‘on-top’ student. Not yet, anyway.”
“Jenny!”
“Theresa’s right,” said JP, scraping the last scraps of perfectly cooked entrecôte onto his fork. “This is a line it is best nevair to cross. Especially when one ’as ambitions.” He raised an eyebrow cryptically.
“Eh?” said Jenny.
“What ambitions?” said Theresa. “You make it sound like I’m running for office.”
Jean Paul reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping from the latest Varsity. “Per’aps you should be. Take a look at this.”
Theresa read the clipping. “It’s about St. Michael’s. Anthony Greville’s finally stepping down as master next year. I can’t believe that old goat’s still going. He was about a hundred years old back in Theo’s day.”
“The college is inviting applications for the mastership.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You should apply.”
Theresa laughed so hard she almost choked on her foie gras toast. “Me?”
“Why not you?” asked Jenny.
“Why not me? Why not the janitor? Why not my mother? Why not Lysander, for God’s sake! I’m far too junior. I don’t have nearly enough experience.”
“Sure you do,” said JP. “Graham North’s put himself forward. He’s in my department, engineering. I wouldn’t hire Graham to unblock a drain, never mind run a college. The rest of the list are older but distinctly uninspiring: Andrew Gray. He’s been at St. Michael’s so long they’re about to name a library after him. Hugh Mullaney-Stoop from Robinson, which isn’t even a real college.”
“Old Mulligatawny Soup’s put his name in the hat, has he?” laughed Jenny. “He’s the dullest man in Cambridge. You’d be miles better than him, Theresa.”
Theresa laughed. Some PA to the gods had obviously sent a celestial memo around that today was her day to be flattered. “Thanks guys. I appreciate the vote of confidence. But I am much too young, much too insignificant, and last but not least, much too female to stand a snowball’s chance in hell of becoming master of St. Mike’s. Now, who’s for pudding? The hazelnut soufflé’s supposed to be out of this world.”
Later that night, in bed in Willow Tree Cottage with the wind rattling the ancient leaded windows, Theresa lay under a mountain of blankets, thinking about the day. She’d managed to get through the rest of the supervision with Horatio Hollander, largely by avoiding eye contact as much as possible, but the poor boy’s embarrassment was contagious. Afterward she’d wondered guiltily if perhaps she’d somehow given him any encouragement—unconsciously, of course. The truth was she did enjoy his company. Theresa had come to look on her supervisions with Horatio as one of the highlights of her week, though in the past she’d always put that down to the thrill of working with an undergraduate capable of challenging her intellectually, of pushing the boundaries. Well, now the boundaries had been well and truly pushed. It was her job, her responsibility, to push them back. Even so, she couldn’t help but take a tiny sliver of pleasure from the fact that this kind, brilliant golden boy had fallen for her of all people. At her age, it was quite a compliment.
Then there was the day’s other compliment, at the other end of the scale, Jean Paul’s suggestion that she apply for the St. Michael’s mastership. Theresa wasn’t sure which fantasy was the more impossible to picture. Herself as Mrs. Horatio Hollander, skipping down the aisle in a white dress, or herself taking the master’s seat at St. Michael’s high table. Both thoughts—the white dress and St. Michael’s—drew her mind back to Theo.
Theresa was no longer in love with him. Those days, mercifully, had passed. But occasionally, especially after a few glasses of Bordeaux, or when she saw pictures of his and Dita’s adorable little children, fragile, blond Milo and the chubby-cheeked little girl, Francesca, she felt a sort of wistful nostalgia. Those could have been my children, she would think, before realizing that of course they couldn’t, and that it was ridiculous and wrong to project her own frustrat
ions or regrets onto two perfectly innocent little people whom she hadn’t even met, and likely never would.
Tonight, as sleep crept over her, she wondered about Theo. Where he was right now, this moment, as she lay in bed in Grantchester? What he was thinking? She thought of how amazed he’d be if he were to read that she, Theresa O’Connor, had become master of his old college.
As pipe dreams went, it was a good one.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JACKSON DUPREE STOOD at the altar, staring down at his shoes on the polished parquet floor.
“You OK?” James Dermott, Jackson’s second cousin and longest-standing childhood friend, nudged him in the ribs. “Not thinking of running, are you?”
Jackson turned around. Behind him, over two hundred guests crammed into the pews of St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, overdressed in garish hats and feathers and finery. More hovered at the back and in the side chapels, straining to catch a glimpse of the bride who had snagged the most eligible bachelor in Martha’s Vineyard, and quite possibly the whole of America.
“I’d never make it out of here alive,” he joked. “I’m trapped.”
Turning back to face the front, he started fiddling with his tie. The stiff collar of his formal shirt made him feel like he was suffocating. At least, he chose to blame it on the collar.
“She’ll be here in a minute,” said James. “Do some deep breathing. Think of your happy place.”
My happy place, thought Jackson. Isn’t that supposed to be here? On my wedding day? The happiest day of my life?
The last five years had been five of the most magical, and traumatic, of Jackson Dupree’s gilded young life. When Sasha Miller spun off Wrexall Dupree’s retail division to form Ceres, the company she walked out on was changed instantly and irrevocably. As Jackson predicted, the market soon forgot about the McKinley deal and the millions of dollars of revenue it had brought them. Instead investors and pundits alike watched with interest to see just how the new, slimmed-down Wrexall would compete; what their next move would be; and whether they would, as Jackson Dupree had famously and publicly threatened, “go after” Ceres with all the fury of a lover scorned. Market-watchers hovered over Wrexall, not like an anxious parent concerned with its offspring’s progress, but like a pack of vultures, circling above their prey until they were quite sure it was dead.
In the first six months, the vultures almost got their way. While Ceres clocked up deal after deal, the seemingly unstoppable new kid on the block, Wrexall struggled to rebuild in retail real estate. First, their attempt to hire the CEO of Cityfleet.com, the online commercial real-estate giant, backfired spectacularly and publicly when an overenthusiastic headhunter leaked information about his proposed multimillion-dollar compensation package to the press. Next they made the mistake of going head-to-head with Ceres over a transaction with Westfield, the Australian shopping-mall giant, for a new mall outside Los Angeles.
“I don’t understand,” Bob Massey complained to the head of Westfield’s West Coast operations when he called to tell him Wrexall’s pitch had been unsuccessful. “That was a strong pitch. You’ve been partners with us for over eight years, David.”
“Yeah. And everyone I dealt with at Wrexall for the last four of those years is now at Ceres. I’m sorry, Bob. It’s nothing personal. But Sasha Miller really understands our goals.”
It was after Westfield fell through that the decline in Wrexall’s stock price began in earnest. By that time they had belatedly rebuilt a retail division, hiring from all their key competitors (other than Ceres) and even bringing in fresh blood from other sectors, investment bankers and private equity guys. But it was too little, too late. If it hadn’t been for Jackson’s thriving hotels division and the gains they’d made in the residential sector, things might have gotten very bad indeed. As it was, they survived the year, bruised but still fighting and, at least in Jackson Dupree’s case, determined to bring Ceres down.
“You know, they say the opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s indifference,” said Lottie over dinner with Jackson one evening. They’d been dating for over a year by this point, and give or take a few slipups in the first few weeks, Jackson had been faithful, a personal best that those who knew him well viewed as little short of miraculous.
“You’re maturing,” James Dermott told him.
“Bullshit. I’ve always been mature. I just never had a reason to stay faithful before. Now I do.”
This was partly true. Lottie had certainly played her cards well, firstly by refusing to move in with Jackson and secondly by quitting Wrexall Dupree and finding herself a new, highly paid job at a chic uptown art gallery. “We can’t sleep together and work together,” she told Jackson, presenting her resignation as a fait accompli.
“What do you mean? Of course we can. We’ve been doing it for six months, haven’t we? It’s been working out fine.”
“Not for me it hasn’t,” said Lottie. “You’re my boyfriend, not my boss. I’m my boss.” Jackson pretended to be pissed off for a week, but Lottie completely ignored his cold shoulder, so in the end he gave up. Besides, deep down he loved the fact that she was independent, that she challenged him. Deep down, he still occasionally worried that there was something missing between them. Sex was fine. It was regular and enjoyable, if a little on the straight side, at least in comparison to Jackson’s prior tastes. But it lacked the spark, the passion, the addictive adrenaline rush he’d spent most of his adult life pursuing.
That’s why this relationship is working, Jackson told himself firmly. You like Lottie. You respect her. She’s the best friend you always wanted, the sister you never had, the business partner you always needed…and she’s hot. Stop analyzing it to death and get on with it.
Tonight, three years into their relationship, he’d taken Lottie out to Nobu in Tribeca to try to take his mind off of Ceres’s latest triumph—their quarterly results, published today, had hugely outperformed even the most bullish analysts’ estimates, and Sasha was once again riding high. As usual, Lottie did her best to calm him down.
“Have you ever thought the best revenge you could hope to have on Sasha would be to ignore her? Indifference, that’s the key. Forget about Ceres. Focus on Wrexall, focus on your own business.”
Jackson speared a California roll morosely with his chopstick, wantonly destroying the sushi chef’s work of art.
“The more energy you waste on hating Sasha…” Lottie continued.
“I don’t hate Sasha.”
Lottie raised an eyebrow, as if to say not much. “Then why are you going after Raj Patel?”
Raj Patel, once Sasha’s direct boss at Wrexall, now worked for her as a key member of her senior management team at Ceres. Indian, Oxford educated, and devastatingly handsome in a softly spoken, intellectual Imran Khan sort of way, Raj had become almost as much the face of Ceres as Sasha herself. The two of them were often photographed together, Sasha creamy-skinned and seductive beneath her sleek black bob, and Raj dark and regal, his fine bone structure and strong aquiline nose belying his upper-class Indian heritage. If they ever got together sexually they’d make the world’s most beautiful kids.
“That’s business,” said Jackson. “At Ceres, Raj will always play second fiddle to Sasha. Back with us he could run his own show.”
It sounded plausible. But Lottie didn’t buy it. Out of loyalty to Jackson, she’d quietly dropped her own friendship with Sasha. There was no big bust-up, no announcement. Both women understood implicitly that, after all that had happened, it was the way it had to be. Ironically, it was Jackson who kept Sasha’s memory alive, to the point where Lottie sometimes felt, like Princess Diana, that there were three people in her relationship. Jackson hadn’t seen Sasha in person for over a year, but he carried her with him everywhere, lodged in his chest like a tumor. His attempt to poach back Raj Patel was just the latest in a long line of stunts aimed at hurting Sasha, humiliating her the way that she had humiliated him. Lottie prayed it wouldn’t backfire as badly as a
ll the others.
“About Raj,” said Jackson. “I’m thinking of flying out to Barcelona next week.”
Lottie’s eyes widened. “You’re not serious?” Forbes had reported only last week that Ceres was holding its first global off-site at the Hotel Majestic in Barcelona, Spain. Sasha Miller was to be the keynote speaker at a real estate conference that would be attended by the biggest names in the industry. “You can’t hijack Raj there, it’s far too high profile. Remember what happened with Mr. Cityfleet? If Raj doesn’t come back to Wrexall, you’ll end up with very public egg on your face. You’re supposed to be being discreet.”
“I will be discreet,” said Jackson, knocking back the last of his sake and ordering another. “I’ll discreetly get him to sign his offer in Barcelona. Then I’ll discreetly hold a press conference about it the morning of Sasha’s speech and pull the rug out from under her Manolos.”
Lottie sighed. There was no reasoning with him in this mood: drunk and determined. She wished she could love away all the stress and anger Jackson seemed to carry around with him, like a backpack full of cement. Like him, in her darkest moments, she feared that there was something missing between them. There had to be, or he would have let go by now, given himself to her completely. But like him, Lottie put her fears aside. I love him, she thought. He’s already changed so much, come so far from the old playboy Jackson. This vendetta with Sasha is the last piece of the puzzle. He’ll figure it out eventually, I just have to be patient.
Sasha stepped out onto her balcony into the warm, Spanish night air and sighed a deep sigh of contentment. Barcelona had been one of her favorite cities since she came here as a teenager, on a school trip with St. Agnes’s. She remembered the wonder she’d felt back then at the spectacular Gaudi architecture and the Plaça de Catalunya, not to mention the natural beauty of the ocean. There was a palpable sense of vibrancy in Barcelona, a feeling of life and youth and art that seemed to shimmer in the warm air along with the scent of jasmine and the mixed, mouthwatering smells of garlic and chorizo floating up from the tapas kitchens. As a schoolgirl, she and her friends from St. Agnes’s had stayed in a gritty little youth hostel, but Sasha had still adored the city. Now, returning not just as an adult but as a millionairess, a success beyond her or anyone’s wildest dreams, she was staying in the most expensive suite at the Hotel Majestic, a neoclassical gem on Passeig de Gràcia that lit up at night like Harrods at Christmastime. Wealthy and famous visitors flocked to the Majestic to sample the Michelin-starred cuisine at the hotel’s famed Drolma restaurant, widely considered one of the finest in Spain, and to enjoy its dated grandeur and old-world luxury. Sasha chose it because she remembered walking past it as a kid and wondering what the views must be like from the penthouse.
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