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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Theresa sipped her piping hot Starbucks cinnamon latte, warming her gloved fingers around the paper cup and humming joyously to herself as she crunched down Jesus Lane. ‘Crunched’ was the operative word. A thick blanket of snow had fallen overnight, carpeting Cambridge in white, like a Victorian Christmas card. Snow always made everything beautiful, but somehow it felt especially magical here. The ancient spires and steeples jutted up from the winter wonderland below into a piercing, bright blue sky. It was only a few days before Christmas, and all across the city bells were ringing, the same peals that had rung out in celebration for centuries. It was impossible not to feel happy, and excited, on a day like this, and Theresa O’Connor had no intention of trying.

Last week, she’d finally bitten the bullet and officially put her name forward for the Mastership of St Michael’s. Braced for ridicule, she’d been astonished by how seriously the college seemed to take her candidacy, and by the overwhelming support she’d received from her students and colleagues in the English faculty. Horatio Hollander, who Theresa knew for a fact hadn’t two beans to rub together, bought her a beautiful dark green cashmere scarf as a congratulations present.

‘Congratulations for what?’ she laughed. ‘I’ve only applied, Horatio. I’ll not get the thing, you know. I haven’t a snowball’s chance in an oven.’

‘We’ll see,’ he said loyally, refusing to take back the scarf and insisting she not only accept it but wear it. ‘It’s the perfect colour for you.’

Actually, it is the perfect colour for me, thought Theresa, pulling it up over her red curls to protect them from the newly falling flakes. She would miss Horatio over the Christmas break, she’d miss all her students in fact, although the five-week holiday did provide some much needed time to work on her own book (she’d started a new project on Troilus and Cressida) not to mention get going on the endless list of odd jobs that needed doing at Willow Tree Cottage. She’d turned the heating up full blast, and lit the wood-burning stove daily, but still barely a week passed when something didn’t crack, buckle or fall to pieces with cold. Pipes, windows, floorboards; in a house this old nothing was safe. As soon as Theresa dealt with one problem, another seemed to spring up, and of course there was never enough time, or money, to deal with them.

Today, however, she’d determined to spend the whole day in college, catching up on paperwork and, hopefully, writing. With snow like this it was impossible not to be inspired, and if she stayed home she knew she’d end up curled up in front of the fire with a Jilly Cooper novel. Either that or on her hands and knees, defrosting some vital piece of plumbing with a kettle.

With the undergraduates all home for Christmas, and the thick snow like a layer of cladding on the ground, college was almost eerily silent. When one of Theresa’s colleagues tapped her on the shoulder, she almost jumped out of her skin.

‘Jesus, Harry, you frightened the life out of me. I never heard you coming.’

‘I know. Brilliant, isn’t it, the snow? Makes me want to skip about like a ten-year-old.’ Harry Tremayne grinned. A sprightly sixty-year-old classics scholar, he was a throwback to another, gentler era, before graffiti and football hooliganism and internet porn, before ugly bendy buses belched their fumes onto King’s Parade and undergraduates stripped topless every May Week and had their photographs published in The Sun. On a day like today, though, Harry’s Cambridge felt within reach. Theresa could have hugged him. ‘You look cheerful,’ said Harry.

‘I am.’ Theresa glowed. ‘I feel inspired. At least two thousand words today, I think.’

‘Marvellous,’ said Harry. ‘I’m so pleased you aren’t letting that vile ex-husband of yours dampen your spirits.’ He started to walk away, but Theresa grabbed his arm.

‘My ex-husband? You mean Theo Dexter?’

Harry looked puzzled. ‘Do you have more than one?’

‘No.’ Theresa blushed. ‘No. I just wondered what made you mention him, that’s all. I mean, why would Theo be dampening my spirits? We haven’t spoken in years.’

Harry’s face fell. He looked like a little boy whose brand-new model aeroplane had just crash landed and was beyond repair. ‘Oh dear. You haven’t heard.’

‘Apparently not.’ Theresa felt her stomach lurch, like a plane suddenly losing altitude. She was both surprised, and irritated, that the mention of Theo’s name could still do that to her. ‘Come on, Harry, spit it out. It can’t be that bad, surely?’ ‘Well, no. It’s not. I mean it doesn’t have to be,’ Harry mumbled awkwardly. ‘And, of course, I may be wrong. But I heard on the grapevine that Dexter’s applied for the St Michael’s job.’

Theresa laughed out loud. Well that was a relief! Clearly someone was playing a practical joke and dear old Harry Tremayne had fallen for it. ‘Theo? Come back to Cambridge? Goodness me, Harry, I don’t think so! I can hardly see Dita Andreas propping up the bar in the Senior Common Room at St Mike’s, can you?’

‘It is a rather incongruous picture, I’ll admit,’ said Harry. ‘Oh well, I dare say I got the wrong end of the stick. Good luck with the inspiration!’ He walked off smiling, treading carefully to avoid the slick patches of ice that lurked beneath the snowy paths. Theresa went up to her rooms. Switching on her computer, she settled down to work, but her encounter with Harry Tremayne kept bothering her. Of course he’d made a mistake. It was the only explanation. Cambridge was her world, not Theo’s. Even when they were married, Theo used to go on and on about how happy he was to have ‘escaped’. How much happier must he be now, ruling the roost in LA with his gorgeous film-star wife? No, Theo was already living his dream. What interest would he have in stealing hers?

Her phone was ringing. She must be distracted, normally she always turned it off when she was working. She was about to do so now when she saw it was Jenny Aubrieau. Thinking she could use hearing a sane, friendly voice, she picked up.

‘Jen?’

‘Oh, thank goodness you answered. I was worried about you. Are you OK?’

The hairs on Theresa’s forearms stood on end, as if a ghost had walked over her grave. ‘Yeeeees,’ she answered warily. ‘Should I not be OK?’

‘He’s a real bloody bastard, isn’t he? I mean he just won’t go away,’ Jenny ranted. ‘He’ll probably pull out at the last minute anyway. Some movie he has to shoot or some hapless third-world country he and Dipstick Andreas have to buy. Anyway, everyone at St Michael’s hates him.’

Jenny’s words faded. Everything inside Theresa’s head was muffled, as if the snow were falling inside as well as out. So it’s true. Theo really has applied for the Mastership! She could hardly have felt more heartbroken if someone had told her that Lysander had been squashed by a car. Except it wasn’t her beloved cat who’d been squashed, it was her. Her life, her hopes, her peace of mind, snuffed out in an instant.

Theo had applied for the Mastership. The elections would be held in the spring, which meant he’d be here by then. Theo would be here, IN CAMBRIDGE. Even if, by some miracle, he didn’t get the job at St Michael’s, he would still be here, living here, with Dita and his children. I’ll have to leave. There’s no other way around it. I’ll have to leave Cambridge, sell Willow Tree Cottage … her eyes clouded with tears. Dimly, she was aware of Jenny’s voice, still talking to her.

‘T? Are you all right, lovely? Do you want me to come over? I’d offer to pick you up but of course the car won’t start. I could jump on a bus though?’

‘No.’ Theresa’s voice was dull and flat. ‘It’s OK. I’m fine.’

‘Well, will you at least come to ours for supper tonight?’

‘Sure,’ said Theresa, though she knew she wouldn’t. ‘I’ll call you later.’

Horatio Hollander leaned morosely on the bar at the Mitre, staring into space.

‘This is a pub, Horatio.’ Jack, his friend and roommate, had a job behind the bar. ‘The general idea is that you come here to buy alcohol. Some people even come here to have fun.’

‘I bought alcohol,’ said Horatio. ‘I bought this pint.’

‘Yeah, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth,’ said Jack, looking disdainfully at the dregs in his friend’s glass. ‘You’ve been standing there for over an hour. What do you want?’

‘Fine,’ grumbled Horatio, emptying both his pockets of change and dumping the contents noisily onto the polished wood of the bar. ‘What’ll that get me?’

‘About half a pork scratching,’ said Jack, scooping up the coins while the landlord glared at him, disapproving. ‘For God’s sake, I’ll buy you a whisky myself but you have to promise to snap out of it. You’re scaring away the paying punters.’

Jack was right. He was in a funk, and he did have to snap out of it. But it was easier said than done. It was all right for Jack. He had a girlfriend, Kate, who was mad about him. He also had rich parents who lived in Cambridge, which meant a warm, festive house to go back to every night, and a decent holiday job at the Mitre. Horatio, on the other hand, was living in an unspeakably dismal youth hostel until term started again, with no job, no money and, most depressingly of all, no girlfriend.

He could have had a girlfriend. Could have had any number of them, as Jack was fond of pointing out: Louise Halabi, Caitlin Grey, Jenna Arkell. All pretty, accomplished, fun-loving girls, all eager to show Horatio that there was life beyond the professor who barely registered his existence, still less his love. But to Horatio, that was like saying he could have gone home for Christmas. It implied he had control over his own actions. That he was the sort of person with willpower strong enough to tear himself away from the city where he knew Theresa would be; where he stood an off chance of bumping into her occasionally, or even arranging to meet over a mince pie on the pretence of developing his thesis.

It wasn’t that he didn’t hope his love for Theresa would lessen. Ever since she’d turned him down last spring, he’d been waiting for reality to sink in. He woke up every morning determined to get over her. But then he would catch sight of her again, papers fluttering out of her grip as she stumbled clumsily through college, like a beautiful mole unused to the sunlight, and it was all over. One taste of the sweet hopelessness, and he was lost, shipwrecked on a vast ocean with no land in sight.

‘Get that down you.’ Jack slid a single shot of whisky across the bar. Horatio sipped it cautiously. ‘It’s not poisoned.’ Jack looked offended. ‘You don’t have to drink it like a girl.’

‘I do if I’m going to stay here. I can’t afford to order anything else.’

Jack’s face suddenly darkened. ‘Uh oh.’

Horatio looked up curiously. ‘What?’

‘If I tell you, you have to promise me you won’t make a scene. I like working here.’

‘I never make scenes. What?’

‘Your Mrs Robinson has just walked in. Staggered in, actually. She looks three sheets to the wind.’

Horatio spun around so fast he slipped off his bar stool. There, indeed, was Theresa, standing by the door, swaying gently but rhythmically, like a sailboat in the breeze. Her divine mountain of red hair was wet and dark, stuck to her head with snow, and her long skirt and sheepskin boots were also soaked through to the point where they made a sloshing sound when she walked. Her pale cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy. There was no question she was drunk. Horatio’s eyes lit up with delight when he noticed she was wearing his scarf, but his happiness soon evaporated as Theresa staggered forward, falling into the arms of a surprised young couple enjoying their fish and chips by the fire.

‘You’d better do something,’ Jack whispered. ‘The boss’ll throw her out in a minute. He’s clamping down on hurlers.’

The very idea that anyone might consider Theresa a ‘hurler’ filled Horatio with chagrin, but now was not the time to argue the point, especially as she looked as green as her scarf after her tumble and, if truth be told, distinctly nauseous.

‘Let me help you.’

Theresa blinked groggily. ‘Horay … Hooray … Horay-show? Whaddayou doing here? ‘S Chrishmas.’

‘I know. Here, take my arm.’

‘Why? Where’re we going? You shun’t be here, you know. ‘S Christmas. ’Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la!’ She dissolved into giggles. Jack shot Horatio a meaningful glance.

‘I’m taking you home,’ he said, ushering Theresa out into the freezing night air before she had a chance to resist. Outside the cold was sobering, but not sobering enough. At seven o’clock it had been pitch dark for hours. Street lamps flickered pale gold above the snowy cobbles. Somewhere in the distance, bells were still ringing. Theresa clutched Horatio like a drowning man reaching for driftwood.

‘I’m drunk,’ she murmured sleepily.

‘I know.’ Horatio felt the damp weight of her body pressed against his thick winter coat and felt weak with longing. All he wanted was to sweep Theresa up into his arms and kiss her, but of course he couldn’t, not in this state.

‘’S’all Theo’s fault, bloody bastard,’ she mumbled into his lapel. ‘Why can’t he leave me alone? I mean, really, ’sthat too much to bl’dy ask?’

‘Where do you live?’ asked Horatio, who had no idea what she was talking about. ‘It’s too cold to talk out here and you’re soaked to the bone. I could take you back to college?’

‘No,’ said Theresa firmly. She’d been drinking since noon, ricocheting from one pub to the next getting progressively more depressed at the thought of Theo’s imminent arrival. Though extremely drunk now, she was not quite paralytic enough to think that staggering back to Christ’s in this state, on the arm of one of her students, was a good idea. When she woke up tomorrow she would feel like death, but she’d rather feel like death in her own bed, with only her cats as witnesses. ‘I’ll go home. S’all right. I can get a cab.’

‘Not in this state you can’t, no one’ll take you,’ said Horatio matter-of-factly. ‘I’ll drive you. I’m parked round the corner and I’ve only had one beer all night.’

Too tired to argue, Theresa followed him. By day, Horatio’s ancient Datsun looked like the death trap that it was. Right now, to Theresa’s bleary eyes anyway, it looked like a welcoming oasis of warmth and safety. She climbed into the back seat, sprawled out across it and fell deeply asleep.

When she woke, she found herself on the couch in the living room at Willow Tree Cottage, wrapped in a blanket, a freshly laid fire crackling to life in front of her. Disorientated, she sat-up, and then immediately lay back down again, clutching her head and groaning.

‘Here.’ Horatio handed her some revolting-looking liquid, fizzy and amber-green. It reminded her of cat sick.

‘No thanks.’

‘Drink it. Trust me. I’ve made you Marmite toast for afterwards, to take the taste away.’

Like a child, Theresa drank. If possible, the liquid tasted worse than it looked. She retched, but with an effort managed to keep it down.

‘Good. Now try some toast. Small bites.’

The sour tang of the Marmite felt good, cutting through her nausea like a knife. ‘Thanks,’ she said weakly. She looked up at Horatio, who was smiling down at her, his kind eyes amused and compassionate at the same time. He was wearing a dark blue Guernsey jumper with holes in it and a tatty pair of grey corduroy trousers. Or was that three pairs of trousers? Her vision was still touch and go.

‘What time is it?’ she asked, closing her eyes and sinking back against the cushion that Horatio had arranged behind her head as a pillow. Before he could answer, another thought struck her. ‘How did you know where I live? How did you get in?’

‘It wasn’t that much of a brain teaser,’ he joked, sitting down on the other end of the couch, by her feet. ‘After you passed out in the car I looked in your wallet. Your driving licence had the address on it.’

‘Oh.’ Theresa blushed. ‘Of course.’

‘I couldn’t find a key in your pockets, thought I might have to jimmy open a window or something, but the place was unlocked. You should be more careful.’

His tone was admonishing, as if he were the teacher and she the pupil. It – all this, the knight-in-shining-armour routine – was a side to Horatio that Theresa had never seen before. As his three faces merged back into one, she watched him tuck the blanket around her feet and thought, He’s really very handsome.

‘You mentioned something outside the pub. About Theo.’ The name seemed to stick in Horatio’s throat. ‘Is that why …?’

‘I was drinking? Yes. Stupid, I know.’ She ran a hand through her drying curls. ‘Getting hammered’s not going to help anything. It’s certainly not going to stop him coming back to Cambridge, if that’s really what he wants. When Theo wants something he’s like the Bad Rabbit. He doesn’t say “ please ” . He just takes it.’

Horatio missed the literary reference, but he got the gist of what she was saying. He looked almost as horrified by the prospect of Theo Dexter’s return as Theresa had ten hours earlier. ‘Dexter’s coming here? Moving here? Why, for God’s sake?’

Theresa told him the whole sorry story. By the time she’d finished she was fighting back tears again. Without thinking, Horatio leaned over and hugged her. Misinterpreting her distress, he said sadly, ‘You still love him, don’t you?’

‘No!’ Theresa pulled back, surprised by the vehemence of her own reaction. ‘No, I don’t still love him. Not in the least. In fact at this precise moment there’s a possibility I might even hate him. And I make it a policy never to hate people.’

‘A policy. I see. Like your “ policy ” not to date students, you mean?’

All of a sudden Theresa was aware of how close he was. She could see the stubble on his chin and jawline, smell the faint scent of aftershave on his skin. She looked up and his eyes were boring into her. This was not the Horatio Hollander she remembered. This version was a man, not a boy. And he was smouldering.

When she spoke, her voice cracked. ‘Yes. Like that.’

‘You have too many policies, Professor O’Connor.’

The kiss was so fast, and so bold, Theresa told herself she had no time to resist. The truth was, she didn’t want to. It was so long since she’d been with a man, so long since she’d even thought of herself as a sexual being, she’d convinced herself that that part of her was dead. Apparently not. Horatio’s desire was intoxicating, far more of an aphrodisiac than the alcohol or the roaring fire or the romantic snowflakes still falling softly outside the window. He kissed her again, his hands caressing the back of her neck, then sliding down under her shirt, reaching for her breasts, stroking them briefly – too briefly – before he sat up.

‘No!’ Was that my voice? thought Theresa. ‘Don’t stop.’

Horatio grinned. ‘I’m not stopping.’

Pulling his jumper off over his head along with his t-shirt and wriggling out of his jeans like an eager puppy, he was naked in seconds, revealing a body surprisingly strong and athletic. In the flickering firelight he looked like a marble sculpture, alabaster pale but exquisitely beautiful. It was a different body to Theo’s. Taller. Leaner. Younger. Theresa tried not to look at his dick, but it was impossible, like walking round Trafalgar Square and ignoring Nelson’s Column.

‘Your turn.’

She started to unbutton her blouse, but Horatio was too quick for her, his fingers working expertly, opening the wet cloth to reveal an embarrassingly old grey bra.

‘Sorry,’ Theresa blushed.

‘For what?’ he asked incredulously. ‘You are so fucking perfect I could cry.’ And she knew in that moment that he meant it. That he wanted her, really wanted her, not as some passing student crush, but as a man, wanting a woman. She relaxed then, and he seemed to sense it, slowing down his movements, undressing her slowly, not tentatively, but with infinite care and wonder. Pulling away the pillow from beneath her head, he gently lifted her up and lay her naked on the floor. The worn Persian rug felt coarse against her back, but Theresa soon forgot any discomfort as Horatio stretched out above her, stroking the hair back from her forehead, and began kissing her cheeks, neck and breasts, working his way down slowly to her stomach. By the time she felt his warm breath between her legs, she was already squirming with excitement, longing for him to do what she knew he was longing to do.

‘Please,’ she murmured, ‘now. Do it now.’

Horatio didn’t need to be asked twice. Sliding back up so his face was over hers he slid inside her and began to rock gently back and forth. ‘OK?’ For the first time all night, he looked nervous.

‘Perfect,’ sighed Theresa. And it was. In that moment it was completely perfect. Perfect, and quick. Horatio had waited so long, and so hopelessly, it was all he could do not to jump for joy when he felt Theresa’s breath quicken and her muscles tighten gloriously around him. He came the second she did, collapsing onto the floor next to her, afraid to open his eyes in case he discovered it was all a dream.

‘Time for a policy review, don’t you think?’ he said playfully, once he’d got his breath back. But Theresa didn’t answer.

She lay sprawled out beside him, soundly, drunkenly asleep.

‘I’m not going.’

Dita Andreas was screaming. The veins on her forehead looked as if they were about to burst through the skin, and her usually flawless, porcelain complexion had turned an ugly shade of purplish red.

‘I’m not going and nor are the children. I want a divorce!’

‘You can have a divorce,’ said Theo equably. They were sitting in a ‘private’ rooftop cabaña at the SLS hotel in Beverly Hills, although Dita’s decibel level ensured that nothing about their conversation was private. ‘Half of all my worldly goods – and debts. And good bloody luck to you.’ Just to increase Dita’s fury, he lit a cigarette. ‘As for the children, you can have Milo. But I’ll fight you for Franny and don’t think I won’t.’

Dita gasped, genuinely shocked. ‘That’s a wicked thing to say.’

‘Yeah, well, so’s “ I want a divorce ” . You’re the would-be home-wrecker here, Dita, so quit trying to make me the bad guy. I made this move for all of us, not just me. You’ll love Cambridge.’

‘Oh no I won’t. Because I’m NOT GOING!’

Theo sighed. This was getting them nowhere. ‘Look. The actual election’s not till April,’ he said, trying to make his tone more conciliatory. ‘It’s not like we have to leave tomorrow. We have time to sort out schools, find a decent house, all of that business. It’s not forever, sweetheart,’ he added, bending to kiss Dita’s flat stomach as she lay rigid on the sun lounger. That was a lie. If he got the Mastership – when he got it – it would be forever. But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. Moving his head lower, he started to peel down Dita’s Missoni bikini bottoms and felt her writhe with anticipation, her thighs parting automatically. Oddly, the worse things got between them as a couple, the more thrilling the sex seemed to become. ‘You can still fly back to LA regularly for work. We both can,’ he purred, gently parting her newly Brazilianed labia and teasing her with butterfly kisses. Dita gasped.

‘I hate you,’ she whispered, her fingers massaging Theo’s scalp and her back arching with pleasure.

Theo felt himself getting hard. ‘I hate you too.’

Maybe, in Cambridge, away from all the Hollywood craziness, he’d finally be able to break away? If nothing else, he would get rid of Dita’s entourage and decimate her spending. St Michael’s had been surprisingly flexible about accommodating his filming schedule – ‘Should you be elected, of course.’ But both the college fellows and Theo knew that that was a foregone conclusion. Theo could open doors for St Michael’s, in terms of funding and global PR, that no other candidate could possibly hope to match.

A uniformed waiter poked his head around the canvas walls of the cabaña just as Dita started to orgasm. Ever the exhibitionist, she turned and looked right at him, her pupils dilating wildly. He blushed scarlet.

‘Oh my God! I … I’m so sorry, Ms Andreas.’ He started backing out.

Theo looked up. ‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said, deadpan. ‘She loves it.’

Sasha heard the news that Theo Dexter had applied for the Mastership of St Michael’s on Christmas Day.

Home alone in her Upper East Side apartment, more depressed than she cared to admit, she was sitting at her computer, gorging herself on Fortnum & Mason mince pies from the luxury hamper she’d had delivered to herself when her thoughts turned to England and home. Remembering the conversation she’d had with her dad a few months ago about St Michael’s, she googled ‘St Michael’s Cambridge Master Election’ and there it was.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said aloud. Her first reaction was horror. It was bad enough that Theo should still be alive, never mind richer and more famous and successful than ever. But that he should go back to Cambridge, and not just to Cambridge but to St Michael’s? That he should be welcomed back into the academic and scientific fold? That was too much to bear. Sasha would have given away Ceres and every penny she’d earned to stop it from happening. But as ever, she was powerless.

Angry, frustrated and bitterly depressed, she pulled on her warmest Donna Karan cashmere coat and fur-lined boots and trudged out into the snow. I’m like Mr Scrooge, she thought, biting back her irritation as she watched smiling families building snowmen on the sidewalks, and tried not to glare openly at the elderly couple who wished her a Happy Christmas on their way home from church. I have more money than I know what to do with, but I’m miserable as sin and all alone.

Stalking past the cheery West Village store fronts with their bright holiday displays, Sasha tried not to think about Jackson and Lottie and how they were spending the day, but it was like trying to turn back the tide. She pictured them like Jim Carrey in the scene from Dumb and Dumber, in an idyllic log cabin somewhere, with Jackson in a snowflake sweater, gazing adoringly at Lottie as she sat by the fire looking wifely and blissful. She was probably pregnant already. Twins most likely, perfect, adorable little Jackson clones.

Turning the corner, she was mercifully distracted by the incongruous sight of a group of protesters. There were only ten or twelve of them, stomping their feet against the cold as they waved their homemade placards in the air, but their disgruntled faces cheered Sasha inordinately. My people. The kind of people who bitch on Christmas Day. She could have hugged them.

Crossing the street to get a better look, she saw that the placards read ‘No Condos on Holy Ground!’ and felt slightly less warmly disposed. God squadders had never been Sasha’s cup of tea, and as a real estate developer she found it hard to muster enthusiasm for the no-building brigade either. But curiosity got the better of her.

‘What’s this about?’ she asked one of the protesters, a pale, skinny girl with unfortunately prominent buckteeth.

‘They want to build apartments on that lot over there, next to the church. The city’s said they’re gonna consent, because it’s vacant land. But there are people buried there. It’s consecrated!’ She imbued the last word with as much outraged awe as her dental challenges would allow.

‘Couldn’t they move the bodies?’ asked Sasha innocently. ‘To some other consecrated ground?’

The girl looked as if she might burst into tears. ‘How would you like it, if someone dug you up and dumped you someplace else, like some hunk of garbage? What if it was your mother down there?’

Thinking privately that, as she’d be dead, she’d probably be past caring, Sasha murmured something supportive and continued on her way. It was only after she’d gone another two blocks, and was thinking about heading home for a sixth mince pie and some Vicar of Dibley DVDs, that it suddenly hit her. An idea so radical, and yet so obvious, so simple! Running back to where the protesters were standing, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a wodge of twenty-dollar bills, thrusting them into the bucktoothed girl’s bewildered hands.

‘Thank you!’ she beamed. ‘Thank you, and good luck with your campaign! And Merry Christmas!’ she added for good measure, skipping towards her apartment, her heart still racing.

‘Er … you’re welcome?’ said the girl, watching the beautiful girl in the couture coat twirl her way down the street. She was sure she recognized her from somewhere.

Back in her apartment, Sasha kicked off her boots, dropped her coat on the floor and ran to her bedroom, bouncing up and down on the bed like a five-year-old, whooping and laughing until she was out of breath.

After all these years, just like that, she’d done it.

She’d figured out a way to get her revenge on Theo Dexter.

It wouldn’t be easy, of course. Plenty of things could go wrong. But it was a chance, a plan, a window of opportunity she’d come to believe she would never be granted.

It was going to be a good Christmas after all.