Scandalous

CHAPTER TWO

Professor Theodore Dexter was having a wonderful day. The sun was in the sky. Cambridge, ever beautiful, had looked particularly lovely this morning as he cycled along the Backs into college, its spires and turrets bathed in early autumn sunlight. His rooms, the most beautiful in St Michael’s, had been newly cleaned and filled with vases of fresh flowers. (Professor Dexter’s bedder was more than a little in love with him. But then, who wasn’t?) And waiting in his bed was Clara, a German postgraduate student with the sort of oversized jugs rarely seen outside of specialist porn mags and a mouth that God had clearly created for the purpose to which she was now so gloriously putting it.

‘That’s right, sweetheart. Nice and slow.’

The blow job was so good it was almost painful. Clara was an average physicist, but thanks to her extraordinary oral abilities her PhD thesis on galactic anisotropy was rapidly edging its way to the top of the class. Trying to prolong his pleasure, Professor Dexter moved higher up the bed so that he could see out of the window. His rooms in First Court looked out over St John’s Street and the splendid redbrick portcullis of Trinity College. Trinity was larger and more prestigious than St Michael’s, but St Michael’s was consistently voted the most beautiful college in Cambridge, with its wisteria-clad medieval courts, romantic formal gardens and exquisite, walnut-panelled Tudor Hall. It also had far and away the best reputation in astro- and particle physics. Which was why so many of the faculty were astonished when Theo Dexter was offered the fellowship there.

To the world at large, Theo Dexter was a brilliant scientist. He’d published two books with titles that no ordinary mortal could understand (His debut, the catchy Prospective Signatures of High Redshift Quasar HII Regions, sold a very creditable five hundred copies), he had a first from Oxford and a PhD from MIT and he was still only thirty-five. To the physics faculty at Cambridge, however, he was an amateur. A mere popinjay. Not only were his ideas rehashed versions of other people’s research, but the man dyed his hair, for God’s sake. He wore Oswald Boateng bespoke suits – in Cambridge! – and was even rumoured to undergo regular facials, whatever those were. Female students flocked to his lectures to catch a glimpse of that rarest of all known mammals – a sexy scientist – when just down the hall, infinitely more brilliant and innovative minds were being ignored. A combination of envy and intellectual snobbery had made the golden boy of Cambridge physics deeply unpopular amongst his peers. Being offered the St Michael’s fellowship was the final nail in Theo’s coffin.

Not that he cared. At least, that’s what he told himself. I’ve got the cushiest job in Cambridge, rooms that any other junior fellow would kill for, and a revolving door of willing, educated pussy at my beck and call. Not to mention a lovely wife and a pretty house off the Madingley Road. What more could a man ask for? And yet despite his smugness, lack of scruples and almost limitless physical vanity, deep down Theo Dexter did want to be taken seriously by his fellow scientists. One day, he vowed. One day I’ll show them all.

Feeling himself building to a climax, he reached down and grabbed Clara’s hair, forcing himself deeper into that heavenly mouth. Instinctively she pulled back, but as he started to come Theo held her head firmly in place. If you want top marks for your crappy dissertation, angel, you’re going to have to swallow. Afterwards he watched her get dressed, physically lifting each of her enormous breasts into her bra. Beautiful. He’d been worried he might not be ‘up to it’ for today’s pre-term tryst with his student. Theresa, his wife, had pounced on him earlier that morning, waving a positive ovulation stick as if she was trying to bring a plane in to land. It was sad, really. The doctor had told them that their chances of conception were low to nil, but Theresa couldn’t let it go. For his part, Theo had never understood the big deal about kids. Sleepless nights, dirty nappies, the mind-numbing boredom of the playground. Who in their right mind would sign up for that? Then again, he was by no means sure Theresa was in her right mind. She always seemed to be away with the fairies these days, so lost in her Shakespeare that she barely registered his presence – or lack of it. But Theo Dexter was not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. Tomorrow was the first day of Michaelmas term. That meant a new year, and a new crop of nubile, naïve young freshers, all of them in search of a mentor. If there was one thing Professor Theodore Dexter prided himself on, it was his ability to mentor. Just look how far dear Clara had come.

Fifteen minutes later, Theo was on his way to Formal Hall for lunch. Two shags in six hours had left him ravenously hungry, and the smells of garlic and onion wafting up the stairs from the college kitchens were like a siren call to his stomach. Only about half the St Michael’s fellows ate in Hall on a regular basis, but Theo Dexter went every day. Partly out of meanness (meals in college were free), but partly because he had yet to find anywhere he preferred to dine than in the dark, Tudor splendour of St Michael’s. Everything about it, from the rituals of the Latin grace and standing to welcome the Master to high table, to the strict rules about the passing of wine and water, gave Theo a deep and abiding thrill. To eat in college was to become part of history. It was to claim one’s place amongst the chosen ones, the privileged few whose intellect set them above the rest of humanity. Theo Dexter grew up in a nondescript semi in Crawley, but he had made it to the table of the Gods, and he relished every second.

‘Morning, Dexter. Off to enjoy the condemned man’s final meal? Depressing, isn’t it?’

Professor Jonathan Cavendish, Head of History at St Michael’s, was in his late fifties. A handsome man in his youth, one of the university’s most successful rowing blues, he had long since run to fat. Renowned as a bon vivant, Jonathan wore his paunch with pride, and didn’t seem remotely concerned by his thinning hair, or his fattening arteries. Everybody at St Michael’s loved him. Everybody except Theo Dexter. Jonathan Cavendish made Theo’s skin crawl. Why the hell doesn’t he go to the gym? Can’t he see he looks like Friar Tuck?

‘I don’t know what you mean, Johnny.’

‘The bloody undergraduates coming back, of course. Don’t tell me you’re not dreading it. Tomorrow morning they’ll be crawling all over college like vermin.’ Professor Cavendish shuddered. ‘I suppose one shouldn’t complain. They are our bread and butters after all. But really, it’s so difficult for college life to run smoothly with so many drunken children underfoot. And to do one’s work.’

Theo was silent as the two men crossed the cobbled bridge that led into Second Court. He was aware that most of the fellows at St Michael’s shared Johnny Cavendish’s view of undergraduates as an inconvenience, a necessary cross to be borne. But Theo Dexter didn’t see it that way. Just the thought of all those earnest eighteen-year-olds in cheap miniskirts, away from home for the first time, was enough to put a spring in his step and a song in his heart.

Dressed in their long, black academic robes, the professors filed into Hall like penguins on the march. Theo looked around at the familiar faces as grace was said and they sat down to eat. Most of them were elderly and wrinkled, a curmudgeonly group of old farts. Almost all of them were male. Watching them slurp their soup and scatter breadcrumbs through their thinning beards, Theo was conscious of being a class apart. Not only was he half their age, but he was clearly the only senior member of college who took care of himself. With his streaked blond hair, naturally athletic physique and bland, almost soap-star handsome features, Theo took great pride in his looks. His wife Theresa had annoyed him last week by giggling when he came home from a four-day academic symposium in Los Angeles with a mouthful of bright white porcelain veneers.

‘What? What’s so funny?’

‘Sorry, darling. They’re jolly nice teeth. It’s just that they make you look so…American. Were they awfully expensive?’

‘Of course not,’ lied Theo. They’d actually cost him the better part of fifteen grand, but he wasn’t about to tell Theresa that. In America where Theo had spent most of his postgraduate years, no one criticized you for spending money on your appearance. If anything, good personal grooming was considered a sign of self-respect. This was one of the many things Theo preferred about the States. Here you were made to feel like a vain, shallow idiot. ‘Besides, I’m a fellow now. It’s part of my job to look professional.’

Unlike his wife, Theo’s young mistress Clara had been wildly impressed with his Hollywood smile when she saw it this morning. Young people appreciate me, thought Theo. The sooner the undergraduates breathe some life into this place, the better.

‘My goodness, Professor Dexter. You’re ready for your close-up.’

Margaret Haines was smiling. One of only two female fellows in the entire college, Margaret made Theo uncomfortable. A Latin scholar, she was cleverer than he was and only a few years older. He could never quite tell if she was being sincere or taking the piss. In this instance he rather suspected the latter.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a perfectly pressed gown in my life. It looks good with your tan though. Have you and Theresa been away?’

‘I was away,’ Theo said cautiously. ‘California, for work. T had to stay here, unfortunately. She’s at a crucial stage with her book.’

‘Oh. How unfortunate.’ That smile again. ‘You must have been lonely.’

Definitely taking the piss. Stupid old dyke.

‘I soldiered on, Margaret.’

‘I’m sure you did, Theo. I’m sure you did.’

Margaret Haines had vociferously opposed Theo Dexter’s appointment last year, but she’d been shouted down. Anthony Greville, the Master, in particular had been a big supporter. ‘Dexter’s glamorous. The undergraduates worship him. And he’s a natural teacher. We need a bit of vigour at St Michael’s, Margaret my dear. A bit of pizzazz.’

‘The man is ghastly. He’s vain and arrogant. Not to mention an inveterate womanizer.’

Greville ran his rheumy old eyes lasciviously over Margaret Haines’s body. In her early forties she was still trim and attractive, albeit in a motherly sort of way.

‘I can think of worse crimes,’ he oiled, smiling to reveal a set of crooked, yellowing teeth. ‘Let he who is without sin and all that…’

The fellowship had supported him. Margaret Haines wondered how many of them were regretting it now, forced to share high table with Theo’s insufferable vanity. The man’s self-satisfaction needed a seat all to itself.

‘I saw Clara Hausmann leaving your rooms earlier.’ Margaret Haines felt a guilty rush of satisfaction watching the smile die on Dexter’s lips. ‘Back early, is she?’

Theo hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘Yes. Clara’s been struggling with her dissertation. I’ve been doing what I can to help.’

‘I must say, it’s very generous of your wife to share you so freely with your students. Not even term time and already you’re giving private tutorials.’

Bitch. If she says anything to make things difficult for me with Theresa…

‘You forget, my wife teaches herself,’ Theo said smoothly. ‘She understands the pressures of the job.’

‘But not the perks of the job, I imagine.’ The meal was over. Margaret Haines got to her feet. ‘Something tells me she would be rather less understanding of those. Enjoy the term, Theo.’

Theo Dexter watched her go, feeling something close to hatred. It was no good. St Michael’s wasn’t big enough for the both of them. He would have to figure out a way to get rid of her.

CHAPTER THREE

Sasha Miller sat in the back seat of her parents’ old Volvo, gazing out of the window in wonder.

‘There’s Downing!’

‘Oh my God. That’s King’s!’

‘Look, Dad, that’s Trinity. J.J. Thomson was Master there.’

‘J.J. who?’

‘Thomson, Dad.’ Sasha shook her head in wonder. ‘J.J. Thomson? He discovered the electron in 1897?’

‘Oh.’ Her parents exchanged smiles. ‘That J.J. Thomson.’

Sasha had been so quiet on the M25, her parents started to worry that something was wrong. She’d mumbled a few words in the Dartford tunnel – something about Will, the lad she was seeing from Tidebrook – then reverted to mutedom all the way up the M11. It was only when they pulled off at exit 11 and made their way through the flat East Anglian landscape towards the ancient city itself that Sasha miraculously sprang back to life.

‘It’s all so beautiful.’

And it was. Sue Miller wasn’t a fan of the featureless countryside they’d driven through on the way here. No hedges, no nice old dry-stone walls, just acres of industrially cultivated rape-seed fields cutting a garish yellow swathe through the landscape. But Cambridge itself was adorable, a medieval, redbrick wonderland with charming cobbled streets and alleyways all tumbling down towards the river and the vast, green expanse of the Backs beyond. Everyone seemed to be on bicycles, not surprisingly given that the roads were so tiny. Twice Don almost scraped the paint off his wing mirror trying to squeeze the Volvo down some wafer-thin alley or other, in search of St Michael’s. As for the ludicrously complicated one-way system, at one point they wondered whether they would have to give up on the whole enterprise and go back to Sussex, so impossible was it to get within a mile of Sasha’s college. But at last they did get there. Sasha sprang out of the car like a shot.

‘Wow.’ It was like stepping into a scene from Brideshead Revisited. Young men in rugby shirts and college scarves chatted to pretty girls with piles of library books under their arms. Bikes with wicker baskets leaned against every available wall. The spire of St Michael’s College Chapel cast a long shadow over the Porters’ Lodge. Across the court, Sasha could just glimpse the tops of the punts as they made their sedate way upriver.

I’ve died and gone to heaven. Just think, on Monday I’m going to see the Cavendish Laboratory, the greatest physics lab on the planet. Twenty-nine Cavendish researchers have won Nobel prizes. Twenty-nine! Imagine if I were the thirtieth?

While Don unloaded the suitcases from the car, Sasha closed her eyes and indulged in her version of the Oscar-night fantasy. Instead of the Pavilion Theatre, Hollywood and an Hervé Léger bandage dress, Sasha was in Oslo City Hall, dressed in…well, who cared what she was dressed in, the point was she was receiving her physics prize for her pioneering work in…something. There were her parents, teary-eyed with pride. And Mr Cummings, her lovely physics teacher from St Agnes’s. And of course Will, looking gorgeous in black tie, escorting her up to the dais…

Sasha had said a tearful goodbye to Will last night. For all their plans and promises to each other over the summer, they both knew that her going away would be a giant test for their relationship.

‘I’ve never felt like this about anyone,’ Will said truthfully, squeezing Sasha’s hand. They were walking through the woods that adjoined Chittenden. Now that his parents were back there was little privacy to be had at Will’s house, and none at all at Sasha’s shoebox of a cottage. A few weeks ago it was warm enough to make love in the woods at night, gazing up at the stars. (Sex, if she was honest, was still not all Sasha had hoped it might be. Although Will asked her each time if he was ‘taking her to heaven and back’ and Sasha always loyally replied in the affirmative, the truth was that the celestial round trip was still distinctly short haul.) But now the nights were closing in, it was much too cold for outdoor shagging. Even Will seemed to have lost his enthusiasm.

‘I’ll miss you so much, Will. But at least we’ll be busy.’ She tried to look on the bright side. ‘You’ll be working with your dad. And I’ll be in the lab all day and studying all night.’

‘Not all night, I hope.’ Will laughed. ‘You have to have some fun, Sasha.’

She looked at him curiously. ‘Studying is fun. I mean, nobody goes to Cambridge to get drunk and party. It’s all about the work.’

‘Oi, you lot!’ A loud, angry voice from the Porters’ Lodge brought Sasha back to reality. ‘Bugger off before I send you to the Dean. And stop harassing my freshers!’ A group of drunk, semi-naked young men dressed (or half-dressed) as Roman soldiers staggered giggling out of the Lodge, pursued by the irate Head Porter, a beadle-like figure in black suit and bowler hat. As they left, two of them dropped their togas, flashing a pair of unappealingly white and hairy bottoms in Sasha’s general direction.

‘So sorry, miss.’ The panting porter returned. ‘Not what you need on your first day at St Michael’s.’

‘Local yobs from the town, I suppose?’ asked Sue Miller disapprovingly.

‘Them lot? No, ma’am. They’re classics scholars. Ours, unfortunately. What are you reading, miss?’

‘Physics,’ said Sasha.

‘Lovely. We like the scientists. Nice and quiet, your lot. Apart from the medics, of course. You don’t want to go out with any of them.’

‘Oh, I won’t be going out with anybody,’ said Sasha earnestly. ‘I have a boyfriend. I’m here to study, not socialize.’

The Head Porter looked at her pityingly.

Poor little thing. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

Theresa Dexter watched in exasperation as, one by one, the papers fluttered to the ground.

‘Bugger!’ Her soft Irish accent rang through the crisp Cambridge air. ‘Bollocks. Come here, you stupid…oh, no, please don’t…shit.’ She was standing outside her front door, car keys in her mouth, mobile phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder, clutching the most enormous stack of essays escaping from an elastic band. Not only had the first stray papers made a break for freedom, but as the wind picked up, they began to dance around the front garden, taunting Theresa. Two sheets were heading dangerously close to the road. ‘I’m sorry, Ma. I’ll have to call you back. Somebody’s dissertation is about to get run over by the Madingley bus.’

Dressed inappropriately for the chilly weather in a floaty summer skirt and one of Theo’s old shirts, with her tangled mane of pre-Raphaelite curls held precariously in place by a pencil, Theresa dropped everything on the doorstep and began running after the errant essay papers, like an over excited puppy chasing a butterfly.

‘You all right, T? Can I help?’

Jenny Aubrieau, Theresa’s next-door neighbour and closest friend in Cambridge, stuck her head over the gate. Jenny was an English scholar, like Theresa, and was married to Jean Paul, a research fellow at Jesus. Jean Paul was always urging Jenny to tell Theresa the truth about her philandering husband – Theo Dexter’s extra-curricular love life was the worst-kept secret in the university – but Jenny couldn’t bring herself to do it. For one thing they hung out as couples, which made the whole situation doubly awkward. But more importantly, Theresa was so madly, blindly in love with Theo, the truth would destroy her. Besides, maybe Theo would come to his senses and get over his mid-life crisis soon. Jenny Aubrieau hoped so.

‘No, I’m all right,’ said a flustered Theresa. ‘Actually, yes. Grab that one. That one, that one, that one! Oh God.’ A single, handwritten sheet flew over the garden gate and dived directly beneath the wheels of an oncoming car. Seconds later more muddy tyres pounded it into oblivion.

‘Not the next Shakespeare, I hope?’ Jenny helped Theresa retie the remaining papers and carry them out to her car.

‘I very much doubt it,’ sighed Theresa. ‘Still, it’s not very professional, is it? Sorry, what’s-your-name, I threw your essay under a car. We’ll call it a 2:1, shall we, and better luck next time? God, I hate teaching.’

‘No you don’t.’ Jenny chucked the files on the back seat of Theresa’s Beetle and stood back to wave her off.

‘I bloody do. All I want is to be left alone to write.’

‘Drink after work? I have to put Amélie and Ben down at seven, but I’m free after that if you are.’ Jenny still felt awkward talking about her children in front of Theresa. She knew how desperately her friend wanted kids. Each pregnancy felt like a betrayal. But there came a point when not talking about them felt even more awkward. Particularly as these days Jenny’s every waking hour seemed to revolve around the little sods.

‘I can’t. Not tonight. Theo’s taking me out for dinner at the University Arms hotel. It’s a start-of-term celebration.’

Jenny Aubrieau watched her friend drive happily away and thought, I wonder what the bastard’s feeling guilty about this time?

Nobody was more surprised when Theo Dexter asked Theresa O’Connor to marry him than Theresa O’Connor herself. Born into a dirt-poor Irish farming family in County Antrim, Theresa had always been a dreamer. A hopeless romantic who couldn’t help but see the good in everyone, she appeared to have nothing in common with the worldly, ambitious, self-confident young Englishman whom she first met at a friend’s wedding in Dublin five years ago. Nor could she believe that anyone as handsome and brilliant as Theodore Dexter, by then already in his last year at MIT and sporting a mid-Atlantic accent as fake as his gold Rolex, would be interested in her. Theresa had always considered her life to be an endless series of lucky accidents – the acceptance into grammar school and later to Cambridge; her starred first in English literature; and now her soon-to-be marriage to the most eligible man in academia. She never believed herself worthy of the wonderful things that kept happening to her. Still less could she accept that she herself was responsible for them.

But Theo Dexter did love Theresa. He loved her wild, Celtic beauty, her white skin and fiery red hair. She was artistic and sensitive, two qualities that he utterly lacked, but was capable of admiring in others, particularly women. She was passionate, terrific in bed and, most important of all, she worshipped the ground he walked on. Other physicists might be reluctant to take Theo Dexter seriously, but Theresa O’Connor was never in any doubt as to his genius. Sleeping with her, just being around her, was like plugging himself in to an inexhaustible ego-recharger. Those who thought that Theo Dexter’s ego couldn’t possibly need recharging did not really know the man. His arrogance and his insecurity had always gone hand in hand.