money. She loved their little house in Cambridge, their battered old car, their charmed, ivory-tower life. But to have Theo’s genius recognized at last? Well, that would be amazing, wonderful and long overdue. Apart from being pregnant, she couldn’t think of a single thing she would have wanted more.
‘Are you hungry, darling?’ she asked him. ‘Shall I make us some lunch?’
‘Lunch’ meant a sandwich. Theresa loved to cook, but not when she was working. She spent ninety per cent of her time at home in this room, dubbed ‘the office’ because it had both their desks in it, but really the only proper reception room in the house. Beneath her feet, a tattered Persian rug was almost invisible beneath the mess of books, papers, mugs of cold, half-drunk tea and empty packets of custard creams (‘the thinking woman’s biscuit’ as Jenny so rightly called them). The Dexters’ home was a modest, solidly built Victorian semi, with high ceilings, bay windows, and lots of what estate agents called ‘original features’. Jenny and Jean Paul’s house next door was a carbon copy, except that theirs had had the benefit of Jenny’s design flair, so the grand old fireplaces and thick white cornicing looked impressive, whereas Theresa’s just looked – what was the word? – ah yes. Filthy. In the past Theo had moaned constantly about the un-Cath-Kidston-ness of their kitchen and what he impolitely referred to as Theresa’s ‘dyslaundria’ (he never seemed to notice his own). But these days Theresa could do no wrong.
‘I’d love to eat with you, T,’ he said, typing the last few words with a flourish and snapping shut his computer. ‘But sadly, I can’t. Big meeting today. Massive.’ Scooping up his laptop and papers, he came over and kissed her on the lips. Seconds later he was out the front door.
He’s like a cyclone, thought Theresa. A happiness cyclone.
She wondered what the big meeting was, and hoped it went well. But it would go well. Of course it would. Theo was on a roll.
I’ve done it, Ed. I’ve bloody done it.’ Theo Dexter triumphantly slammed a thick, bound manuscript down on the table. ‘Read it and weep, my friend. Tears of joy for all the money we’re going to make!’
Ed Gilliam was a literary agent, the biggest name in the huge ‘popular science’ market. A short, unprepossessing man in his mid fifties with thinning red hair and a high-pitched, nasal voice, it was Ed Gilliam who had helped make Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time brief: hence accessible to laymen; hence one of the highest-grossing books of the twentieth century in any genre, never mind science. These days Gilliam wasn’t just about books. He had a finger in every pie, from TV to film to new media. Ed Gilliam had been interested in Theo Dexter since they first met at an MIT symposium in America six years ago. The kid was bright, charismatic, and with those blond, preppy good looks of his he’d be wildly telegenic – rare qualities indeed in a scientist. All Theo needed was some substance. An idea, a book, anything that Ed could use to launch him onto the unsuspecting public. A sort of Steve Irwin for nerds.
For six years, Theo had been promising to deliver. Now, just when Gilliam had begun to despair of ever making any money from him – by forty, Dexter would be losing his hair and spreading round the middle and the game would be up – Theo had called in high excitement, summoning him to Cambridge.
‘This had better be good, Theo.’ Gilliam’s high-pitched, child’s voice quivered with irritation. T’m not in the habit of making day trips. Why can’t you come to London?’
‘Because I’m still working on it and I need to be here. It is good, Ed. I’m emailing you a rough draft now.’
He was right. It was good. Better than good. Ed Gilliam was not a physicist himself, but if Theo Dexter really had proved what he claimed to have proved in this document…this could be as big as Hawking. Bigger.
Ed flipped through the manuscript as he sipped his white wine.
‘Who else has seen the material?’
‘No one. You, me…’ Theo hesitated.
‘And?’
Theo picked the crust off a warm piece of bread. T showed pieces of it to a student of mine. A girl. She…we’ve talked through some of the concepts together.’
‘I see. Anyone else?’
‘Well, my wife. But she can’t understand a word of it, it’s way over her head.’ Theo laughed dismissively
‘Good,’ said Ed. ‘From now on, don’t show this to anyone and don’t discuss it with a soul. If I’m going to try to put together a multi-platform deal, I’m going to need complete control.’
‘Multi-platform?’ Theo was salivating. ‘You mean TV?’
‘Of course. Book deal. TV. The works. We’ll start with a simple press release in the New Scientist. Let the idea build up some steam amongst your fellow eggheads. Then, when the scientific community’s behind you, we take it mainstream: you’re on the news channels. Once the commissioning editors at Sky and ITV get a good look at that pretty face of yours you’ll be beating off offers with a stick, I promise you.’
‘Here’s hoping…’ Theo ordered a petit filet and green salad – expensive, as befitting his soon-to-be new lifestyle, but mindful of his six-pack. Ed went for spaghetti vongole, which he drank noisily whilst outlining his action plan to his client.
‘You need to come to London as soon as possible. Tomorrow, if you can swing it. I’ll get you in front of our intellectual property lawyers.’
‘Lawyers?’ For the first time since they sat down Theo’s shit-eating grin began to fade. ‘Is that really necessary?’
‘It’s a formality’ slurped Ed, garlicky clam juice dribbling down his receding chin. ‘But yeah, it is necessary, especially in this case. You know what it’s like with ideas. Some people only have to read them once to think that they came up with them in the first place.’ He laughed. ‘This is your theory, Theo. We need to make that iron clad from the get go.’
‘Right. Of course.’
Theo felt a momentary stab of guilt, but quickly banished it from his mind. In the two weeks since Sasha had first showed him her theory, he’d worked on it so tirelessly and with such all-consuming passion, correcting even the tiniest errors, improving and polishing the text until it flowed like molten gold, that he’d almost come to believe it really was his work. Yes, Sasha had produced the original spark that inspired him – a spark that his teaching had so patiently nurtured and encouraged in her. But it was he, Theo Dexter, who had transformed that spark into this: a volcanic eruption of genius that had Ed Gilliam sitting across the table, eating out of his hands.
This is your theory, Theo. We need to make that iron clad. And they would. Ed Gilliam’s fleet of top lawyers would protect him. They’d know what to do if Sasha got nasty. But she wouldn’t, would she?
Just at that moment, Theo’s phone buzzed to life on the table. He grabbed it, read the text and quickly deleted it.
‘Nothing important, I hope?’ asked Ed.
‘No. Go on.’
Ed did, but Theo was beginning to find it hard to concentrate. The text was from Sasha, her third today. Even without the added pressure of the theory (mentally Theo had stopped referring to it as Sasha’s theory) strains in the affair were starting to show. In the beginning Sasha had been wonderful, adoring in the way that only very young women ever were. The sex had been incredible too. That combination of innocence, desire and total malleability were a huge aphrodisiac, especially for an ego as rampant but fragile as Theo’s. But as time wore on the dynamic between them inevitably shifted. Sasha might be young but she was far from stupid. Recently she’d started to question him more and more about Theresa, the state of his marriage and the future – their future. It had reached the point where Theo had been actively looking forward to the summer break. Not that he wanted to end things with Sasha. At least, not until a more attractive prospect came along. But the last thing he needed in his