I’m pregnant. I’m going to have a baby. Or am I? Suddenly she was gripped by panic. I’m forty-four. What if there’s something wrong with it? She pictured herself at the sonogram, a nurse shaking her head as she ran the ultrasound machine over Theresa’s jelly-slick belly, the doctor squeezing her hand. “I’m so sorry, Professor O’Connor. I’m afraid there’s no heartbeat.” It was ridiculous how much anguish she felt at the possibility of losing a baby that, until a few short hours ago, she hadn’t the faintest idea existed. Then there were the practical things to be considered, a list that grew longer every time Theresa thought about it.
What about her job? How would a baby fit in to her cloistered, academic life? Clearly the mastership of St. Michael’s was now out of the question, but what about her fellowship, her teaching and writing commitments? Instinctively, she didn’t want to tell anyone about the pregnancy until she knew the baby was healthy, except for Jenny, of course. But even that had its drawbacks. Naturally Jen would want to know who the father was. Which meant Theresa would have to confess about Horatio, and then what? Tell him, presumably, although just how she was going to do that she had no idea. It was all too much to take in.
Pushing aside the half-eaten packet of biscuits, she dialed Jenny’s number and was half relieved when it went to voice mail. “I’ve got some news,” she said cautiously. “Call me back when you get this. Or better still, come over. I think I need some advice.”
Feeling relieved—Jenny was practical and organized; she would know what to do—Theresa slumped back against the cushions of her couch and promptly fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
She woke to the sound of knocking on the front door. Jenny. “Hold on!” Rubbing her eyes blearily, she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was still only seven fifteen, so she couldn’t have been asleep for long. Even so, it was disconcerting, the way that tiredness seemed to overtake her these days. “Just coming.”
The cats scuttled nervously out of her way as she heaved herself off the sofa and out to the hallway, which made Theresa feel guilty again. Must not become one of those horrid, cranky pregnant witches who snap at everyone. Must teach cats and offspring to get along by being an oasis of maternal calm at all times.
Then she opened the door, and all pretense of maternal calm flew out the window. “Good God. What on earth are you doing here?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SASHA TOOK IN the shocked, angry face glaring at her from the cottage doorway and thought, I made a mistake. I should never have come.
She’d been focused on this moment since she’d made the decision at Christmas. But there had been so much to do since then, finishing up her outstanding deals at Ceres, arranging for a three-month leave of absence without scaring her partners and investors (no mean feat when you can’t tell anybody where you are going or why), that she realized now she’d forgotten about the biggest hurdle of all. What if Theresa Dexter didn’t want her help? What if she refused to give her the time of day?
It hadn’t been hard to find out where she lived. The porters at Jesus were more than happy to accommodate an “old friend” and give out the professor’s address. “It’s not Dexter anymore though, love. She goes by O’Connor these days. Must be a while since you’ve seen her.”
“It is,” said Sasha. A lifetime ago.
And yet now, shivering on the doorstep of Theresa’s picture-perfect cottage in Grantchester, it was as if no time had passed, and the two women were facing each other once more across the Senate House, both of their futures in the balance.
“What do you want?” The anger in Theresa’s voice was palpable. Sasha wondered what she’d been expecting. A warm welcome?
“I’d like to talk to you. It’s about”—she was about to say “Theo,” then suddenly worried that it might sound overfamiliar—“about your ex-husband.”
Theresa felt her happiness bubble pop like a pricked balloon. Today of all days, Theo was the last person she wanted to talk about, and Sasha bloody Miller was the last person she wanted to talk about him with. Ever.
“No thanks.” She started to close the door.
“Please!” Sasha stuck out her arm, keeping the door open. It was an aggressive gesture, an intrusion. Theresa’s eyes narrowed even farther. “It’ll only take a few minutes. I know you don’t owe me anything but…I’ve come a long way,” she finished lamely.
Reluctantly, Theresa let her in. Angry as she was, she could hardly let the girl stay out there on the doorstep and catch hypothermia. Inside, in the light, the two women got a better look at each other. It had been a long time, more than a decade, since they’d seen each other last. On the surface, Theresa concluded with irritation, Sasha Miller had barely aged. She was thinner and wore her dark hair in a shorter, more professional bob. Underdressed for the so-called spring night in an expensive-looking but thin black wool coat and suede pumps, her style was more urban and mature, but her alabaster skin remained resolutely lineless. And then of course there were the eyes, that wonderful, mesmerizing light green. Theresa had seen at the time why Theo had fallen for Sasha, and she could still see it now.
“Thank you,” said Sasha politely. She started to take off her coat, then hesitated again. “May I?”
Theresa nodded. “Sure. There’s a chair over there with a bit less cat hair on it.”
Sasha laid her coat over the back of the chair. Beneath it she looked even thinner, too thin, in a pair of gray Gucci cigarette pants and a thin black polo-neck sweater from Brora. Theresa felt like a whale swimming beside a baby eel. She wondered idly whether Sasha had been ill. Was that why she was here, to make amends because she had cancer or something awful? In Theresa’s experience, only cancer or heartbreak could make a woman get that skinny.
“I’ll get to the point,” said Sasha. “I heard that Theo applied for the mastership of St. Michael’s.”
“That’s right,” said Theresa, warily.
“I also heard that you were in the running for the job.”
Theresa was about to say “not anymore” but thought better of it. She wasn’t about to confide the most important news in her life to the girl who had been the beginning of the end of her marriage. Instead she folded her arms defensively and said, “And?”
“And I would like to prevent Theo from getting the job. I would like to sabotage his chances. I would like to ruin him.”
Sasha said this last so matter-of-factly, it took a moment for Theresa to process her words. When she did, curiosity got the better of her hostility. “Why?”
“Why?” Sasha looked genuinely surprised. “Because he ruined my life, of course. An eye for an eye and all that.”
“Ruined…I don’t understand. How did Theo ruin your life? You’re the one who tried to steal his theory, remember?”
Sasha looked at her with incredulity. “Do you still believe that? Honestly?”
Theresa looked perplexed. It was all so long ago. She hadn’t thought about the case, or about the theory that launched Theo’s career, for longer than she cared to remember. She’d believed Theo at the time. Then again, she’d believed Theo about a lot of things.
“I never took anything from Theo,” said Sasha, with unexpected vehemence. “Never. He, on the other hand, took everything from me. My career, my future, my reputation. My heart, at the time,” she added bitterly. “Look, if you don’t want to get involved, I understand. I realize that you suffered too.”
“That’s big of you!” Theresa spluttered. “I was his wife.”
“I know,” said Sasha. “And I’m sorry, I am. But I was nineteen. I was his student, I was just a kid.” Theresa thought about Horatio and blushed. “I’d like to tell you the truth about what happened,” said Sasha. “Of course it’s up to you whether you believe me or not. Or whether you decide you want to help me, or you’d rather leave the past in the past. But I want you to know.”
Theresa hesitated. Leaving the past in the past sounded like a wonderful idea. Recently, however, her past seemed
determined to hunt her down. She had a feeling if she turned Sasha Miller away tonight, she would only be delaying the inevitable. And despite herself, she was intrigued to hear the girl’s side of the story. All these years later, how could it hurt?
“You’d better have a seat,” she said. “I’ll make us some tea.”
An hour later and Theresa was still sitting, spellbound, opposite Sasha as she finished her long, painful story. There were tears in her eyes by the end, as Sasha related what happened after the university court’s decision—her struggle to get into another university, the hate mail she and her parents received from Daily Mail readers for years afterward.
Until recently, when she’d learned about him coming back to Cambridge, Theresa hadn’t thought about Theo in years, and certainly not with any lingering feelings of pain or regret. Looking at Sasha Miller tonight, Theresa could see it had not been the same for her. Beneath her success, her beauty, her wealth, Sasha was still the same, scarred, heartbroken nineteen-year-old from all those years ago. She had never gotten over him. It was tragic.
It was also quite clear to Theresa that Sasha was telling the truth. She hadn’t seduced Theo. Of course she hadn’t! It was entirely the other way around. Theo had lied to her and used her and strung her along, the same way he did with all his girls. But of course, in Sasha’s case, it was far worse than that. Theo had taken Sasha’s research, her brilliance, and passed it off as his own. Everything he’d achieved since then, his fame, his wealth, his global stature as a genius to rival Hawking—it was nothing more than stolen goods. No wonder she hated him. That was a lot to let go.
“I’m sorry I was so standoffish when I let you in,” said Theresa. “I didn’t know. Plus I’d already had a rather, um, surprising afternoon.”
“Please,” said Sasha. “It’s entirely my fault. I should have called.”
For a few moments silence fell, neither woman sure what was supposed to happen next. Finally, Sasha spoke. “So what do you think? About the mastership? Will you help me stop him?”
Theresa sighed deeply. “I’m afraid that’s a lost cause. Theo has money and a media profile, two things St. Michael’s needs desperately. Short of a natural disaster, I don’t see how anyone can stop him.”
“I am a natural disaster,” said Sasha. “Think of me as Hurricane Miller.”
Theresa smiled. “Even so.”
“I’m not expecting an answer now,” said Sasha, standing up to go. “I’ve already taken up much too much of your evening. But if I were to come up with a way to stop him…if…would you help me?”
No. I can’t get involved. I’m pregnant, for God’s sake. I have enough on my plate.
“Yes,” Theresa heard herself saying. “I would. If you can think of a way to get that bastard out of Cambridge and out of both our lives for good, I’ll be right behind you.”
“No.” Jackson said the word with finality, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms to emphasize the point. “We’re not doing it.”
“Now, wait a minute, Jackson,” Bob Massey fumed. “You can’t just reject the proposal out of hand.”
“Yes I can. I’m chairman, I have a veto, I’m vetoing.”
“For God’s sake!” Bob spluttered. The years had not been kind to Bob. Always short and with a tendency to run to fat, he was now properly obese. The fat hung off his jowls, giving him the look of an angry bulldog. An angry bulldog with mange, if the last remaining wisps of hair clinging forlornly to his bald head were anything to go by.
“Slow down, Bob.” Dan Peters, as usual, was the voice of reason. “Jackson, can you tell us why you’re so opposed?”
Ever since Lucius Monroe had dropped dead of a heart attack last year and Jackson had assumed the chairmanship of Wrexall Dupree, the tension in the boardroom had risen exponentially. Jackson had never fully forgiven Bob Massey for trying to oust him years earlier. And Massey remained dismissive of Jackson’s talents and distrustful of his motives. Today was a case in point. The entire board had voted in favor of launching a takeover bid for Ceres. Sasha Miller’s inexplicable leave of absence had left the market jittery and the company vulnerable. There were sound business reasons for reintegrating what was still, at its heart, an ex-Wrexall group. By recombining the two companies, their position as market leader would be unassailable. Even Raj Patel was on board. It hadn’t occurred to any of them that Jackson Dupree of all people might object. Jackson who had protested so much when they let the Ceres guys go in the first place.
“I think we’d all rest easier if we understood the basis for your objection,” Dan Peters said reasonably.
“It’s not a good fit, that’s all.” Jackson sounded defensive.
“Sure it is. Did you even look at the numbers?” snapped Bob.
“Numbers aren’t everything. Those guys left us once, whining about our ‘hostile corporate culture’ and what a nightmare we were to work for. We don’t need that kind of attitude. Besides, Raj’s division is doing great as it is.”
“They’re number two in the sector,” said Dan Peters. “Ceres is still number one. It’s very unlikely we’ll get an opportunity like this again, Jackson. With Sasha Miller gone they’re uniquely vulnerable. In a few months she’ll most likely be back, and then the window will have closed.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” Harvey Tyler, the newest and youngest board member piped up from the back of the room. Harvey rarely contributed at meetings. He was more of the shy, cerebral, number-crunching type. Everyone turned to stare at him. “The rumor on the street is that she’s sick. It could be another Steve Jobs situation.”
Hearing him refer to the Apple founder’s famously secretive battle with pancreatic cancer some years back made Jackson feel ill. Who said Sasha had cancer? That’s ridiculous. She’d taken a break for personal reasons and that was all there was to it. He got to his feet. “We are not going to launch a bid for Ceres. If you want a reason, Bob, try this: it’s never the right time to buy the wrong company.” With this pronouncement he swept regally out of the room.
The board watched him go. A deep feeling of unease settled over the table. Inevitably, Bob Massey was the first to voice it.
“Am I the only person sick to my stomach right now? Not a good fit! It’s the perfect fucking fit. What the hell is he doing?”
“Maybe he knows something we don’t,” said the head of compliance.
“Maybe he’s just too fried to think about it,” suggested the CFO. “My secretary heard from his secretary that his wife’s pregnant. Apparently his stress levels are through the roof.”
“Yeah, well he can join the club,” said Bob Massey with feeling. “We need to stand together on this. We should demand a clear, written analysis of his objections. Ceres is down, it’s weak, it’s on the goddamn floor. If we don’t go in for the kill now, we will wind up regretting it for the next ten years.”
His colleagues nodded silently. They all agreed.
“You can go ahead and ‘demand’ what you want,” said Dan Peters, gathering up his papers. He was as disappointed as any of them by Jackson’s decision, but he was also a realist. “The fact is, he has a veto, and if he wants to use it, he will. Forget it, Bob. The deal is dead.”
Down the hall in his office, Jackson squeezed the executive stress ball Lottie had bought him until his fingers were numb. He knew that Bob Massey was right. They should go after Ceres. Sasha had founded the company by striking while he was absent without leave. What was stopping him doing the same to her, in the name of good business? Some misplaced idea about gentlemanly conduct? He didn’t know himself, and that made him mad. Why am I protecting her? If I can’t stick the knife in, if I don’t have the stomach for it, then I shouldn’t be in the fight, still less commanding the troops.
He thought about Lottie. When he left their apartment this morning she’d been on her knees, slumped over the toilet with morning sickness. But nothing could dim her happiness about the baby, her certainty that the little person growing i
nside her would bring the two of them closer together. Jackson tried to share her joy. He tried so hard, the effort of it made his limbs ache, almost as if he had flu.
I have to get a grip, he told himself. It’s my old fear of commitment, that’s all, except this time it’s fatherhood I’m running away from. I need to relax, go with the flow. He was gripping the stress ball so tightly, it shot out of his hand and rolled across the floor. Wearily, Jackson walked over and picked it up. He knew he hadn’t heard the last about a Ceres takeover. Bob Massey wasn’t a man who gave up easily, especially when he was right. The longer Sasha stayed away, the harder it would be for him to defend his position.
Where the hell is she?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THEO SAT BY the fire in the grand drawing room of the St. Michael’s Master’s Lodge, admiring the priceless artwork. There were two Constables on either side of the full-height sash window, and an enormous Turner hanging above the fireplace. I could get used to this, he thought, sipping his freshly filled glass of Château d’Ychem. It already feels like home.
Anthony Greville had thrown a small welcome-back-to-Cambridge soiree in Theo’s honor. Greville had made no secret of the fact that Dexter was his preferred successor as master. He was supported in this by the bulk of the fellowship, who all wanted a share of the profits they assumed a “star” like Theo would bring to the college. But supporting Theo’s candidacy and stomaching him as a person were two very different things. Jealousy and loathing hung in the air like thick cigar smoke.
“Didn’t you bring your wife?” Thomas Dean, the head of engineering, was a new face since Theo’s day. Thin to the point of emaciation, with ugly, angular features and flaky skin, he reminded Theo of a statue he once saw at the Getty Museum in LA, a male figure made out of wire coat hangers. “She’s the big draw, you know. It’s Dita we all want to see, not your ugly mug!”
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