Scandalous

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Theresa nodded. “Yes. Definitely.”

  “Then I want to be involved.”

  “All right.” There didn’t seem much else to say. He hadn’t said “I love you” or “Let’s get married” or any of the things she’d feared. But now that he was actually here, in her house, not saying those things, she realized with horror that she wanted him to say them. She had no right to the fairy tale, to steal his youth just for her own happiness. But in that instant, Theresa knew that she wanted it. She wanted him. But it was too late.

  “Will you still stand as master?”

  She shook her head. Horatio nodded, absorbing the information.

  “Will you stay in Cambridge?”

  “No. Probably not.” As she said the words, Theresa realized that they were true. She had no idea where she would go. But she couldn’t stay here. Not now. “We can talk, later,” she said. “But I have to go. I…I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.”

  “Fine.” He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her, he just turned and opened the door. He hates me, thought Theresa. I’ve ruined his life.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed as he marched off down the path.

  Horatio turned. Theresa couldn’t tell if he was crying or if it was rain pouring down his face. “Me too.”

  Dita Andreas admired her reflection in the full-length antique mirror. In a vintage Dior suit, navy blue with red piping, red leather gloves and a smart navy-blue pillbox hat, she looked understated but sexy. “How do I look?”

  “Very Carla Bruni.” Theo kissed her approvingly. “You look perfect, actually.”

  He’d been so wound up after his dinner last night and his tense conversation with Anthony Greville, that he’d driven himself straight back to Cambridge and spent the night in his rented townhouse on Portugal Place. He’d been woken at seven a.m. by Dita’s arrival, confidently expecting her string of complaints to begin the moment she dragged her six Louis Vuitton suitcases through the door. Instead she’d climbed quietly into bed beside him, having evidently already showered and beautified herself in the first-class lounge at Heathrow, and proceeded to give him one of the best blow jobs he’d had in years. As if that weren’t miraculous enough, she then got up, went downstairs, opened the fridge with her own perfectly manicured hands, and cooked him a full English breakfast, bringing it back up to the bedroom on a tray.

  “What happened?” said Theo, eyeing his plate of bacon and eggs appreciatively. “I thought you were furious with me for dragging you here.”

  “I was.” Dita shrugged. “But I got over it. I’m tired of being a bitch. For the moment. And I realized I’ve missed having sex with you. It has been four weeks, you know.”

  “I know,” said Theo, noticing the fact that she’d said she’d missed having sex with him, and wondering who else she’d been warming their marital bed with while he was away. He was surprised to find that the thought of Dita with another man made him simultaneously jealous and horny. That was the amazing thing about Dita. Every time you thought you were finally over her, she would turn around and surprise you. It was disconcerting, but, this morning anyway, rather delightful.

  “So what time’s this lunch?” Dita asked, applying a slick of bright-red movie-star lipstick to her bee-stung pout. “And is your dreary ex-wife going to be there?”

  “One o’clock, and yes, probably.” Theo straightened his tie. “Do not make a scene.”

  “A scene? Me?” Dita fluttered her false eyelashes innocently. “How is dear old Theresa these days?”

  “Fat,” said Theo. “Fat, old, and disheveled the last time I saw her. It’s really a shame. She was a terrific-looking girl in her day.”

  “I suppose it’s all relative,” sniffed Dita.

  “Something else you should know. The current master, Anthony Greville, has got himself into some hot water about a piece of land he sold years ago. To cut a long story short, he’s trying to sting me for the money to buy it back. Last night he threatened to withdraw his support for me if I didn’t write him a check on the spot.”

  Dita’s face lit up. “How Machiavellian! What did you do?”

  “I told him to stick it, obviously. But things might be a little tense today. I need you to charm them all, darling. Will you do that? For me?” Theo walked over and pulled her violently toward him. Yanking up her skirt, he slipped a hand inside her panties and began to stroke her possessively. Dita’s eyes glazed over with lust, her pupils dilating wildly. Thank God she’d left the children behind! They needed this.

  “Of course, Theo,” she murmured. “Charm’s my middle name.”

  When St. Michael’s College pulled out all the stops for a special event, there was nowhere more beautiful in England. Due to the misty weather and intermittent rain, today’s lunch had been moved indoors, to Formal Hall. The long oak refectory tables had been polished until they gleamed like newly opened chestnuts and set with a dazzling array of the college’s finest silverware. Glass vases of white roses overflowed onto the three-hundred-year-old Flemish lace tablecloths. The air was filled with riches and history along with the mouthwatering scents of côte du boeuf and fresh white truffles, imported from Italy especially for the occasion. After lunch, the fellows, guests, and invited members of the media would wander out into the flower-filled courts, where tented canopies had been erected to help shield them from the elements. Champagne would be served and entertainment provided by some of St. Michael’s many world-class musicians, actors, and dancers. There would be punting on the river, and traditional games for the children present, including horseshoes and pin the tail on the donkey.

  Today was not a day for speeches, but for celebration, the imminent dawning of a new era. It was also a final chance for the candidates to canvass votes and try to win support among the college council. The actual election was to be held on Wednesday, four days from now, at a formal general meeting of the college authorities. Students could attend but not vote. For the election of the master, all fellows, no matter how junior, had a vote and all were expected to attend. The candidates themselves would not be present and would be informed of the college’s decision at six p.m. that same day.

  By noon, most of the fellows and all of the press had arrived, drawn by the prospect of free booze, the intoxicating smell of white truffles, and the chance to ogle Dita Andreas in the flesh. Thanks to the latest Varsity, today’s event had been livened up still further by the delicious prospect of a bona fide Cambridge scandal. No institution on earth thrived on gossip more than an Oxbridge college. St. Michael’s enjoyed a juicy story more than most. It gave them a chance to sharpen their schadenfreude and to use words like “sexploits” in ordinary conversation.

  “Has anybody seen her yet?” A junior philosophy fellow asked his friend, knocking back a third free glass of vintage Chablis.

  “Who? Dita Andreas or Theresa O’Connor?”

  “Theresa, of course! Everyone knows Dexter’s got the job in the bag, which means we’ll be seeing Dita Andreas every day next year. It’s Mrs. Robinson I’m interested in. Do you think she’ll bottle it?”

  “I dunno. I would. Who’s the daddy?”

  “No idea. There’s only twelve blokes reading English at Jesus though, so shouldn’t be too hard to find out. Poor kid.”

  “Poor kid my ass. I’d shag Theresa O’Connor given half a chance. Her tits are sensational, and redheads are always amazing in bed.”

  Anthony Greville mingled among the throng with his wife, Brenda, a fixed smile glued to his face. This morning’s sensational news about Professor O’Connor had given him some breathing space regarding this blasted development. But this being Cambridge, the news was sure to leak out sooner rather than later. He’d called the chairman of the city council, demanding a private meeting, and one had been scheduled for Monday, two days before the election. But Anthony Greville already knew that nothing would come of it. The sale to the private buyer had already gone through, on the basis of planning approval being granted. Unless the co
llege bought the land back, those flats would be built.

  Across the court he saw Theo Dexter arriving, hand in hand with his slutty actress wife. The pair of them stopped and preened like peacocks in a mating dance while photographers clicked and whirred away. This was what the college had to look forward to if Dexter became master. Paparazzi everywhere, swarming the courts like locusts. If he became master…

  Watching Theo smile for the cameras, Anthony Greville felt a pang of something close to loathing. I made you. If it weren’t for me, you’d never have been appointed a fellow here in the first place, never mind be standing for mastership! It was me who ruled in your favor all those years ago, when that girl accused you of ripping off her thesis. Me who gave you a career. And now you think you can turn your back on me? Put your hands in your pockets, when you know we need that cash, and move into the Master’s Lodge anyway? Pride comes before a fall, Theo.

  “You must be Tony.”

  The master turned. The slutty actress wife had somehow materialized at his elbow.

  “Dita Andreas. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Close up, even Anthony had to admit that she was an attractive woman. There was something of the forties sex-siren about her, almost a Monroe quality. His own wife, Brenda, had a number of fine attributes, but it would be fair to say that she had probably never been compared to Marilyn Monroe.

  “Would you mind if I stuck with you for a while? Theo’s off doing his thing”—she nodded toward the press pack who were still surrounding Theo like a shoal of piranhas—“and I’m terrified his ex-wife is going to march up to me and start hitting me over the head with her purse or something.”

  “I highly doubt that,” said Anthony, deciding that there was no point in being standoffish toward Dita. A beautiful woman was a beautiful woman, after all. It wasn’t her fault that her husband was a backstabbing bastard. Theo would get his comeuppance soon enough. “I’m afraid it looks likely that Professor O’Connor—Theresa—will withdraw her candidacy. I’m certainly not expecting her to make an appearance today.”

  “Oh?” Dita arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Why’s that? Not on my account I hope.”

  “Oh no,” Anthony assured her, filling her in on a précis of the scandal. “This is all hot off the press this morning, so as you can imagine it’s caused quite a stir. Theo doesn’t know, then?”

  “Not yet. I suppose…I know it’s awful to say this, but does this strengthen his chances?”

  Unless he prizes open that Fort Knox of a wallet of his, he has no chances to strengthen. And he’d better be damn quick about it.

  “That’s a matter for the general meeting of the college, my dear,” said Anthony smoothly. “Have you met my wife?”

  Lunch was a drunken, gossip-fueled affair. Theresa’s chair, predictably, remained empty. The other three candidates, Theo, Graham North, and Hugh Mullaney-Stoop, were all able to relax and enjoy themselves, Theo because he knew he’d won, and Graham and Hugh because they knew they’d lost. After pudding and port, Anthony Greville made a short, boring speech. On his way out of Hall, swaying slightly and visibly the worse for wear, he grabbed Theo by the arm.

  “I’d like a word.”

  “Certainly.” Theo pushed back his chair, stretching out his long, lean legs, but pointedly not getting up. “What’s on your mind, Master?”

  “You know very well what’s on my mind,” Greville hissed. “I have a meeting with the council on Monday. I need you to be there.”

  “I’m afraid I’m tied up on Monday.” Theo smiled arrogantly. “Dita wants to do some sightseeing. I promised to take her to King’s Chapel.”

  “Don’t push me, Dexter. I can still pull the rug out from under you, you know. You are not the only contender.”

  Theo swiveled in his chair to look across at his rivals. Hugh Mullaney-Stoop was asleep in his chair, head thrown back, triple chins quivering gently with each drunken snore. Graham North was staring at the wall, quietly picking his nose.

  “I think we both know that’s not true, Tony,” said Theo smugly. “At a pinch you might have persuaded the college to go for Theresa. But as she’ll be elbow-deep in dirty diapers by Christmas…” He left the sentence hanging, rudely turning around to join Dita’s conversation and leaving Anthony Greville standing there like a lost boy at a railway station.

  “Master?” Yasmin, Greville’s secretary, tapped him on the shoulder. “There’s someone to see you in your office. She says it’s urgent.”

  Glad of a chance to escape, the master followed her out of Hall and back to the lodge. “Who is it?” he asked as they walked, imagining Theo Dexter’s head impaled on the spiked railings that lined the riverbank. He hoped it wasn’t that reporter again, digging around the development story. Then another thought occurred to him. “It’s not Professor O’Connor, is it?” He didn’t think he could face an emotional pregnant woman today. Not after three glasses of port, washed down with a bitter dose of humiliation from Theo Dexter.

  “No, Master. The lady didn’t give her name. She said she was an old friend and you would want to see her. That was all.”

  They walked into the lodge. She was waiting in the hallway, outside his office, her face turned away from him. As Anthony Greville approached, she suddenly looked up. Good God, he thought. After all these years.

  “Hello, Master.” Sasha Miller smiled sweetly. “It’s been a long time.”

  “I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”

  The master sat behind his grand oak desk, running a gnarled hand over its beautiful inlaid panels. He would miss this desk, this room. He would miss everything about St. Michael’s.

  “I will happily withdraw my support from Theo Dexter. That’s not a problem. And I’m confident I can get a majority of the college council to do the same. Dexter is not well liked here. But it will be a cold day in hell before I’ll see an unmarried mother in the Master’s Lodge. The woman had an affair with one of her students, for God’s sake!” He curled his upper lip in distaste.

  “So did Professor Dexter, many years ago,” Sasha reminded him. “It didn’t seem to bother you unduly back then. As I recall, the entire college rallied around him.”

  “Yes, well,” Anthony Greville mumbled gruffly. “That was different.”

  Sasha stood up. “Thank you for your time, Master. I’ll see myself out.”

  “What? No, no, wait. Sit down, Miss Miller. I’m sure we can come to some…accommodation.”

  Sasha stopped but did not sit. It was enjoyable to see the panic written across the old man’s features. The last time she’d seen him, it had been her life, her reputation that hung in the balance. Now the tables were turned.

  “I’m not here to negotiate,” she said brusquely. “I’ve made you an offer. I will gift that land back to the college if, and only if, Theresa O’Connor is appointed master. Make that happen and you’re off the hook. Fail to make it happen, and I can offer you first refusal on a lovely two-bedroom penthouse apartment with spectacular college views.”

  “It’s not that simple,” the old man spluttered. “The university will have a say in this. There may be a disciplinary hearing. Professor O’Connor could be barred from teaching undergraduates altogether.”

  “So?” Sasha shrugged. “I shouldn’t think she’ll have much time for teaching anyway, will she? What with the administrative pressures of running the college. Oh, and taking care of the baby.”

  “The college will never stand for it!”

  “According to the 1923 Universities of Oxford and Cambridge Act, as long as she holds a Cambridge degree, she is eligible for the mastership. And according to this”—she pulled out a sheaf of papers and dropped them casually on the desk—“I am the legal owner of that land, with a legal right to develop it.”

  Anthony Greville looked at the papers. “This is straightforward blackmail.”

  “Yes.” Sasha smiled sweetly. “I like to keep things straightforward when I’m doing business. I’ve made a lo
t of money that way. I’ll leave those with you.” She turned to go. “I’m taking the originals back with me to the States.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes. I have an evening flight to New York tonight. Urgent business. But I’ll be watching the election results with interest. By Thursday morning, life might look very different for all of us. Good-bye, Master.”

  Anthony Greville watched her go.

  A disgraced single mother as master of St. Michael’s. Even if he did as Sasha asked, could he get the rest of the fellowship on board?

  Yasmin knocked on the office door. “The Dexters are leaving, Master. Theo wants you to pose for pictures with him at the front gate. A sort of informal handover shot. It’s for tomorrow’s Sunday Times.”

  “Certainly.” He got to his feet. After the day he’d had, he deserved some pleasure. If Theo Dexter wanted to hang himself, Anthony Greville would gladly hand him the rope. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THERESA WALKED DOWN the Fulham Road, idly looking in the windows of some of the more froufrou baby shops. Were there really people prepared to pay a hundred and twenty pounds for a pair of cashmere booties? She supposed there must be.

  She’d come to London to get away. There was no way she could stay in Cambridge after the Varsity story broke. After Horatio left Willow Tree Cottage, Theresa drove straight to her sonogram appointment and promptly burst into tears all over her obstetrician.

  “Professor O’Connor,” the doctor told her sternly, when Theresa finished explaining what had happened, “you must rest. Your blood pressure is elevated. Clearly you are in great emotional distress. Is there somewhere you can go, for a few days at least? Somewhere quiet?”

  Willow Tree Cottage was quiet, but it wouldn’t be for long. By this evening she would have become a local celebrity of the worst possible sort, and the phone and doorbell would not stop ringing. She could go to Jenny and JP’s, but the Aubrieau household, though welcoming, could hardly be described as “quiet,” still less restful.