Тилли Бэгшоу – Scandalous (страница 12)

‘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.