Scandalous

They were married in Cambridge, in the ancient Holy Trinity Church on Bridge Street. Theo would have liked a more lavish affair, but they couldn’t afford it. Theresa would have been happy in a register office in Slough, so great was her joy at becoming Mrs Dexter. She wore a plain white dress from Next for the service, teamed with flat ballet slippers (Theo hated her in heels; they made him look short). Despite her simple attire, or perhaps because of it, the bride couldn’t have looked more radiant. At the reception, a simple affair at the Regent hotel, Theo’s best man, Robert, made a joke about how much the happy couple had in common.

‘Theresa loves Theo. And Theo loves Theo. They’re a perfect match!’ Theo laughed thinly, but the rest of the guests roared. ‘The only two people in Cambridge who think Theo’s cleverer than Theresa are Theo and Theresa.’ More laughter. ‘Here’s hoping the kids have Mum’s looks and Mum’s brains.’

Theo thought: Note to self: Drop Robert Hammond as a friend.

Theresa thought: I wonder how long it’ll be before I get pregnant?

‘Polycystic ovaries.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Poly – cystic – ovaries.’ Dr Thomas, Theresa’s Harley Street consultant, sounded irritated. A gruff, bullying man in his sixties with overgrown caterpillar eyebrows and a pink bow tie, Dr Thomas was a brilliant gynaecologist. But he had the bedside manner of a Stalinist general. ‘Your ovaries produce fewer eggs. In addition, in your particular case, the quality of those eggs you do produce is extremely poor.’

‘I see.’ Theresa bit her lower lip hard, trying not to cry. My life is perfect. What right do I have to blub over one tiny setback?

‘So what do we do from here? IVF? Donor eggs? What’s the next step?’ Theo spoke brusquely, trying to sound in control. Deep down he was overwhelmed with relief that the problem wasn’t on his side. Not that he wanted kids, far from it. But no man liked the idea that they were shooting blanks.

‘I would give IVF a very low chance of success in your wife’s case.’

Theresa swallowed. ‘But there is some chance?’

‘Less than five per cent. You’d be wasting your time,’ said Dr Thomas brutally. Despite herself, Theresa felt her eyes well up with tears.

Theo asked, ‘We can still try naturally, though, can’t we?’

‘You can try.’ Dr Thomas shrugged. ‘Otherwise I would steer you towards considering adoption.’

Theresa’s eyes lit up, but Theo shook his head firmly.

‘No. Not for us, thank you, Doctor. I’ve no interest in raising another man’s mistake.’

On the long drive back to Cambridge, Theresa stared out of the car window in silent misery. As always in times of trouble, her mind turned to Shakespeare:

‘The miserable have no other medicine but only hope.’

I will not give up hope. I will keep trying.

She’d been disappointed by Theo’s hostility to the idea of adoption. But then why shouldn’t he want a child of his own? After all, she did. It was her fault they couldn’t conceive, not poor Theo’s. Suddenly she was seized with panic. What if he left her? What if he left her because she couldn’t have children?

‘Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed.’

I can’t let the fear defeat me. I have to believe. We will have children. Somehow. We will.

By the time Theresa got to the new English faculty building on West Road she was fifteen minutes late. Running across the car park, she felt sweat trickling down the back of her neck and an unpleasant wetness spreading under her arms and breasts. Panting from the exertion, she pushed open the door of the lecture room.

‘Sorry, everyone. Terrible traffic. I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of a disaster with…’ She looked up. Three faces looked back at her.

‘Where are the others? Is this it?’

Mai Lin, a sweet Asian-American girl from Girton, said kindly, ‘Maybe they got stuck in traffic too?’ But all four people in the room knew this was a lie.

Theresa knew the dropout rate for her seminars was high. Students complained that they were too chaotic, that they strayed too far from the parameters of Part II Shakespeare and the topics that they needed to cover for finals.

‘But there’s more to life than exams!’ Theresa pleaded with the head of the faculty. ‘Where’s their soul? Where’s their passion? How can they possibly expect to cover something as breathtaking as Macbeth in two one-hour sessions?’

‘Because if they don’t, my dear, they won’t cover the rest of the tragedies and they’ll fail their degrees. You must stick to the syllabus, Theresa.’

‘But I thought teaching was about inspiring people?’

‘Oh, my dear.’ The Head of English doubled over with laughter. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

Still, Theresa thought glumly, looking around the empty room, I can’t inspire them if they’re not here. If only I had a vocation for teaching, like Theo. His lectures are always packed to bursting.

Depressed, she opened her notes.

‘Right, well, for those of you who have made the effort. Let’s get started, shall we?’

Sasha’s first week at St Michael’s went by so fast, and there was so much to take in, it was like being in a particle accelerator. She was tiny. Cambridge was huge. And everything was moving at light speed.

Her room was a bit disappointing. A small, featureless box in the only ugly part of the college, a concrete seventies accommodation block that had apparently won loads of architectural awards despite looking like the multi-storey car park in Tunbridge Wells, it was hardly the ivory tower of Sasha’s fantasies.

‘I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.’ Georgia, a drop-dead-gorgeous blonde architecture student from across the hall, told Sasha cheerfully, helping herself to the last of the homemade biscuits Sasha’s mum had left. ‘You’re not going to be spending much time in your room.’

‘I suppose that’s true,’ said Sasha, thinking of the physics library and the Cavendish labs.

‘Course it’s true. The JCR bar doesn’t close till midnight, and there’s always a party somewhere afterwards.’ Georgia bounced up and down on Sasha’s bed with excitement. ‘Have you joined any societies yet?’

‘Societies?’

‘Yes, you know. Like the Union or Footlights.’

‘God, no.’ Sasha shuddered. The Cambridge Union was a debating society and the Footlights a comedic dramatic club. The very thought of speaking in public under any circumstances brought Sasha out in a rash. How anyone could sign up for such a thing by choice was incomprehensible.

‘Well, what sort of things are you interested in?’ asked Georgia. ‘These biscuits are delicious, by the way.’

‘Thanks.’ Sasha smiled. ‘I’m interested in physics. Radiophysics, cryophysics, physics of phase transitions and magnetism.’

Georgia’s eyes widened. Sasha went on.

‘You know, all of it really, quantum optics, semiconductors and dielectrics…’

‘So not a big cookery fan, then?’

‘Cookery?’

‘That was a joke.’ Georgia looked at her new friend with a combination of admiration and pity. Clearly she was going to have to introduce Sasha to the concept of fun. ‘Look, I get it. You’re Einstein.’

‘Oh, no.’ Sasha was mortified. ‘I didn’t mean to imply…I’m nothing special. Certainly not by Cambridge standards.’

‘Bollocks to Cambridge standards,’ said Georgia robustly. ‘You’re obviously an evil genius or you wouldn’t be here. You’ve probably got a laser in your room. Do you have a laser, Scott?’ She put on her best Dr Evil voice but it went right over Sasha’s head. ‘Never mind. The point is, we’re at St Michael’s now.’ Grabbing Sasha’s hand she dragged her over to the window. Outside, the college’s picture-postcard courts and bridges lay spread out below them like a wonderland. ‘Our mission is to have the time of our fucking lives,’ said Georgia. ‘Are you with me?’

Somehow Sasha knew instinctively that this was a rhetorical question. Georgia Adams was a force of nature. Sasha was with her whether she liked it or not.

From that day on the two girls were inseparable. The outgoing, flirtatious blonde and the quiet, mysterious brunette were the talk of freshers week. Party invitations flooded into Georgia and Sasha’s pigeonholes – all the third year Casanovas had bets on who would be the first to get one of them into bed – but even Georgia found that she had less time for partying than she’d hoped, what with all the paperwork and reading lists, supervisions, seminars, and, of course, exploring Cambridge itself.

‘It’s an architect’s paradise,’ sighed Georgia, wandering from college to college, where exquisite Gothic buildings huddled cheek by jowl with some truly stunning modern architecture. Treasure troves that they were, there was more to Cambridge than the colleges. There was Kettle’s Yard Gallery, centuries-old pubs like the Pickerel with its low beams and roaring log fire. There were the grand museums on Downing Street, and Parker’s Piece, and the teashop at Grantchester that let you moor punts in the garden. There were quaint cobbled alleys, magnificent churches, twee pink-painted cottages and outrageous neoclassical mansions. And it was theirs. It was all theirs.

For Sasha, the highlight of her first week was the tour of the Cavendish laboratory. Possibly the ugliest building in England, and certainly the ugliest in Cambridge, to Sasha Miller it was the most mesmerizing thing she had ever seen. This was where the magic happened! This was the Emerald City of Oz. The third-year physicist from Magdalene who showed her around didn’t appear to share Sasha’s enthusiasm. A skinny, greasy-haired boy with a Birmingham accent and acne so severe that he was more spot than face, he led Sasha from room to room with a look of pained ennui. Doesn’t he realize that we’re standing on the frontier of experimental physics? That we’re walking in the shadows of the great Cavendish professors, of Maxwell and Thompson, Bragg and Mott? Sasha couldn’t wait to call Will tonight and tell him all about it.

They emerged into the daylight – to Sasha’s regret and her guide’s relief, the tour was over – and Sasha noticed an extraordinarily good-looking blond man surrounded by an admiring throng of female undergraduates.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Professor Dexter.’ The boy’s Brummie accent made him sound even more bored. ‘Fancy him, do yow?’

Sasha blushed. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. I wondered what the fuss was about, that’s all. The man’s being mobbed.’

‘Well. You’ll find out for yerself soon enough, won’t yow?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re at St Michael’s?’

Sasha nodded.

‘So’s he. Physics fellow. He’ll be your Director of Studies.’

Sasha looked at the man again – what she could make out of him through the herd of miniskirts and low-rise jeans. He looks very young to be a fellow. I hope he knows what he’s talking about. How awful it would be to have made it to Cambridge only to be taught physics by someone second-rate. Still, one shouldn’t judge by appearances. Lots of people thought Will was a standard-issue, shallow, rugby-obsessed, public school boy when they first met him.

Which only went to show how wrong first impressions could be.

Professor Theo Dexter sat in his rooms at St Michael’s hunched over his computer in a foul mood. Last week’s optimism about the new term already felt like a distant memory. So far, this year’s intake of undergraduates had been dismal. Barely a single good-looking girl amongst them. As for the physicists, it made you wonder what the hell the government’s two hundred million pounds of extra education spending was being spent on. Certainly not hiring decent science teachers. To think that these kids were the best that the English school system had to offer. Morons the lot of them. God, it was depressing.

He turned back to his book. Cursed bloody thing. As an academic, you were expected to publish your own work at least every few years. Most scholars, including Theresa, considered this ‘the fun part’ and saw teaching as a distraction to their studies. For Theo it was the other way around. He found the obligation to continually reinvent the wheel and come up with new theories an immense drain on his time and energy. The truth was, he wasn’t much of an original thinker. He was bright, naturally. Unlike most of his colleagues he was also a good communicator, with a gift for expressing the most complex ideas in theoretical physics in simple, human terms. But Theo Dexter had yet to stumble across that one, seminal thought that would forever be identified with his name. Deep down he was wildly envious of his wife’s ability to come up with new angles on Shakespearean criticism over her Special K every morning. Not that he’d ever have told her that. Inspiration seemed to explode out of Theresa involuntarily, like a sneeze. Theo Dexter knew that his fellow physicists considered him a ‘plodder’. If only he had half his wife’s instinctive, unstructured brilliance, they might start taking him seriously. As it was…

A knock on the door disturbed him. Who the hell could that be? I don’t have any supervisions this morning.

‘Yes?’ He sounded less than welcoming. Tentatively the door creaked open.

‘Professor Dexter?’

‘Yes? For God’s sake, come in whoever you are. Don’t skulk in the corridor like a thief.’

A young girl shuffled nervously into the room. Theo’s first thought was, She’s escaped from the circus. Dressed in baggy, striped trousers teamed with a multi-coloured, polka-dotted shirt, dark hair flying all over the place, mascara smudged, she looked like a lunatic. His second thought was, She’s pretty. It was hard to make out much of her figure beneath the billowing clothes, but the face was angelic. Porcelain-white skin, wide-set green eyes, hair as black and gleaming as liquid tar.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m Sasha Miller. I’ve got a supervision with you this morning. Eleven o’clock?’

So she’s a physicist! One of mine. Thank you, God. At last.

‘Ah. Miss Miller. Well, your supervision was actually scheduled for yesterday morning. But do come in.’

‘Oh God. Was it?’ Sasha blushed scarlet. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I’m afraid I can be a bit disorganized sometimes. I’m working on it.’

Theo offered her a chair. In a fluster, Sasha somehow managed to miss the seat, lowering her bottom into mid air and only just righting herself before she hit the floor.

‘Sorry.’ She clung to the chair’s arms like life rafts.

Theo smiled. She’s adorable. So gauche. I wonder if she’s even eighteen yet?

‘Don’t worry,’ he said kindly. ‘A lot of people get muddled in their first week. How are you finding Cambridge?’

‘Oh my goodness, it’s perfect,’ Sasha gushed. ‘Just magical, thank you. St Michael’s is like a dream come true.’ She thought, He seems very kind. I shouldn’t have judged him so harshly the other day.

‘It’s certainly a very special place,’ said Theo. I wonder if her nipples go darker when she blushes? ‘Especially for we physicists. These are exciting times, Sasha. World-changing times. And Cambridge is right at the heart of it.’

Sasha felt a rush of excitement and pride so strong she had to grip the chair even tighter. She loved the way he said ‘we’. Professor Theodore Dexter, a Cambridge physics professor, her tutor, was addressing her, Sasha Miller from Frant, as an equal. She felt like a co-conspirator in some wonderful, top-secret plot. Looking at him close up for the first time, she had to admit that Professor Dexter really was terribly good looking. Better looking than he’d seemed across the car park at the Cavendish labs. He reminded her of an American actor…she was so bad with names, she’d never remember which one…one of the doctors from ER perhaps? He was certainly very young. She’d been right about that the other day. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Isaac Newton discovered the generalized binomial theorem at twenty-two. Mozart wrote his first concerto at six. You can’t put an age limit on genius.

‘Listen, Sasha, I’m afraid I’m a bit busy just at the moment. I wasn’t expecting you, you see.’

‘Oh. Of course.’ Embarrassed, Sasha got up to go. ‘I’ll get the notes from one of the others and I’ll, er…I’ll come back next week. Sorry.’

‘Please, stop apologizing,’ said Theo smoothly. ‘If you like I could meet you somewhere for a drink this evening? We can talk through the course, what’s expected of you, the lecture schedules…that sort of thing.’

It was such an unexpected suggestion that for a moment Sasha didn’t say anything. She was supposed to be calling Will this evening for a proper chat. She’d even blown off Georgia, who’d been on at her to come to some quiz night at Caius, because she wanted to focus on Will. It had only been a week, but already Sasha felt as if the distance between them was growing. All the magazines said that long-distance relationships took work.

But she couldn’t exactly turn down her professor. Not after he’d been so understanding about her coming at the wrong time and all that.

‘All right. Thanks. Where should I…?’

‘I’ll leave a note in your pigeonhole.’

Sasha left and Theo turned back to his book. All of a sudden his spirits had lifted exponentially.

Perhaps inspiration was about to strike after all?

CHAPTER FOUR

Michaelmas term seemed to race by. Sasha hadn’t ever known time to pass so quickly. Once the excitement of freshers week was over, St Michael’s got back to work. The bar was still packed every night, but by eight thirty in the morning a steady stream of green-faced undergraduates could be seen on their bicycles heading for labs or libraries. Even Georgia, whose dedication to partying was the stuff of legend, dutifully trekked off to the architecture faculty building every morning with a back-breaking stack of files under her arm.

When she didn’t have a supervision – one-on-one teaching with Professor Dexter – Sasha spent her days shuttling between the Cavendish lab and the university library. After a brief panic in the first two weeks, when she’d worried she might be out of her depth intellectually (Professor Clancy’s ‘introductory’ lecture on nanophotonics was so impenetrable, he might as well have been speaking Urdu), she soon relaxed and began to delight in her studies. Not only was the teaching phenomenal – physics lessons at St Agnes’s felt like another lifetime already – but the facilities and technology at her disposal were the stuff of Sasha’s dreams. Of course, it was the Astrophysics course that really excited her: the formation of stars and planets, observational cosmology, evolution of galaxies, active galactic nuclei. Sasha had been obsessed with space before she knew how to say the word. She felt incredibly lucky that her own Director of Studies at St Michael’s, Professor Dexter, was an astrophysicist himself. Not to mention a wonderful teacher and mentor.

Sasha’s respect and admiration for Professor Dexter had grown exponentially since their first drink together in freshers week. Not only was he clearly an amazing physicist, but he really went the extra mile to nurture and encourage his students. He was constantly offering Sasha extra help with her assignments. When she began her first solo research project, into astrophysical plasmas, he even took time out of his weekend to come round to her rooms and check her work. How many professors did that? Of course, he was probably only too glad to get out of the house for a while, poor man. Over the past few weeks Professor Dexter – Theo – had opened his heart to Sasha about his unhappy marriage. His wife’s drinking problem and affairs had clearly wreaked a terrible emotional toll. But he was loyal to a fault, putting up with her blind rages. Bipolar disorder could do terrible things to a person. Sasha felt that, on some unspoken level, she and Professor Dexter had become friends. Their twice-weekly supervisions were the highlight of her week.

By contrast, one of the hardest parts of Sasha’s week was her regular Sunday-night phone call to Will. Every week she looked forward to hearing his voice. And every week they seemed to run out of things to say to each other almost immediately. It had got to the point where Sasha had taken to writing bullet-point lists before each call, pieces of news she could tell him, questions she could ask to keep things going. Twice he’d promised to come up and visit her, and twice he’d cancelled because of rugby.

‘I do miss you, babe. But I can’t let the lads down. Maybe you could come back to Sussex for a weekend? We’re playing Saracens’ Second Fifteen on Sunday, there’s gonna be a huge party at High Rocks afterwards.’

‘I can’t, darling. Not this weekend. I’ve got so much work to do,’ said Sasha. Then she felt guilty all week because she’d lied to him, and she didn’t know why. What’s happening to us?

At last, one Saturday in late November, Will made it up to Cambridge. Sasha met him at the station, wrapped up in so many layers of sweaters and scarves he almost didn’t recognize her.

‘Christ on a bike, it’s cold up here,’ he shivered, hugging her tightly on the platform. ‘This wind. It’s like bloody Siberia.’ Dressed in his favourite Diesel jeans and Tonbridge rugby shirt under a cool leather bomber jacket, he looked even more handsome than Sasha remembered him. He smelled of Givenchy aftershave and mouthwash, and his arms felt so strong and wonderful around her. What an idiot I’ve been, thought Sasha. He’s perfect. Everything’s going to be fine.

In the taxi, he reached under Sasha’s duffel coat and put a cold hand on her thigh.

T can’t wait to unwrap you, my darling. Have you missed me?’

‘Of course I have,’ said Sasha, adding guiltily, ‘there’s been so much to do here, that’s all, work and finding my way around and stuff. I can’t wait to show you St Michael’s. Isn’t Cambridge beautiful?’

They were driving down Trumpington Street, in the heart of the old university district, but Will wasn’t interested in sightseeing.

‘Mmmm,’ he yawned. ‘You’re not on your period are you?’

Sasha blushed. ‘No!’

‘Good.’ Will’s hand crept higher. ‘I’m sorry to be blunt, but this is the longest time I’ve gone without sex since I was like, twelve. The only part of St Michael’s I’m interested in is your bedroom.’

Don’t be annoyed, Sasha told herself. He’s trying to pay you a compliment. You should be grateful he’s stayed faithful. There’ll be plenty of time to show him around tomorrow.

At Will’s request, they spent the afternoon squeezed into Sasha’s minute single bed. Sex felt awkward at first. Sasha had forgotten how perfect Will’s body was, taut and athletic and muscular, like a Michelangelo sculpture. She’d also forgotten how fit he was. As much as she fancied him, after the third round of shagging she was starting to feel not just bored but exhausted. And sore. Will’s idea of foreplay was to kiss each boob once before launching himself into her like an Exocet.

‘Are you hungry, darling?’ she asked tentatively as he came loudly for a third time before rolling off her, spent. If rugby was Will’s favourite thing in the world and sex his second favourite, Sasha had learned early that food ran a close third. ‘I thought we might wander down to the Pickerel. It’s a really lovely old pub. They do a good lasagne, and you could meet some of my friends.’

‘Sure.’ Will bounded out of bed like a Labrador. Lasagne sounded wicked. Sasha’s nerdy science-geek mates would be less wicked, but he could put up with them for an hour or two if he had to. ‘We’ll regain our strength before tonight!’ He grinned.

Good heavens, thought Sasha. At this rate I’ll be in a wheelchair by the end of the weekend.

Half an hour later Sasha walked into the pub with Will and was immediately dragged to the loo by Georgia.