was gone and she was rolling down the hill, early-evening light dappling the windscreen as she sped past palm trees and mansions and manicured lawns and sprinklers. She didn’t even see the stop sign.
The driver of the big rig slammed on his brakes but it was too late. Swerving wildly all over the road he saw a second’s flash of black as Theresa’s car disappeared beneath his wheels. He felt the sickening crunch of metal. Then his head slammed into the dashboard and everything went black.
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