was, it turned out, conveniently situated directly opposite the UCLA campus. As Theo and Theresa’s car weaved 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 and snog 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 at home. Since they 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 piles or both, wore shoes with holes to match their socks and held their trousers up with string. At UCLA, the teachers all looked like newsreaders, 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 cut-throat 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 rumour 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, with 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 Cnut 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 make-up 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, Hervé Léger 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 a couple of stone, at least. But the floor-length, silver Elie Saab dress she was wearing flattered her figure, making her look womanly rather