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‘I can’t bear it. How can it be summer already?’
Sasha lay her head back against the picnic blanket and gazed up at the cloudless blue sky. Theo had driven her out to Houghton Mill, an idyllic village about a forty-minute drive north-west of Cambridge, for a romantic afternoon. Keen to discuss her latest research findings, Sasha had brought her laptop with her. Theo, needless to say, had other ideas. Unfolding the blanket in a secluded field, hidden from the lane by a high hedge on one side and a beech copse on the other, he’d asked her to take her top off and started taking pictures; from the front, from the side and (his favourite) from behind, a glorious shot of her naked back with Sasha looking shyly at the camera over one shoulder. That had got him so hard he’d had to take her on the spot, bringing her to climax after climax with his mouth and hands before finally allowing himself to come. A light lunch of champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches had restored both their strength, after which they made love again with noisily blissful abandon. It made a nice change from sneaking around in Theo’s rooms at college, always half listening for a knock at the door.
‘I know.’ Rolling onto his stomach, Theo picked seeds out of Sasha’s hair. ‘Every year seems to go quicker than the last. This term was over in a blink.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ moaned Sasha. ‘At least you get to stay here and carry on with your work. I’m banished from the lab for fourteen weeks.’
She made it sound like a prison sentence.
‘Oh, so it’s the Cavendish you’ll be missing? Not me?’ It was childish, but Theo felt piqued.
‘I’ll miss both of you,’ said Sasha truthfully. ‘More than you know.’
The thought of going home to Frant for the long summer filled Sasha with despair. Of course the village was still lovely. And she knew how much her father was looking forward to taking her round to the Abergavenny Arms and pumping her for information on St Michael’s and her friends and the progress she’d made on her research. Sasha still loved her dad as much as ever, but the prospect of their long-awaited chat made her sad. Intellectually she was now so far ahead of Don, it was impossible to talk to him about her studies in any meaningful way. As for her personal life, the one thing she longed to share with her parents – her relationship with Theo – was completely off limits. Sasha and her father had always been so close, this growing apart was painful. Most painful of all though was being separated from her beloved research laboratory. And, of course, from Theo.
Sasha knew he’d agreed to start IVF with his wife, against her doctor’s advice and quite clearly against his own wishes. It was incredible to her how Theo could be so strong in all the other aspects of his life, but so weak when it came to Theresa’s bullying.
But maybe I shouldn ‘t call it weakness. Compassion, that’s what it is. He knows how desperately she wants a child and he’s too softhearted to refuse her. Especially when she keeps blackmailing him with her depression, threatening to kill herself all the time. I don’t know how women like that live with themselves.
Theo had assured her that the chances of them actually conceiving a child were nil. That it was all a question of managing Theresa’s mental illness. That when she was well enough and able to take the blow, he would begin the process of leaving her. By then, they hoped, Sasha would have graduated. Theo would no longer officially be her professor. Everything would be easier.
Even so, the thought of leaving him in Cambridge for the summer, knowing that he was sharing a bed with his wife, was a bitter pill to swallow.
‘It hurts me as much as it does you,’ Theo was fond of telling her. ‘You can’t think I enjoy sleeping with Theresa?’ Sasha tried to take comfort in his words, but it wasn’t easy. Part of the problem was that she’d never actually seen Theo’s wife. There were no photos of Theresa in his rooms at St Michael’s and Mrs Dexter never stopped by the college to see her husband. In one way, of course, Sasha was thankful for that. But in another, it made it easier to fill the wife-shaped void with some supermodel-beautiful goddess of Heidi Klum-like proportions. Theo always described Theresa as ‘ordinary’ or even ‘plain’. But Sasha found this hard to believe. As he clearly couldn’t have married her for her personality she simply must be beautiful. Images of the two of them together haunted Sasha nightly to the point where they were threatening to disrupt her research. She had to get a grip.
‘Here. I wanted to show you something.’
Still naked, the sun dancing on her pale, now lightly freckled skin, Sasha leaned forward and pulled her laptop out of its case. Turning it on, her fingers raced nimbly across the keyboard, pulling up a string of impenetrable graphs and equations.
‘You’re not serious. Now?’ Theo groaned. Sometimes Sasha’s passion for physics was too much, even for him. The summer holiday would provide a welcome break from her relentless enthusiasm. Not to mention a chance to make some progress on his own work. It was a little unnerving how much more productive his nineteen-year-old girlfriend was than he.
‘Please, darling. It’ll only take a minute,’ she cajoled. T don’t want to overreact. I mean, I mustn’t get ahead of myself. But I feel as if I’ve stumbled on something really important. Remember, I told you on Tuesday?’
Theo scratched his head, then his balls. Tuesday. Tuesday…We had a supervision at noon. Can’t remember what it was about. Then I fucked her on the couch. Was that Tuesday? Reluctantly he focused his attention on the screen of Sasha’s computer.
Five minutes later, he was still staring at it.
And five minutes after that.
Was it possible? He read the equations again and again. Each time the adrenaline in his veins coursed faster and faster. Jesus Christ.
‘What do you think?’ Sasha’s voice was so tentative that at first he didn’t hear her. ‘Theo?’ She tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ve gone awfully quiet. I said, “What do you think?”’
Theo’s mind was racing. Shock, excitement, disbelief at what he was reading made it hard to find the right words. Unless he’d made some very fundamental misunderstanding – which he might have done; he was tired after all – Sasha had stumbled across a theory so simple, and yet so radically new…it could change the face of modern astrophysics. No, not could. Would. More than that, it would alter the way that human beings thought of space. Of their own planet’s place in, and relation to, the universe. Theo Dexter could have worked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for the rest of his life and he would never, ever, not in his wildest fantasies hope to come up with something so brilliant. Blindingly, obviously brilliant. Like all profound ideas, once he’d grasped it Theo couldn’t imagine why it had taken someone this long to come up with it. But there it was, in front of him on Sasha’s computer, in black and white: the theory of his dreams.
And all at once, sitting naked in that field, it came to him.
I could claim it. I could say that it was my idea. Who would know?
A theory like this would make him as a physicist. It would silence all the envious mutterings about him being a phoney academic, a pretty face with a head for numbers but not a real scientist. It would change his life. But would he get away with it?
Why not? It’d be my word against hers, a professor against an infatuated undergraduate.
‘Theo!’ Sasha’s voice brought him reluctantly back to reality. She’d pulled on a t-shirt and knickers, but still had that flushed, tousled, post-coital look that never failed to give him a hard on. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’ He closed the file, making an effort to keep his tone casual. ‘There’s some interesting stuff here. Definitely.’
Sasha’s face lit up.
‘But it does need work. Particularly in the first section, some of your equations look shaky to me. Given how much you’re extrapolating from those foundations…Hey, don’t look so crestfallen.’ He kissed her. ‘This is good stuff, Sasha. You can’t expect to get it pitch perfect on a first draft.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Look, I tell you what. Make me a copy of it. If you like I’ll look at the problems in more detail over the summer.’
‘Would you really have time?’
‘Well, not really. But I’ll make time,’ he said magnanimously, pulling on his jeans and buttoning up his shirt. Sasha looked so utterly ravishable, he was half tempted to screw her again. But until he had that document safely in his possession, he knew he wouldn’t be able to think about anything else.
‘I’ll email it to you when we get back to college,’ said Sasha.
‘No, no, don’t do that,’ said Theo hastily. T hate email. Just stick it on a disc and drop it in my pigeonhole before you go.
Sasha watched him stand up and brush the grass and dust off his clothes.
He’s so perfect. Handsome, brilliant, kind, the whole package. How on earth am I going to survive the summer without him?
Two weeks later Theresa Dexter sat at her desk at home, watching Theo scribbling feverishly at his desk, and said a silent prayer of thanks.
Thank you God for making him happy again. For bringing him back to me.
Eighteen months ago Theo had been as miserable as she’d ever known him. Theresa knew that the spiteful gibes of his fellow physicists were hurtful to him. She also suspected that her husband felt the absence of a child in their lives much more keenly than he admitted to her. But she felt sure that his depression was more than that. Something was wrong, and as hard as she tried to discover what it was and to reconnect with him, she couldn’t.
Then miraculously, around Christmas of that year, Theo’s spirits had lifted. He still came home tired. But he left home full of the joys of spring, bouncing out of the house like Tigger. It made Theresa’s heart sing to watch him. By the spring, their sex life had begun to revive, and in the last six months it had positively exploded. It was like dating a teenager, the energy, the enthusiasm…Theresa’s hands had been shaking when she screwed up her courage and asked Theo if they could try IVF. Ever since the meeting with Dr Thomas, he’d been implacable on that score: it was expensive, and it wouldn’t work. But to Theresa’s delighted amazement, he agreed right away, even taking her out to their favourite curry house to celebrate the decision with chicken jalfrezi and two large Cobras. Walking home hand in hand, happily bloated on naan bread and beer, Theresa realized what had been missing in her marriage for so long: fun. She didn’t know what had wrought the change in Theo and she didn’t care. We’re going to be happy again.
Theresa finished her own book in the spring. Shakespeare in Hollywood: The textual implications of filmed adaptation. Only a handful of specialist academics bought it, but that didn’t matter. It was critically well received, and cemented Theresa’s position as a leading expert in her field. Theo, meanwhile, was still struggling with his follow-up edition to Prospective Signatures. It was the one part of his life that clearly still troubled him. And the one area where Theresa, whose knowledge of physics would have fit comfortably on the back of a stamp, was completely unable to help him.
But God, apparently, had another miracle in store for the Dexters. Two weeks ago to the day, Theo came home in tearing spirits, bursting through the front door like Rhett Butler and scooping Theresa up into his arms.
‘What on earth is it?’ she giggled. ‘Have we won the lottery?’
‘Yes,’ he laughed. ‘In a way we have. Well, I have. But I’ll be happy to share my winnings with you, darling.’
Theo had come up with a theory – he tried to explain it to her but it was all way over Theresa’s head, something about planets and the birth of the universe and quantum something-or-other. Anyway, the point was it was clearly brilliant, Theo had thought of it, and he seemed to think it had potential not just to boost his career, but quite possibly to make them a lot of money into the bargain.
Theresa couldn’t have cared less about the money. She loved their little house in Cambridge, their battered old car, their charmed, ivory-tower life. But to have Theo’s genius recognized at last? Well, that would be amazing, wonderful and long overdue. Apart from being pregnant, she couldn’t think of a single thing she would have wanted more.
‘Are you hungry, darling?’ she asked him. ‘Shall I make us some lunch?’
‘Lunch’ meant a sandwich. Theresa loved to cook, but not when she was working. She spent ninety per cent of her time at home in this room, dubbed ‘the office’ because it had both their desks in it, but really the only proper reception room in the house. Beneath her feet, a tattered Persian rug was almost invisible beneath the mess of books, papers, mugs of cold, half-drunk tea and empty packets of custard creams (‘the thinking woman’s biscuit’ as Jenny so rightly called them). The Dexters’ home was a modest, solidly built Victorian semi, with high ceilings, bay windows, and lots of what estate agents called ‘original features’. Jenny and Jean Paul’s house next door was a carbon copy, except that theirs had had the benefit of Jenny’s design flair, so the grand old fireplaces and thick white cornicing looked impressive, whereas Theresa’s just looked – what was the word? – ah yes. Filthy. In the past Theo had moaned constantly about the un-Cath-Kidston-ness of their kitchen and what he impolitely referred to as Theresa’s ‘dyslaundria’ (he never seemed to notice his own). But these days Theresa could do no wrong.
‘I’d love to eat with you, T,’ he said, typing the last few words with a flourish and snapping shut his computer. ‘But sadly, I can’t. Big meeting today. Massive.’ Scooping up his laptop and papers, he came over and kissed her on the lips. Seconds later he was out the front door.
He’s like a cyclone, thought Theresa. A happiness cyclone.
She wondered what the big meeting was, and hoped it went well. But it would go well. Of course it would. Theo was on a roll.
I’ve done it, Ed. I’ve bloody done it.’ Theo Dexter triumphantly slammed a thick, bound manuscript down on the table. ‘Read it and weep, my friend. Tears of joy for all the money we’re going to make!’
Ed Gilliam was a literary agent, the biggest name in the huge ‘popular science’ market. A short, unprepossessing man in his mid fifties with thinning red hair and a high-pitched, nasal voice, it was Ed Gilliam who had helped make Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time brief: hence accessible to laymen; hence one of the highest-grossing books of the twentieth century in any genre, never mind science. These days Gilliam wasn’t just about books. He had a finger in every pie, from TV to film to new media. Ed Gilliam had been interested in Theo Dexter since they first met at an MIT symposium in America six years ago. The kid was bright, charismatic, and with those blond, preppy good looks of his he’d be wildly telegenic – rare qualities indeed in a scientist. All Theo needed was some substance. An idea, a book, anything that Ed could use to launch him onto the unsuspecting public. A sort of Steve Irwin for nerds.
For six years, Theo had been promising to deliver. Now, just when Gilliam had begun to despair of ever making any money from him – by forty, Dexter would be losing his hair and spreading round the middle and the game would be up – Theo had called in high excitement, summoning him to Cambridge.
‘This had better be good, Theo.’ Gilliam’s high-pitched, child’s voice quivered with irritation. T’m not in the habit of making day trips. Why can’t you come to London?’
‘Because I’m still working on it and I need to be here. It is good, Ed. I’m emailing you a rough draft now.’
He was right. It was good. Better than good. Ed Gilliam was not a physicist himself, but if Theo Dexter really had proved what he claimed to have proved in this document…this could be as big as Hawking. Bigger.
Ed flipped through the manuscript as he sipped his white wine.
‘Who else has seen the material?’
‘No one. You, me…’ Theo hesitated.
‘And?’
Theo picked the crust off a warm piece of bread. T showed pieces of it to a student of mine. A girl. She…we’ve talked through some of the concepts together.’
‘I see. Anyone else?’
‘Well, my wife. But she can’t understand a word of it, it’s way over her head.’ Theo laughed dismissively
‘Good,’ said Ed. ‘From now on, don’t show this to anyone and don’t discuss it with a soul. If I’m going to try to put together a multi-platform deal, I’m going to need complete control.’
‘Multi-platform?’ Theo was salivating. ‘You mean TV?’
‘Of course. Book deal. TV. The works. We’ll start with a simple press release in the New Scientist. Let the idea build up some steam amongst your fellow eggheads. Then, when the scientific community’s behind you, we take it mainstream: you’re on the news channels. Once the commissioning editors at Sky and ITV get a good look at that pretty face of yours you’ll be beating off offers with a stick, I promise you.’
‘Here’s hoping…’ Theo ordered a petit filet and green salad – expensive, as befitting his soon-to-be new lifestyle, but mindful of his six-pack. Ed went for spaghetti vongole, which he drank noisily whilst outlining his action plan to his client.
‘You need to come to London as soon as possible. Tomorrow, if you can swing it. I’ll get you in front of our intellectual property lawyers.’
‘Lawyers?’ For the first time since they sat down Theo’s shit-eating grin began to fade. ‘Is that really necessary?’
‘It’s a formality’ slurped Ed, garlicky clam juice dribbling down his receding chin. ‘But yeah, it is necessary, especially in this case. You know what it’s like with ideas. Some people only have to read them once to think that they came up with them in the first place.’ He laughed. ‘This is your theory, Theo. We need to make that iron clad from the get go.’
‘Right. Of course.’
Theo felt a momentary stab of guilt, but quickly banished it from his mind. In the two weeks since Sasha had first showed him her theory, he’d worked on it so tirelessly and with such all-consuming passion, correcting even the tiniest errors, improving and polishing the text until it flowed like molten gold, that he’d almost come to believe it really was his work. Yes, Sasha had produced the original spark that inspired him – a spark that his teaching had so patiently nurtured and encouraged in her. But it was he, Theo Dexter, who had transformed that spark into this: a volcanic eruption of genius that had Ed Gilliam sitting across the table, eating out of his hands.
This is your theory, Theo. We need to make that iron clad. And they would. Ed Gilliam’s fleet of top lawyers would protect him. They’d know what to do if Sasha got nasty. But she wouldn’t, would she?
Just at that moment, Theo’s phone buzzed to life on the table. He grabbed it, read the text and quickly deleted it.
‘Nothing important, I hope?’ asked Ed.
‘No. Go on.’
Ed did, but Theo was beginning to find it hard to concentrate. The text was from Sasha, her third today. Even without the added pressure of the theory (mentally Theo had stopped referring to it as Sasha’s theory) strains in the affair were starting to show. In the beginning Sasha had been wonderful, adoring in the way that only very young women ever were. The sex had been incredible too. That combination of innocence, desire and total malleability were a huge aphrodisiac, especially for an ego as rampant but fragile as Theo’s. But as time wore on the dynamic between them inevitably shifted. Sasha might be young but she was far from stupid. Recently she’d started to question him more and more about Theresa, the state of his marriage and the future – their future. It had reached the point where Theo had been actively looking forward to the summer break. Not that he wanted to end things with Sasha. At least, not until a more attractive prospect came along. But the last thing he needed in his life was a second ‘marriage’, the sort of complicated, emotional relationship he had with Theresa.
Oddly, things were better with Theresa sexually than they had been in years. Perhaps it was his affair with Sasha that had given him a new lease of life? Or perhaps agreeing to IVF had unleashed a passionate gratitude in Theresa that translated to a whole lot more fun between the sheets? Either way, Theo found himself irritated by Sasha’s endless, needy phone calls from Sussex, and actively looking forward to going home tonight and sharing today’s triumph with Ed Gilliam with his wife. Theresa’s body might not have the youthful perfection of Sasha’s, but she knew what turned him on. Sometimes it was a relief not to have to be the teacher.
‘So you can make it? Tomorrow afternoon, Berkeley Square? To meet with the lawyers? The press release?’
With a jolt Theo realized that Ed Gilliam was still talking.
‘Oh, yes, yes. Of course.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll write something up tonight.’
I’ve waited so long for this. My entire career. It’s time to get this show on the road.
A week later, Sasha was sitting on the sofa in her parents’ living room flipping through yesterday’s copy of the Sunday Times Style Magazine.
Mrs Mills answers your problems
Dear Mrs Mills,
I’ve been seeing a married, older man for nearly a year now. He claims he loves me, but during a recent separation he’s barely returned my calls. What should I do?
Yours,
Desperate of Vrant
Dear Desperate,
If he loved you he’d call you back. Or even visit. Why are you being such a moron? Why are you letting this man take over your life? If he cheats on his wife he ‘11 cheat on you. Once a liar, always a liar…
As hard as she tried to shake them, the voices in Sasha’s head would not go away. Something was wrong. She’d dreaded the long summer holiday for ages, but not even in her worst nightmares had she pictured such a rapid unravelling of whatever it was that she and Theo had together. They used to talk at Cambridge, about everything. Life. The universe. She could live without the lovemaking. But the lack of communication was killing her.
‘Are you sure you won’t try the blue one? It’s a perfect colour on you, Sash.’ Her mother had tried vainly to interest her in a shopping expedition in Tunbridge Wells that afternoon. They were in Hooper’s department store, looking for a dress for Sasha’s cousin’s wedding. A wedding. That’s all I bloody need.
‘Sure, I’ll try it. But you pick, OK, Mum? You know I’ve got no head for fashion.’
In the changing room, she jumped for joy when she got a new text from Theo. But as soon as she read it: ‘Cnt tlk now. 2mr, OK?’ she was plunged back into depths of despair she hadn’t known she was capable of. She’d tried everything to put him out of her mind, going riding, spending time with school friends who knew nothing about her Cambridge life, even sorting out her bedroom, alphabetizing her CD collection and colour coding her knicker drawer in an attempt to create some feeling of order and control over her own life. But I’m not in control. I’m out of control. I’m turning into a stalker!
Just before supper that night – her favourite Moroccan lamb and homemade strawberry ice cream; Mum was pulling all the stops out to try and cheer her up – Sasha called Georgia.
‘The summer’s so long. I’m missing St Michael’s more than I thought I would,’ she admitted. Not able to tell her friend about Theo, she hoped Georgia would read between the lines and offer some sympathy. ‘Do you find that?’
