said Sasha.
‘Oh, cut the Pollyanna crap, would you,’ Jackson shot back. ‘The rest of them might not see through you, but I do. Hiring you was the worst decision I ever made.’
‘Why? Because now you have to interact with one woman who doesn’t think you’re God’s gift? Anyone else would be pleased I salvaged that deal.’
‘It’s because of you that it needed salvaging!’ snapped Jackson. ‘You get to keep your job. For now. But you will have no further part in this joint venture.’
‘You can’t do that!’ Sasha flushed with indignation. ‘I worked my arse off on that deal.’
‘I can do whatever I like. This is my company,’ said Jackson. ‘And I don’t want to work with you. The sooner you get that through that thick, feminist skull of yours the better.’ He looked at her, and for a moment Sasha saw a flash of genuine pity in his eyes. ‘You know, whoever the guy was who did a number on you? He really screwed you up.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Sasha blushed.
‘Sure you do,’ said Jackson. ‘Some guy broke your heart and you’ve never gotten over it. Well guess what, sweetheart? It wasn’t me. Maybe if you pulled your pretty head out of your ass some time, you’d realize that.’
After he walked away, Sasha stood by the water cooler, shaking.
She ought to feel happy. Morgan Graham had caved, without her having to sleep with him. She would keep her job. She would keep her bonus. But Jackson’s words stuck in her heart like a flick knife. ‘Some guy broke your heart and you’ve never gotten over it.’
He thinks I’m a victim.
Jackson’s anger she could take. In some twisted way, she even enjoyed it. But his pity? That was unbearable. Even more unbearable was the fact that he was right. Everything came back to Theo Dexter in the end. Until she made Theo suffer, as she had suffered, she would never be able to move on. But the truth was she still had no idea how to do it.
Sasha was lost.
And Jackson Dupree knew it.
‘And ease forward into the downward dog.’
The yoga teacher’s voice wafted mellifluously through the light-filled room. Theresa Dexter stuck her bottom in the air and thought that ‘ease’ was probably not the word she would have chosen. Yoga was about as much fun as having root-canal work. She couldn’t understand why everyone kept smiling.
‘Breathe. Find your centre.’
My centre. Presumably that’s somewhere under all the rolling layers of fat?
It was the Make-A-Wish ball that had prompted Theresa to sign up for the torturous Ashtanga class at Maha Yoga in Brentwood. She left the house that night feeling like a million dollars, then realized that, even at her best, she was still an appalling blubbery heifer compared to every other woman in Los Angeles. Her depression was compounded by a visit to Dr Yeardly’s office the following morning. Stanford Yeardly was the top fertility specialist in Beverly Hills and he’d spoken to Theresa sharply about what he called her ‘lifestyle choices’. She could hear his disapproving, headmasterly voice now as she contorted her limbs into the even more torturous plough pose.
‘I’m struggling to understand why anyone who’s serious about having a baby is still drinking,’ he looked down at his notes, ‘two to three units of alcohol a day, and taking zero exercise.’
Because they’re homesick, lonely and depressed, their husband’s too busy fucking around to come home at night and if it weren’t for the double gin and tonic at six o’clock, they’d probably have jumped out of a window two years ago? thought Theresa. Out loud she mumbled something about work pressure and promised to join a gym. Not that it mattered. Since starting yoga again four weeks ago, Theo hadn’t come near her sexually. Short of an immaculate conception, there would be no baby, however many early nights she had or wheatgrass shots she gagged on.
‘Hold on to that strength now as we move into plank pose.’
Theresa’s upper arms began to shake. She could feel a collective sneer from the limber, flat-bellied blondes all around her. It’s not just for a baby. It’s for Theo. And for me. If I don’t get a grip soon I’ll lose him.
Tomorrow morning Theo was leaving for a promotional tour in Asia. He’d be gone for almost three weeks, signing books, making public appearances, and trying to sell Dexter’s Universe’s third season to all the major networks in China and Singapore. To Theresa’s utter amazement and joy, he was also going to visit two orphanages in Singapore, having done a complete about-turn on the idea of adoption.
‘Maybe we should consider it,’ he said one morning at breakfast, out of the blue, pouring skimmed milk over a half bowl of Kashi GoLean cereal. Theresa almost choked on her bacon sandwich.
‘Really?’
‘Sure. Ed thinks I need to soften my image, particularly in the Far East. I mean, I wouldn’t want to go crazy and adopt an entire Benetton advertisement. But one kid … you could cope with one kid, couldn’t you?’
It wasn’t exactly the romantic outpouring of paternal love Theresa had fantasized about. But she still danced onto campus that morning. He wants a child! He wants a child with me! Surely, Theo wouldn’t have brought up adoption if he were contemplating divorce? It wasn’t too late after all.
The Asia tour was three weeks long. If she went on a properly hard-core, crash diet, laid off the booze and went to yoga every single day, Theresa reckoned she could lose a stone in that time and tone herself up. By the time Theo came home she’d be a new woman. He would have met an orphan child and fallen in love. Harry Meister’s words still rang in Theresa’s ears: ‘Get pregnant. Give them a family and they soon settle down.’ She couldn’t get pregnant. But she could give Theo a family. When he sees what a loving, devoted mother I’ll be, he’ll fall in love with me all over again.
Dita Andreas looked at the clock on her dashboard: 12.55 p.m. She should have been on set over an hour ago. Carl Sams, the director of Lies, Dita’s latest blockbuster, (not to mention her sometime lover) would be spitting teeth. But that was no bad thing. Recently, Carl seemed to have got it into his head that he was Dita’s boss. Dita checked her flawless make-up in the rear-view mirror of her vintage Aston Martin and thought, I’m the star of this picture. It’s about time somebody reminded Mr Sams of that fact.
Not that today was about Carl. Carl Sams was an afterthought. Even more of an afterthought than Brett Graham, Dita’s soon-to-be-ex-husband and the director of her last film, Heaven’s Gate. Note to self, thought Dita, stop sleeping with all your directors. Or at least stop marrying them. Dita’s passion for matrimony was proving to be one of her more expensive hobbies. Her divorce attorney, Lorna McIntyre, had become one of her closest friends. Lorna had told her in no uncertain terms that her divorce from Brett would be the most costly yet. ‘He’ll go for the house, Deets. You do realize that?’
‘I don’t care,’ Dita shrugged. ‘He can have it. All I want is my freedom.’
It was unlike her to be so devil-may-care, at least when it came to money. Born to working-class parents in Detroit, the youngest of four children and the only daughter, Dita Andreas knew what it meant to be poor. Sure, she had always had a roof over her head and food on the table. But there were never any luxuries in the Andreas household. No brand-name sneakers, no hired limos on prom night, no out-of-state vacations. No vacations at all. Dita’s parents were good people who worked their fingers to the bone to provide for their kids. Dita loved them, but did not understand their choices, especially her mother’s.
‘But you’re beautiful, Mom,’ Dita used to tell her, watching her mother