Scandalous

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Jackson picked up the remote and switched the TV off.

  “Hey!” Lottie protested. “What are you doing?”

  “Let’s go out,” he said briskly. “I need some fresh air.”

  “After the interview,” said Lottie, turning the TV back on. “You know, I hate it when you do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make decisions for both of us like that. I was watching. I’m interested.”

  “Fine,” said Jackson petulantly. “Suit yourself.”

  A few seconds later Lottie heard the front door slam. She tried to refocus on Oprah but it was impossible. Once again, Jackson had spoiled the moment.

  In the kitchen of the Master’s Lodge at St. Michael’s, Theresa was watching the recording of the same Oprah interview with Sasha, curled up in an armchair by the stove, with four cats asleep at her feet. It was so gripping, she kept forgetting to chew her Monster Munch chips, so they fizzed and melted in her mouth and lost all their crunch.

  Lysander, the oldest and fattest of her feline family, hopped up onto her lap, and Theresa stroked him mindlessly. She was happy for Sasha. There was no doubt who was the victor in this explosive media war. But the vilification of Theo had become so intense; she was reaching the point where she almost felt sorry for him. All those years ago he’d seduced Sasha and tricked her out of her life’s work. This time, it was Sasha who had seduced him, falsely won his trust, and destroyed his life’s work. There was certainly a satisfying symmetry to it all. Some might call it justice. But all the betrayal and seduction left a bitter taste in Theresa’s mouth that no amount of Monster Munch could fully eradicate.

  Suddenly Lysander leaped to his feet with a screech and jumped to the floor. Theresa put a hand on her belly and laughed out loud. Either she had some extremely serious digestive problems or the baby had just kicked for the first time. She turned off the television and sat very still, willing him—for some reason she had come to think of the baby as a “him”—to do it again. Sure enough, about a minute later, her stomach jumped visibly. This was not the “fluttering sensation” she’d read about in baby books. This was a very firm, apparently deliberate punch. A “hello, I’m here” punch, not painful, but decidedly solid.

  Theresa felt a wave of happiness rise up within her. Then, looking around the kitchen still piled high with unpacked boxes, she realized with a pang that she had no one to share it with. Her girlfriends were all AWOL. Jenny was out of town at a conference. Aisling, who’d phoned a lot in recent weeks since Theresa was appointed master of St. Michael’s, was on a romantic break in Tahiti with her husband. And Sasha, whom Theresa did now count as a real friend, was doubtless in another TV studio somewhere in America, throwing another live grenade into the shattered remains of Theo’s career.

  But it wasn’t her girlfriends that Theresa wanted.

  Horatio had officially dropped out of college the day after Theresa moved into the lodge. He’d written her a sweet letter, enclosing a check for two hundred pounds that she knew he couldn’t afford, and promising to be back in touch before the birth. “I need some time to get my head together. And get a job,” he wrote. “Many congratulations on your job, by the way. You deserve it.” But that was it. Since the letter she’d heard nothing and had no idea how to get in touch with him should she need to. They still hadn’t spoken about anything practical, like when he was going to see the baby or whether he would want to be at the birth.

  You did the right thing, Theresa told herself firmly. You had to let him go.

  She hoped that someday soon she would start to believe it.

  “So are we done with the interviews? You want me to tell Conan O’Brien no?”

  Sasha’s newly appointed temporary media agent, a pushy powerhouse of a woman named Sarah Rosen, failed to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She wished all her clients were like Sasha Miller. The woman just had to sit down on camera and people fell in love with her.

  Sasha was in bed in her apartment, with the phone in one hand and a tub of Cool Whip in the other. She had realized about an hour ago that, unless you counted coffee, she hadn’t eaten in almost two days and was suddenly feeling ravenous.

  “Yeah, tell him no. We did what we set out to do.”

  “OK.” Sarah Rosen hadn’t known her client long, but she was a seasoned enough agent to appreciate when no meant no. “And what about the business shows? The Ceres sale went through today. MSNBC Squawk Box has been calling me. You wanna do that?”

  “No.” This time she was even more categoric. “I gave a statement. I’m cashed out of the business. I’m officially retired.”

  “Lucky you,” said Sarah, though she knew in her heart that retirement was just another word for death. When the time came, someone would have to prize Sarah Rosen’s Rolodex and BlackBerry out of her cold, dead hands. But maybe retirement would suit Sasha Miller? She was still a young woman. She could do what she wanted, travel, adventure, get married, enjoy her life. “Good luck, Sasha. You know where I am if you need me.”

  Sasha threw the phone onto the pillow beside her and ate another spoonful of Cool Whip. It was done. Over.

  Theo Dexter was discredited. More than that. He was ruined.

  Sasha’s reputation, as a scientist and as a person, was fully restored.

  Theresa O’Connor, the other woman Theo had betrayed, had been given her happy ending.

  And at the close of markets today, on paper anyway, Sasha was worth over two hundred million dollars.

  If ever there were a time to feely truly, deeply happy, surely this was it?

  That’s the trouble with closure, thought Sasha. It means something’s finished. It’s accomplished. It’s done.

  So what happens now?

  She’d already decided she would go back to science. Astronomy was her first love, and it called to her now more loudly and plaintively than ever. She would probably also go back to England. There was nothing here for her now. I’ll look for a research post somewhere—they won’t have to worry about funding me! I’ll spend the rest of my life devoted to something important, something more meaningful than numbers on a balance sheet.

  It was the life she’d always dreamed of. But something was missing.

  Something will always be missing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Four months later, Christmas Eve

  “Keep pushing, Theresa! Keep pushing! You’re almost there.”

  It was the “almost” that really rankled. That and the implied suggestion that she could do anything other than keep pushing. It felt like someone had inserted a melon in her cervix for Christ’s sake. What was she going to do, suck it back up?

  “Hold my hand. Squeeze it.” Jenny Aubrieau tried to distract her from the midwife’s irritating coaching.

  “It hurts,” Theresa groaned weakly.

  “I know it does, darling. Next baby, go for the epidural.”

  Next baby?! Despite the agony, Theresa laughed, immediately triggering another contraction. Seconds later she felt a slithering sensation between her legs and a cessation of pain so blissful it made her want to cry.

  “Oh, T, it’s a boy!” gasped Jenny.

  The midwife stepped in and did her thing, patting the baby’s back, expertly checking his reflexes.

  “A boy? Is he all right?” Theresa sounded panicked. “Why isn’t he crying?”

  “He’s fine,” said the midwife, scooping the baby up and laying him on Theresa’s chest. “Breathing beautifully. Not all newborns cry, you know. Looks like he’s happy to be here, aren’t you, chicken?”

  Theresa gazed down at the scrunched, bloody face of her son. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even cry. No reaction, no gesture could come close to conveying what she felt in that moment.

  “I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes,” whispered Jenny, backing quietly out the door. Theresa didn’t even notice her go. Nor did she notice it five minutes later when the door opened and a man walked in. Blasted doctors. Why can’t t
hey leave us alone?

  “I missed it. I don’t believe it. How could I have missed it?”

  Horatio looked terrible. His hair, never neat at the best of times, was too long and sticking out at more-than-usually gravity-defying angles. He was wearing a pair of dirty rain boots, two pairs of tracksuit bottoms pulled on one over the other, an inside-out sweater, and a parka coat of some indeterminate color best described as sludge.

  Theresa’s eyes lit up. Too happy to be cautious with her emotions, she couldn’t hide anything today.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she beamed. “You’re here now. Come and meet him.”

  Horatio walked over to the bed. His son was basically a white, blanketed cocoon with a small circle of mottle-skinned face poking out at the top. His eyes were tightly closed, and his miniature rosebud lips twitched in his sleep, presumably sucking on an imaginary nipple. “He looks a bit like a glow worm.”

  Theresa gasped. “He does not look anything like a glowworm! He looks lovely.”

  “You look lovely,” said Horatio. He kissed her on the lips, gently at first, then passionately, holding her face in his hands. Theresa didn’t stop him. “I love you,” he said, as he pulled away.

  “Horatio…”

  “No, stop it. I’ve had enough. If you really don’t love me, you need to tell me now, to my face.” He looked at her defiantly. To his dismay, she burst suddenly and violently into tears.

  “I can’t tell you that,” she sobbed. “I do love you. But it would never work.”

  “Oh bollocks,” said Horatio, kissing her again. “It would work. It will work. You, me, and William. It’ll be perfect.”

  “William?”

  “William.”

  Theresa looked down at the baby’s face. It was rather William-ish. Just then a midwife bustled in, followed by the obstetrician and rather sheepish-looking Jenny.

  “I’m not interrupting anything vital, am I?” she asked, beaming at Horatio. “It’s just JP called a minute ago; he was trying to heat up some mince pies in the gas oven and somehow managed to cause a fire. Half the kitchen’s burnt to a crisp, apparently; they had the fire brigade out and everything.”

  “Go,” said Theresa. “We’re fine.”

  “Actually, we’re better than fine,” grinned Horatio. “We’re getting married. First church we can find after Christmas. Aren’t we?”

  He turned to Theresa.

  And in that moment she knew.

  “Yes,” she laughed. “We are. We absolutely, definitely are.”

  Sasha was at her parents’ cottage in Frant when she heard the news.

  It was a beautiful Christmas in Sussex. Snow had fallen two days before Christmas Eve, blanketing the wooded countryside in a magical frosting that had melted even the most cynical of hearts. New York Christmases were magical in a different way, but for Sasha there was nothing to beat the smell of wood smoke wafting over the village green and the festive sound of the church bells pealing their traditional yuletide song.

  Sue and Don Miller had gone all out to make this a traditional family Christmas par excellence. Knowing that Sasha was depressed, they’d insisted that she come home for the holiday. From the minute she walked through the door of the tiny, cluttered cottage, she’d been roped in to tree decorating and mince-pie making, dragged out to sing carols at the village school, and generally plunged into Sussexy home festivities whether she liked it or not. Sasha appreciated the effort. She had more money than she could ever want, let alone need, but it couldn’t buy her this: the love and care of a family. Unfortunately, though, she wasn’t a child anymore. Grateful as she was, it wasn’t her parents’ love that she needed.

  When Theresa O’Connor called on Christmas morning, Sue Miller saw her daughter smile properly for the first time in weeks.

  “William? Oh, I love it, very traditional…Are you kidding me? Of course I’ll come to the wedding…”

  Sue Miller closed the study door quietly, returning to the kitchen to check on her turkey. Closing the oven door—it still needed a few minutes—she turned around and screamed. A strange, long-haired man was standing in her kitchen.

  “Get out!” she yelled, grabbing the heavy frying pan she’d used for this morning’s bacon. “My husband’s upstairs, you know. Get out of my house this minute!”

  “Please!” The man ducked from the frying pan. “The door was open. I only…”

  Just then Sasha came flying into the kitchen. “Mum? What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did you burn yourself?” Then she saw the man. “Good God. What are you doing here?”

  The two of them stared at each other. Slowly, Sue Miller lowered the frying pan. “You know him?” she asked Sasha.

  Sasha nodded, too dumbstruck to say anything.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Miller.” Jackson stuck out his hand. “Jackson Dupree. I wondered if Sasha and I might have a word in private.”

  “Oh…yes…of course.” Flustered, Sue started taking off her apron.

  “Don’t worry, Mum,” said Sasha. “You stay here. Jackson and I will go for a walk.”

  Outside, the village green was quiet. A few children were chucking snowballs at each other in the lane, but other than that the village was indoors, huddled around fires, drinking, cooking, unwrapping presents, and watching A Christmas Carol. Sasha crunched over the snow in silence waiting for Jackson to speak. When, after five minutes, he still hadn’t said anything, she decided to break the ice.

  “I hope you didn’t mind coming out. There’s no such thing as a private conversation in that house.”

  “I can see that.” He nodded. “It is kind of small.”

  “I offered to buy them something bigger,” said Sasha quickly. “Mum would have liked to I think, but Dad wouldn’t hear of it. I was relieved, in a way.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. You know, it’s home.”

  They walked on. With nowhere particular to go, they headed for the churchyard. After yet more silence, Sasha blurted, “I applied to Oxford for a research fellowship. I start in January.”

  “Oh.”

  Jackson stopped walking. Standing in the snow with his hands in his pockets, Sasha looked at him properly for the first time. He was wearing a long, dark coat and a thick gray scarf, but even under the layers she could see he’d lost weight. His cheeks looked hollow and sunken. If he’d slept in the last week, it didn’t show. He certainly hadn’t shaved.

  “How are you? How are things at Wrexall?” she asked, mindlessly, wondering if he could hear the desperation in her voice. She knew she should ask how Lottie was, and the baby. She knew they’d had a little girl, Serena. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. “How’s business?”

  “Business is fine. Wrexall’s fine.”

  It was no good. She couldn’t take it any longer.

  “For God’s sake, Jackson, put me out of my misery! What are you doing here? It’s Christmas Day! Has something happened? Do you want to buy me out of my stock, or…” She stopped. His face had crumpled. Whatever it was, it clearly had nothing to do with stock.

  “I’m in love with you.”

  He said it so quietly, Sasha wasn’t sure if she’d misheard him.

  “I’m sorry…what did you say?”

  Jackson ran a hand through his hair. “I should never have married Lottie. It was a mistake. She’s an amazing, wonderful, incredible girl, and she deserves someone who loves her. It just isn’t me.”

  The surge of happiness flooding through Sasha was so violent she almost lost her footing. She knew it was wrong, to delight in the end of someone else’s marriage. Especially someone as good and kind and decent as Lottie. But she couldn’t help it. The missing jigsaw piece to her happiness had just fallen out of the sky and landed in her lap. With an effort she managed to control herself. She mustn’t jump to conclusions.

  “Have you told her how you feel?”

  Jackson nodded grimly. “She was very good about it. We agreed to spend Christmas apart. She’s with her fami
ly. And Serena, of course. We’ll work out the details when I’m back in New York.”

  “You must miss her. The baby, I mean.”

  “I do,” he said with feeling. “She’s the light of my life, that girl. Well.” He looked at Sasha. “One of the lights.”

  They moved toward each other, like two figures in a dream. Jackson pulled her close and hugged her as if she were a life raft. Sasha could feel how frail he was. As if reading her mind, he said, “I haven’t been eating much. I couldn’t. Not till I knew what you were going to say.”

  “What I was going to say?” repeated Sasha. “Say to what?”

  “Say to this.” He sank down on one knee, making a deep hole in the snow. Behind him the church steeple Sasha had known since childhood stood proud and strong. To Sasha it looked benevolent, a smiling God looking down on them. “I’ve loved you since the day I met you, Sasha. Will you marry me?”

  She paused, smiling, not wanting this moment to end. Mistaking her silence for hesitation, Jackson started panicking.

  “Please, Sasha. I know I can be a pain in the ass at times. But, you know, so can you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is this still part of the proposal?”

  “You’re ambitious, you’re stubborn. You slept with Theo Dexter!” he blurted, to his own horror as much as Sasha’s. The stress of proposing seemed to have given him some sort of emotional Tourette’s.

  “Well you slept with every woman you ever met!” she shot back. “Talk about pot calling the kettle!”

  “Aw, shit. It wasn’t supposed to come out like this.” He grabbed her hand. “Look, you can still take the job in Oxford. I’ll move. I’ll quit Wrexall. I’ll do anything, Sasha, please. Just tell me you love me. Tell me you love me and you’ll marry me and you’ll stay with me forever. Ideally before my balls drop off with cold.”

  It wasn’t the most romantic proposal in the world. But it would do. Kneeling down in the snow beside him, she threw her arms around his neck.