“You’re wasting your time over here, Theo. We need to take you to America. Start flirting with the big boys, NBC, CBS. Unless of course you’re happy to end your career as a guest DJ for Radio 2.”
The Dexters’ “Good-bye to Cambridge” party was filled with enough celebrities to warrant a full page in the Daily Mail and a six-page photo special in Hello! magazine. Theo looked blonder and more glamorous than ever, his newly streaked hair perfectly offsetting the blue linen of his Paul Smith suit. Theresa, swollen-eyed from crying, stood beside him in an orange Next maxi dress that did nothing for her figure, a lone ugly duckling amid the twenty-something TV presenters in their Luella minidresses and Vivienne Westwood boots.
“For God’s sake, cheer up, T,” Theo snapped at her between photo calls. “Anyone would think I was dragging you to Beirut, not Bel Air.”
He was right, of course. LA would be an amazing opportunity. Theresa already had a teaching job lined up at UCLA that paid three times what she was earning now, and a grant to continue her Shakespeare research. Just because Los Angeles didn’t have thousand-year-old libraries, or original Shakespeare folios, or churches with entombed medieval knights, or dry-stone walls, or Christmas carols in King’s College Chapel…she started to cry again.
They flew out first class on Virgin. That part was fun. Theresa got tipsy on free champagne and blubbered loudly watching chick flicks on her personal in-flight movie screen, in between stuffing her face with warmed (warmed!) cashew nuts. Theo, doing his best to look like a world-weary, regular first-class traveler, put in his earplugs and pretended to go to sleep. He longed to make his bed go flat so he could rest properly, but didn’t want the sexy Asian stewardess to think he didn’t know how to operate the seat. As a result, by the time they landed at LAX, Theo was tired and irritable and Theresa badly hungover. It took them an hour to hire a rental car and another two to reach their rented property in Bel Air, thanks to traffic on the 405 and Theresa’s poor map-reading skills. On first impression LA seemed to be little more than a giant network of freeways, vast, supersized eight-lane roads endlessly intersecting beneath a flawless blue sky. It’s hideous, thought Theresa bleakly. It wasn’t until they reached Sunset Boulevard that the city began to look more like the tourist brochures. Tall, skinny palm trees swayed regally above them, and on both sides of the road, immaculately manicured mansions vied to outdo each other in the conspicuous consumption stakes. The West Gate of Bel Air was, it turned out, conveniently situated directly opposite the UCLA campus. As Theo and Theresa’s car wove its way up the hillside into the confusing maze of streets—Chalon, Somera, Roscomare, back to Chalon—the properties seemed to become more and more sumptuous. Theresa spotted two with what looked like gold-plated gates and one that appeared to be an exact replica of the Disneyland castle. When they finally arrived at the address they’d been given, they both thought it was the wrong house.
“This can’t be it,” gasped Theresa. “It’s enormous. It looks like the Ritz Carlton.” But a telephone call to Ed Gilliam confirmed that the sprawling French country mansion was indeed “home.”
“Welcome to the big time, Theo. Now get some sleep, for God’s sake. You’ve got a meeting at NBC at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Six months’ rent is paid, but if you want to stay there longer than that, you’re going to have to start earning.”
And Theo did. Within three weeks, the contracts were inked on his new American science series, Dexter’s Universe. The combination of his unquestioned genius as a physicist, his telegenic looks, and best of all, his panty-melting British accent, had the commissioning editors at NBC salivating with excitement. People magazine gave Dexter’s Universe’s pilot episode a five-star review, dubbing Theo “Brad Pitt with Brains.” Theo was ecstatic. It sure beat “Science’s answer to Alan Titchmarsh.” He celebrated by going out to Hyde, Hollywood’s hottest nightclub, and getting off very publicly with Molly Meyer, the nineteen-year-old star of Disney’s latest hit show, What Molly Did Next. The following week, the pictures were all over US Weekly. Theresa was horrified, but Theo was unapologetic.
“You were the one who didn’t want to come out with me.”
“I was working! I had fifteen papers to mark that night! Besides, does that give you the right to go make out with whoever you like? Look at her. You’re old enough to be her father.”
“I can’t help it if young women are attracted to me,” said Theo, crossly. “Anyway it was only a kiss. Stop overreacting.”
Theresa thought, Am I overreacting? Countless people had warned her that Theo being on network television would mean him getting a lot of unwanted attention. Lisa Jay, the wife of Howard Jay, Dexter’s Universe’s executive producer, told Theresa over dinner, “You need the hide of a rhino to survive in this town. Women here are shameless. They’ll throw themselves at your husband right in front of you. I get it with Howard all the time.” Theresa looked over at the five-foot, bald figure of Howard Jay as he slurped his soup and tried to picture him being hounded by Hollywood hotties. “As long as you and Theo trust each other. That’s the key.” Lisa smiled.
Since the affair with Sasha Miller, Theresa had worked hard to rebuild her trust in her husband. In the immediate aftermath, it was easy. Theo was remorseful and grateful and had made a real effort to get things back on track between them. But as the months went by and his fame and confidence grew, things began to change. Theo spent more and more time shooting on location, or at the studio, and less and less time at home. Since they’d moved to LA, being at work meant being surrounded by model-perfect women 24/7. Researchers, PR girls, stylists, every single one of them seemed to Theresa to have walked off the pages of Sports Illustrated. Even at UCLA, where Theo taught one day a week to keep his “hand in” and his academic credentials current, his students all looked like cheerleaders.
What happened to all the nerds? Theresa wondered. Were they exterminated at birth? Or sent to some secret farm of shame beyond the borders of Southern California? It was the same story with the staff as with the students. At Cambridge, most professors rode knackered old bicycles, had arthritis or hemorrhoids or both, wore shoes with holes to match their socks, and held their trousers up with string. At UCLA, the teachers all looked like newscasters, rich, shiny, and as polished as their expensive sports cars. Worse still was the faux, have-a-nice-day friendliness. Everyone on campus sucked up to Theresa because she was Theo Dexter’s wife. But even after a year working there, there was no one whom Theresa could confide in or share a laugh with the way she used to with Jenny and Jean Paul or her colleagues in the English faculty at Cambridge. Nor was she buffered by the cocoon of protective silence that had kept her in the dark about Theo’s affairs back home. Cambridge was like a giant family. People were kind and tactful and discreet. UCLA was the opposite, sleek and cutthroat and riven with politics, like a corporation. Here, no one shielded Theresa from the gossip about Theo’s philandering. Eventually it reached a point where even Theresa could no longer ignore it. Theo was sleeping with every good-looking woman who crossed his path: students, colleagues at work, waitresses, models, air stewardesses (on his long trips to promote Dexter’s Universe in Europe and Asia), fans, journalists. When she challenged him about a specific rumor he would either deny the liaison outright or turn things around to try to blame his wandering eye on Theresa. She was unsupportive. She was miserable. She embarrassed him with her frumpy clothes. She never made an effort. Depressed, lonely, and demoralized, Theresa had started comfort eating, and drinking, knocking back her first strong gin and tonic the second the clock struck six each night. By the end of their second year in LA, she had gained almost forty pounds.
“Dr. Dexter!”
Theresa spun around. She’d finally been awarded her doctorate six months ago. It still felt strange, and gratifying, when people referred to her by her new title.
“Do you have a second?” Theresa recognized the girl from her seminar on As You Like It. Even by UCLA standards she was strikingly beautiful, wi
th flawless, dark Persian skin and an oil slick of lustrous black hair, like Aladdin’s Princess Jasmine.
“Of course,” Theresa said kindly. Shakespeare’s comedies were more complex than many scholars gave them credit for. Theresa always enjoyed leading a new generation of students through their mysteries. “How can I help?”
The girl blushed. “Actually, I was kinda hoping you would give this to Theo…Professor Dexter for me. It’s a copy of my résumé. He said he might be able to put in a word for me about an internship at the studio?”
Theresa thought, Why do American girls insist on pronouncing every statement as if it were a question? Then she thought, I wonder if Theo’s already slept with her?
“Sure.” She took the résumé, not knowing what else to do. “I’ll pass it along.”
Driving home in the expensive car Theo had bought for her—how she missed her old Beetle!—Theresa fought back depression like King Canute fighting back the waves. Tonight was the Make-A-Wish charity fundraiser at the Beverly Hills Hotel, one of the most glamorous social events in the Hollywood calendar. For once, Theo had insisted Theresa go with him. “It’s a family event. People will expect to see you there. But do please try to make an effort. All sorts of bigwigs from our sponsors are going to be there. I need to look credible.”
“Credible” was Theo’s latest buzzword. Theresa wondered, Credible to whom, and for what? She failed to see how squeezing her fat rolls into a Spanx bodysuit and plastering on the makeup was going to make the slightest difference to Theo’s career. Especially as, no matter how hard she tried, she could never hope to compete with the size zero, Herve Leger shrink-wrapped bimbos that thronged to events like these.
But I must try. I must. He’s only running around with other women because I always look such a fright. Passing a hair salon in Brentwood that had “Walk Ins Welcome” embossed in cheery red paint across the front window, Theresa pulled over.
Theo leaned on his horn. “Bloody traffic,” he moaned. “This city is ridiculous. It’s seven at night and you still can’t move on bloody Sunset.” He beeped again, setting off an echo of irritated replies from the cars in front of them.
“Try to keep calm, darling,” said Theresa. “We’re only five minutes late.”
Theo looked over at the passenger seat. Theresa, for once, looked half decent tonight. She could still stand to lose twenty pounds, at least. But the floor-length, silver Elie Saab dress she was wearing flattered her figure, making her look womanly rather than fat and showcasing her undeniably marvelous (and natural) cleavage. Her red hair was swept into a sixties-inspired updo, a look that was topped off with thick, black Marilyn Monroe eyeliner. All in all the effect was a satisfactorily fifties sex-siren. I might even screw her tonight, Theo thought idly. God knows it’s been awhile.
He was in a bad mood thanks to an e-mail he’d received that afternoon from the editor at the New Scientist, politely but firmly rejecting his offer to write a regular column on the changing face of physics. The little dweeb had had the temerity to imply that Theo’s academic credentials weren’t lofty enough for his shitty, second-rate magazine. “It’s an amazingly generous offer, Professor Dexter, especially from a figure as high profile and, I don’t doubt, busy as yourself. But our readership is primarily research scientists, working in the field. I’m sure you’ll understand that their needs and interests are very different from your audience’s. As editor, I need to be mindful of that.”
“Mindful.” Pretentious little turd. So because I’m on television, all of a sudden I’m not a “proper” scientist? Not “cutting edge” enough for your readership of losers and nerds, because my research has been published and feted around the world and theirs hasn’t?
Theo adored LA. He adored everything about working in television: the fame, the money, the travel, the hot girls falling over themselves to bed him. But it still irked him that his fellow physicists refused to take him seriously. As he’d told the interviewer from Men’s Vogue only this morning (right after stressing how important it was for men in the public eye to make brave fashion choices): the scientific community was deeply unforgiving of commercial success.
Theo was still moaning to Theresa as they pulled into valet parking. “I wonder what that up-himself editor would give to be attending an event like this? He’d probably have to hock his apartment just to buy a ticket. Twat.”
“Hmmm.” Theresa wasn’t really listening. She was watching all the size-zero twenty-two-year-olds unfurling themselves from the backs of limousines. Twenty minutes ago she’d felt beautiful, sexy, and on top of her game. Now she felt old and fat and…
“Theo! Darling! I didn’t know you were gonna be here. That’s so awesome.” A brunette in a gold Dolce & Gabanna micro-mini, whom Theresa had never seen before, jumped on Theo as he got out of the car, draping her arms around his neck and kissing him on the lips. Theresa looked at the girl’s pin-thin legs and thought, My right breast weighs more than you.
“Oh. Hi. You must be Theo’s…wife?” The girl looked at Theresa as one might look at a mangy dog, her face torn between pity and disgust.
“That’s right.” And you must be…one of the sluts who work for him? “And you are…?”
“Camille. Theo and I are colleagues. This is my boyfriend, David. He’s a producer.”
Theresa only just managed not to laugh. From behind the gazelle-like Camille, a fat dwarf of a man waddled over to shake hands. A foot shorter than his date, and a minimum of three decades older, David still managed to stick his chest out and preen as if he were Steven Tyler. Walking up the stone steps into the famously pink kitsch hotel, Theresa leaned into Theo and giggled. “Poor man! Talk about Beauty and the Beast. I suppose there’s no fool like an old fool.”
“David Weinberg is nobody’s fool,” said Theo pompously. “He’s one of the highest-paid TV producers in the world. He’s the brains behind Teen Queen Wrestling and Celebrity Surgery Face-Off. You shouldn’t be so quick to judge people by their looks, you know, T.”
“Me?” Theresa spluttered. But Theo was gone, air-kissing another gaggle of preposterously pretty girls as he worked his way through the crowd. Knowing no one and feeling homesick and depressed—she’d made a titanic effort to look her best tonight, but what was the point?—Theresa did what any sensible Irish girl would do. She headed to the bar.
“What can I get you? Watermelon vodka? Sour apple martini? Sex on the Beach?”
“Whisky. No ice, no water.”
She downed the first drink, then a second and third. Instantly the room became a little hazy, as if she were watching the party through a lens and someone had smeared it with Vaseline. So this was it, the long-awaited Make-A-Wish Ball. I’m making a wish: I wish I were at home, listening to Classic FM on my computer. I wish I were thirty pounds lighter. I wish I could make Theo fall in love with me again.
“Would everybody please take your seats for dinner.”
Dinner was served in the hotel’s famous art deco Crystal Ballroom. Above Theresa’s head a lavish chandelier twinkled over the pink and white tables, where Hollywood’s elite sat sipping soda water and nibbling halfheartedly on plates of tuna tartare. “I feel like I’m at a Katy Perry show,” Theresa joked to Theo. “There are enough sequins in this room to make Liberace wince.” Once upon a time Theo had shared her irreverent sense of humor. No longer. Since moving to LA, he seemed to have had his appreciation of the absurd surgically removed.
“Don’t be facetious,” he hissed at her. “Who’s that on table nineteen? The woman everyone’s crowding around?”
Theresa looked. She didn’t recognize anybody.
“That’s Dita Andreas,” said the girl on Theo’s left. “Her new movie, Heaven’s Gate, just had the biggest September opening weekend on record. Variety’s calling her the new Angelina.”
It wasn’t a soubriquet that Theo would have picked. If anything, Dita Andreas looked more like an older, more womanly version of Scarlett Johansson, though she did share Angelina??
?s trademark full-lipped pout. Her simple, black L’Wren Scott sheath and Neil Lane diamond drop earrings contrasted dramatically with her pale coloring. Blonde and sultry, with unfashionably fair skin and bloodred lips, she was not the most beautiful woman in the room. But she exuded sexuality like a cat in heat, and she had that something, charisma, star quality, whatever you wanted to call it, that eclipsed all the younger, taller, more regular-featured girls surrounding her.
“Is she married?” Theo asked bluntly.
“Theo!” Theresa blushed.
“Uh-huh. Newlywed,” said the girl on his left. “To Brett Graham, the director on Heaven’s Gate. He’s her fourth husband. Dita collects husbands the way Angelina collects orphans. Doesn’t keep ’em as long, though.” The girl laughed.
Theo stared across the room at Dita. He wasn’t alone. The entire party seemed to be fixated on her. But some sixth sense made Dita look up and notice him.