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CHAPTER TWELVE

First there was blackness. Then there was light. It came in flashes, blinding and painful. There were voices too. Some that she recognized.

Theo: ‘I can’t believe this is a surprise to you.’

Dita Andreas: ‘Theo and I love each other.’

Others that were unfamiliar.

‘Mrs Dexter? Can you hear me?’

‘Her heart rate’s dropping.’

‘We’re losing her again. Mrs Dexter!’

Theresa longed for the light to fade and the peaceful comfort of the blackness to return. Instead, as her lucid periods grew longer and more frequent, so did her awareness of the pain. Her chest felt as if a herd of elephants had trampled across it. Every intake of breath was agony. Her face was badly bruised and she had no feeling at all below the waist. But none of these things compared to the pain in her heart. To the desperation of knowing that Theo was gone, that she’d pushed him into the arms of another woman by being so useless and ugly and miserable and …

‘Mrs Dexter. Welcome back. You look a lot better, my dear. A lot better. You know the nurses have nicknamed you Lazarus?’

Theresa recognized the doctor’s face. He was young and preposterously handsome with the same regular features and straight, gleaming-white teeth that everybody seemed to have in LA. Everybody except her.

‘You’re lucky to be alive.’

‘Am I?’ Tears rolled down Theresa’s bruised cheeks. ‘The other driver …?’

‘He’s fine,’ the doctor reassured her. ‘Minor bruises. We discharged him three weeks ago.’

‘Three weeks?’ The accident felt like hours ago. She’d had no inkling of time passing. Was Theo back from Asia already? But of course, he wouldn’t have gone to Asia. He’d have been told of her accident as next of kin. He was probably outside now, waiting to see her, to tell her that this whole ridiculous affair with Dita was over, that it was her, Theresa, he really loved. ‘Do I … have I had any visitors?’

The doctor’s handsome face fell. ‘Not in person. But the nurse’s station is starting to look like a florist. Your mom’s called every day. And a lady named Jenny.’

‘So my husband …’ The words died on her lips.

The doctor perched on the edge of the bed and took her hand. He was a kind man. Like the rest of the staff at St John’s Hospital, he’d been outraged by Theo Dexter’s callousness. Not only had he flown off to Asia while his wife was still critical, but he’d since gone public about his love for Dita Andreas, painting Theresa as an out-of-control drunk whom he’d been forced to ‘stop enabling’ however much it broke his heart. ‘Dita and I both pray that this accident will be the wake-up call to Theresa to start getting the help she needs.’ Yeah, right. Dickhead.

‘Your husband has paid the bills. He’s also written to you. There’s a registered letter waiting outside. But listen to me, Mrs Dexter. If ever there were a time to focus on yourself, this is it. You broke both your legs, fractured four ribs and suffered a potentially fatal brain bleed. Don’t worry,’ he added, seeing the colour drain from Theresa’s face, ‘we ran every scan under the sun, you’re fine. But as clichéd as it sounds, you are lucky to be alive. You won’t be able to leave here for at least another two weeks. Even after that you’re going to need intensive physio. You can’t afford to let your husband, or anyone else, set back your recovery. Thinking positive is half the battle.’

It’s the half of the battle I’m going to lose, thought Theresa. She knew the doctor was right. But she couldn’t help herself. As soon as he left her, she pressed the call button for the staff nurse. ‘I’d like to see my messages please.’

The vast stack of get-well cards and presents, most of them postmarked from England, brought a lump to Theresa’s throat. But there was only one letter that really interested her. Pushing the rest aside, she tore open the stiff FedEx envelope with Theo’s handwriting on the address sticker.

He’ll have written to apologize. He probably went to Asia because he was scared. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t want to see him? That I wouldn’t forgive him?

She pulled out the letter, five typed sheets with a ‘Korol & Velen, Attorneys at Law’ letterhead. It took her a few moments to cut through the legalese and process what she was reading.

Divorce papers. I’ve been lying here, fighting for my life, and Theo’s filed for divorce.

Too numb to cry any more, she closed her eyes and prayed for the darkness to return. Why did I have to survive? Why couldn’t God have put me out of my misery?

* * *

In fact it was almost a month before Theresa was allowed out of hospital. She returned to find the Bel Air house empty – Theo and Dita were in Los Cabos, Mexico, enjoying a very public romantic vacation – and a note on the marble kitchen counter.

Two months’ rent and all the staff wages are paid. After that you’ll have to make other arrangements. You can reach me through my lawyer, he’s very efficient. Best, Theo

It was the ‘Best’ that hurt the most. As if she were some secretary or acquaintance. As if all the years of love and support and passion had been for nothing. Unable to stop herself, Theresa had devoured the TV and magazine coverage of Theo and Dita’s affair from her hospital bed. The strangest part was seeing herself being painted as some sort of unhinged lush, a depressive lunatic whom poor, devoted Theo had cared for as long as he could.

‘You should hire a PR firm,’ Amihan, Theresa’s feisty Filipina nurse insisted. ‘He obviously has, the bastard. You need to fight back, or people are going to believe this rubbish.’

Theresa hadn’t the energy to argue. Amihan wouldn’t have understood anyway, any more than Jenny or her friends back home. I don’t care what people believe. I don’t care about anything. All I want is my life back.

A week after she got out of hospital, Thomas Bree, the head of the English faculty at Cambridge and her former boss, threw Theresa a lifeline.

‘Good news!’ Thomas’s dry, acerbic English voice crackled down the phone line, like a message from another planet. Theresa could instantly picture him in his rooms at Jesus, knocking back his third Glenfiddich of the afternoon as he marked a stack of Chaucer papers. ‘You remember Harry Talbot-Smith, from Jesus?’

‘Of course,’ said Theresa. ‘Dear old Harry. How’s he doing?’

‘He’s dead,’ said Thomas Bree brightly. ‘Which means there’s an English fellowship open. Of course legally we have to advertise. I’ll have to interview a lot of morons from UCL, I dare say, might take a few months. But after that the job’s yours if you want it.’

Theresa burst into tears. ‘I … I don’t know what to say, Thomas.’

‘Well don’t get all American and schmaltzy about it, Theresa. Just get yourself on an aeroplane and come home.’

Theresa did.

For the first month she stayed in London with friends. Theresa had known Aisling O’Brien since their teenage days in County Antrim. Now married to Richard, a successful investment banker, and living in a sprawling house in Fulham with their three sons, Aisling had changed little from the naughty, life-and-soul-of-the-party schoolgirl that Theresa remembered. She was still a ball of energy and determination, just a slightly more middle-aged ball.

‘First thing we do is get you a decent bloody lawyer. Fiona Shackleton, that’s who you need, love. Or someone senior at Mishcon de Reya.’

Theresa laughed. ‘Do you know what their fees are, Ash? I can’t possibly afford that.’

‘Bollocks. Theo can pay. Or they can subtract their fees from the whopping settlement they’re going to get you. No, stop arguing. You’re going, even if I have to frogmarch you into their offices myself.’

Theresa went. Charles Newton-Haughbury, the partner who took her case, had so many plums in his mouth that at first Theresa struggled to understand him. But as certain words floated through to her: ‘outrageous … laughable … vigorous counter-attack …’ she began to get the gist. Charles wanted her to file her own petition with the UK courts, citing adultery, and to reject Theo’s paltry financial offer out of hand. He also wanted her to hire a public relations firm to address the slanderous things her husband had been saying about her.

‘Whoever’s been looking after your interests up till now should be shot. It’s a shower, Theresa, an absolute shower.’ He pronounced it shah, which made Theresa want to giggle. ‘You’ve had a long marriage to an extremely wealthy man. His money may be able to buy him public sympathy across the pond, but it won’t wash in a British courtroom, I can assure you of that. It’s time to get the old boxing gloves on and land a few punches.’

But for once Theresa was firm. ‘I don’t care about the money, Charles. I don’t want to fight with Theo. All I want is for this nightmare to be over.’

‘But, Theresa …’

‘No. Please. Just accept Theo’s offer and let’s be done with it.’

It had taken all Charles Newton-Haughbury’s powers of persuasion to convince her to make accepting Theo’s terms contingent on a gagging order, preventing either Theo or Dita from speaking about Theresa in the media. ‘You’re walking away with a fraction of what he owes you. At the very least, protect your reputation. You may not care about money, but a part of you must care about being slandered in this manner. For your family’s sake, if not your own.’

Reluctantly, Theresa agreed. Generally speaking, she’d been sanguine about Theo’s rewriting of their marital history, not because it didn’t hurt, but because it hurt less than everything else, less than him being gone. A week ago, however, she’d been dreadfully upset by an interview Theo gave to Barbara Walters, that showed footage of him touring a Singaporean orphanage. The orphanage they’d been talking about adopting from, just days before her accident.

‘Dita’s really changed my mind about the whole idea of adoption and parenthood.’ Theo smiled wistfully to camera. ‘You know, Barbara, when you’re in a relationship with an addict, an alcoholic or whatever, someone who isn’t functioning, you can’t allow yourself to think about children. But Dita’s so maternal, so caring. She’s truly opened my eyes.’

That interview opened Theresa’s eyes. She still loved him and missed him terribly. She couldn’t help it. But the time had come to protect herself, or at least let Charles do it for her.

The divorce came through a few weeks later. Theo paid her legal and medical bills, signed a gagging order, and gave her a one-off, lump-sum payment of seven hundred thousand pounds. Aisling took Theresa out to celebrate.

‘We’re not toasting the money,’ she said sternly. ‘That settlement was daylight robbery and we both know it. We’re celebrating your freedom. Here’s to the first day of the rest of your life!’

Theresa raised a glass sadly.

‘When does the job start at Cambridge?’

‘November,’ said Theresa. ‘But I’m going up there on Friday. I need to start house hunting. And working. I haven’t written a line since the accident. I’m sure my brain must have turned to mashed potato.’

‘Ah, bollocks,’ said Aisling. ‘You’ll be back in the saddle in no time, dating some good-looking Shakespeare scholar or playwright or whoever it is you genius types like shagging. You’ll see.’

Theresa laughed. She had no intention of dating anyone, still less shagging. Besides, there was no such thing as a good-looking Shakespeare scholar. Everyone knew that.

Dita flipped over onto her back and did a few, languid strokes across the swimming pool. Theo watched her flawless naked body, her breasts bobbing on top of the water like two buoys, her legs slightly parted to reveal a tantalizing hint of coral-pink labia as she wiggled her toes, and felt his dick start to harden.

‘Come here,’ he called across the splashing.

‘Why?’ Dita smiled coquettishly, opening her thighs wider. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

Theo grinned. How the hell did I get this lucky?

He’d moved out of the Bel Air house last month and rented this place in Beverly Hills, nominally for the privacy (Theo and Dita were ‘so tired’ of the relentless press attention) but actually because George Clooney used to own it and Theo thought that was cool. Though smaller than the Bel Air mansion, the house managed to be even more impressive, largely thanks to the gadgetry in every room. This was a bona fide LA party house. Vast outdoor TV screens surrounded the pool, rising up out of the stone at the touch of a button. In the master bedroom, the heart-shaped bath filled from a hidden pump in the ceiling, and the Jacuzzi turned on when you said ‘bubbles’. But the greatest luxury of all was Dita herself. It wasn’t just her perfect, made-forsex body or her relentless, unstoppable libido that excited Theo. It was her fame. Being with Dita Andreas was like being sprinkled with Hollywood fairy dust. Overnight, Theo had gone from being a celebrity to being a star. And to think, he’d almost passed on all of this because he was too scared of hurting his image with a divorce. What a fool he’d been!

‘You have ten seconds to get out of that pool,’ he growled lustfully at Dita, ‘or I swear to God, I’m coming in to get you.’

‘Really?’ Dita hauled herself up out of the water and walked towards him dripping, like Ursula Andress without the bikini. Perching on the edge of Theo’s sun lounger, she wrung out her hair, deliberately dropping cold water onto his erection.

‘Bitch.’ He kissed her, reaching between her legs.

‘Uh uh.’ Dita stood up and grabbed a towel. ‘Sorry, baby. We don’t have time. We’re meeting Ray, remember?’

Theo groaned. Ray Angelastro was a movie agent, one of the biggest names at CAA. Dita was convinced that Theo had a future on the big screen and had been pushing for this meeting for weeks. Theo wasn’t so sure.

‘I’m not an actor, Dita. I’m a scientist.’

‘You were a scientist,’ Dita corrected him. ‘Now you’re a brand. Especially since the new Asia deal, a very marketable brand.’

It was true, Theo’s trip to Asia had been successful beyond even his wildest fantasies. Not only had Dexter’s Universe been syndicated in every major market, but he’d been offered an endorsement deal by Canon cameras that would catapult his earnings into the stratosphere. And it didn’t end there. Theo’s combination of all-American good looks, British James Bond suaveness, and scientific credibility was the Holy Grail for Asian consumers. He returned to LA overwhelmed with offers to promote everything from aftershave to coffee to computer games.

‘Studios love brands,’ Dita assured him. ‘Any idiot can act.’

Watching her dry herself with a towel and pull a bright yellow, micro-mini sundress over her head, Theo resented the meeting with Angelastro more than ever. All he wanted to do was take Dita upstairs and bang her till she begged him to stop. Not that that would ever happen. But at the same time, he loved her for pushing him. Theresa had never understood his ambition. She was always wanting to hold him back, hankering after the simpler life they’d left behind in England. Well, now she could have it. On the paltry divorce settlement he’d given her, she’d be able to live very simply indeed. Briefly, Theo wondered where Theresa was at that moment and whether she was happy. But only briefly.

Now then. What to wear to this morning’s meeting? Ray Angelastro was a flaming homosexual. I’ll wear my new Gucci suit. The one with the tight-fitting trousers. It’s formal for Hollywood, but it should get Ray’s motor running.

Theo stood up, stretched and followed Dita indoors.

‘Oh my God. Oh, my GOD!’ Jenny Aubrieau stood on the front step of Theresa’s new cottage in Grantchester, gasping for breath. A medieval longhouse painted palest pink with a low thatched roof and stone mullioned windows, it was ridiculously, Disney-idyllic. ‘It’s exquisite. Like something out of a Flower Fairies illustration.’ Turning to her children she roared, ‘Ben, Amélie! Get out of that flowerbed, now. If you trample so much as one of those gorgeous hollyhocks I will personally run over your PlayStation with your father’s lawnmower.’

‘Great place.’ Jean Paul, Jenny’s husband, kissed Theresa on the cheek and handed her an expensive bottle of Chablis as his son and daughter charged past them into the house. ‘We would ‘ave left the kids at home, but no babysitter will take them,’ he grinned.

‘I’d have shot you if you left them behind,’ said Theresa. ‘There’s a tree house in the back garden with a rope swing that goes right out over the river. They’ll love it.’

‘Daaaaaad!’ Ben’s whoop of delight could be heard all the way to Trumpington Street. ‘Come and see this!’

To a soundtrack of happily screaming children, mingled with late summer birdsong and Handel’s Messiah on Radio 3, Theresa gave Jenny a tour of the cottage. Inside it was all low beams and inglenook fireplaces. Theresa had only moved in a few weeks ago, but already she’d made the place a home, filling it with books and framed botanical prints and jugs stuffed with wildflowers from the riverbank. She’d left LA with nothing, no furniture, no clothes. Moving to Willow Tree Cottage was a fresh start in every sense of the word. Thanks to her divorce settlement, she’d been able to buy it for cash, with money to spare to spend on furniture, rugs and the like. Putting the place together had been a godsend, the first thing she’d actually enjoyed doing since Theo left her. She was proud of it.

‘Bed’s a bit small,’ said Jenny, bouncing on the faded rose-patterned quilt covering Theresa’s barely queen-sized four-poster.

‘It’s a small room.’

‘Why didn’t you take the bigger one, at the front? There’s easily room for a king in there.’

‘I like the view. And the window seat,’ said Theresa, unlatching the ancient tiny window to reveal a glorious vista of open fields with King’s College spires in the distance.

‘Wow,’ sighed Jenny. ‘If I divorce JP and dump the children, will you adopt me?’

Theresa smiled. She hadn’t added that she had no need of a king-size bed. That she’d slept in one at Aisling and Richard’s and woken up every morning reaching for an absent Theo.

Sensing a shift in her mood, Jenny put her arms around her friend. ‘Are you eating? You feel like skin and bone.’

‘I’m drinking. Does that count?’ Theresa joked. It was ironic. All those failed diets and yoga regimens in LA, trying endlessly to get thin for Theo, and the moment he left her the weight fell off like flesh from a well-steamed sea bass. ‘I made us paella for tonight and tomato salad from the garden. Will the children eat fish?’

‘Amélie will. Ben will eat anything if you drown it in ketchup.’

Theresa’s face fell. ‘Oh dear. I’m not sure I have any ketchup.’

Jenny reached into her capacious, mother’s handbag and pulled out a red plastic bottle. ‘Never fear. We bring our own. Like insulin.’

Supper was a riot. It was wonderful to be with Jenny and JP again. Theresa hadn’t seen Ben and Amélie since they were toddlers, and while the kids were unrecognizable, their parents were the same funny, charming, understanding people they’d always been. After Theresa’s accident, Jenny called the LA hospital every day and was the first to offer support, both practical and emotional, when Theresa announced she’d be moving back to Cambridge. After a month in her new job at Jesus she still cried about Theo at least once a day and thought about him constantly. But it was a relief to dive back into the cool, restorative waters of her beloved Shakespeare. As for Cambridge itself, the city never failed to lift her spirits.

When the estate agent first drove her out to Grantchester, Theresa was resistant. A pretty hamlet a few miles from the town centre, best known for being home to the poet Rupert Brooke and latterly to Jeffrey Archer, it would mean driving into work every morning. Living in Los Angeles had left Theresa with an abiding hatred of commuting, however short the distance. ‘I’m sure it’s a charming property. But I really am set on finding something closer to college. I wouldn’t want to waste the vendor’s ti—’ They turned a corner and there it was: Willow Tree Cottage with its overflowing cottage garden, its lichened gate, its thatch and its winding swathe of lawn rolling down to the river and the eponymous willow tree.

‘It’s perfect,’ Theresa sighed. ‘That’s the one.’ To the agent’s delight, she wrote a cheque for the full asking price on the spot.

‘The starter was delicious,’ pronounced Jean Paul, finishing off his third enormous helping of paella while Theresa opened a third bottle of wine. ‘What is the main course?’

His wife hit him over the head with a napkin. ‘Ignore him, T. Il est un cochon.’ They kissed and Theresa thought, They’re like teenagers, so in love. Were Theo and I ever like that?

As if in answer to the question, Jenny asked brusquely, ‘So is it all over now, the divorce paperwork and stuff? You’re done?’

‘Yes,’ said Theresa, unable to keep the note of sadness out of her voice. ‘We’re done.’

‘Good. You’re well shot of him, T, isn’t she, darling?’

JP nodded through his last mouthful of rice.

‘Honestly, I could never say it at the time. But he was always an arsehole, even before he was famous. Now he’s a plastic, airbrushed, American arsehole, which is even worse.’

Theresa tried to smile.

‘Ooh, this will make you laugh,’ said Jenny. ‘Guess what I read the other day? The name “ Theodore ” is Latin for “ God’s Gift ” ! Do you think he christened himself?’

Amélie wandered in from the garden. At eight years old she already looked distinctly teenage, with her blue chipped nail polish and a Girls Aloud t-shirt that clung to the two tiny, nascent mounds that would eventually become her breasts. Bored of the rope swing, she was deep in some sort of gossip magazine. Quick as a flash, her father yanked it out of her hands.

‘Qu-est-ce que c’est, Amélie, this rubbish? What do you read this for? Whatever ‘appened to My Little Horses?’

‘My Little Pony,’ said Jenny. ‘Give it back to her, JP, don’t be annoying.’

But father and daughter were already caught up in a familiar game, with Jean Paul holding the magazine at arm’s length, out of Amélie’s reach, and reciting passages in his embarrassing-dad voice while she screeched at him to stop.

‘Oh my God, you are so sad, Dad,’ she howled. ‘Mum, make him give it back.’

‘Listen to this,’ laughed Jean Paul. ‘ “ Six things your man wants you to do in bed but is too scared to ask ” . Zat one is followed by “ Ange and Brad, why it’s really over ” and …’ He turned the next page then stopped abruptly, blushing. Seizing her chance, Amélie snatched the magazine while his guard was down and dropped it onto the table. There, grinning up at Theresa, were Theo and Dita. They looked picture perfect, with their matching white smiles and blond haircuts, radiating happiness and love and success.

‘Don’t look at it,’ said Jenny, reaching for the offending object. ‘Don’t give them the satisfaction.’ But Theresa stopped her arm. It wasn’t the picture she was looking at. It was the headline:

AND BABY MAKES THREE