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