between her ear and her shoulder, clutching the most enormous stack of essays escaping from an elastic band. Not only had the first stray papers made a break for freedom, but as the wind picked up, they began to dance around the front garden, taunting Theresa. Two sheets were heading dangerously close to the road. ‘I’m sorry, Ma. I’ll have to call you back. Somebody’s dissertation is about to get run over by the Madingley bus.’
Dressed inappropriately for the chilly weather in a floaty summer skirt and one of Theo’s old shirts, with her tangled mane of pre-Raphaelite curls held precariously in place by a pencil, Theresa dropped everything on the doorstep and began running after the errant essay papers, like an over excited puppy chasing a butterfly.
‘You all right, T? Can I help?’
Jenny Aubrieau, Theresa’s next-door neighbour and closest friend in Cambridge, stuck her head over the gate. Jenny was an English scholar, like Theresa, and was married to Jean Paul, a research fellow at Jesus. Jean Paul was always urging Jenny to tell Theresa the truth about her philandering husband – Theo Dexter’s extra-curricular love life was the worst-kept secret in the university – but Jenny couldn’t bring herself to do it. For one thing they hung out as couples, which made the whole situation doubly awkward. But more importantly, Theresa was so madly, blindly in love with Theo, the truth would destroy her. Besides, maybe Theo would come to his senses and get over his mid-life crisis soon. Jenny Aubrieau hoped so.
‘No, I’m all right,’ said a flustered Theresa. ‘Actually, yes. Grab that one. That one, that one, that one! Oh God.’ A single, handwritten sheet flew over the garden gate and dived directly beneath the wheels of an oncoming car. Seconds later more muddy tyres pounded it into oblivion.
‘Not the next Shakespeare, I hope?’ Jenny helped Theresa retie the remaining papers and carry them out to her car.
‘I very much doubt it,’ sighed Theresa. ‘Still, it’s not very professional, is it? Sorry, what’s-your-name, I threw your essay under a car. We’ll call it a 2:1, shall we, and better luck next time? God, I hate teaching.’
‘No you don’t.’ Jenny chucked the files on the back seat of Theresa’s Beetle and stood back to wave her off.
‘I bloody do. All I want is to be left alone to write.’
‘Drink after work? I have to put Amélie and Ben down at seven, but I’m free after that if you are.’ Jenny still felt awkward talking about her children in front of Theresa. She knew how desperately her friend wanted kids. Each pregnancy felt like a betrayal. But there came a point when not talking about them felt even more awkward. Particularly as these days Jenny’s every waking hour seemed to revolve around the little sods.
‘I can’t. Not tonight. Theo’s taking me out for dinner at the University Arms hotel. It’s a start-of-term celebration.’
Jenny Aubrieau watched her friend drive happily away and thought, I wonder what the bastard’s feeling guilty about this time?
Nobody was more surprised when Theo Dexter asked Theresa O’Connor to marry him than Theresa O’Connor herself. Born into a dirt-poor Irish farming family in County Antrim, Theresa had always been a dreamer. A hopeless romantic who couldn’t help but see the good in everyone, she appeared to have nothing in common with the worldly, ambitious, self-confident young Englishman whom she first met at a friend’s wedding in Dublin five years ago. Nor could she believe that anyone as handsome and brilliant as Theodore Dexter, by then already in his last year at MIT and sporting a mid-Atlantic accent as fake as his gold Rolex, would be interested in her. Theresa had always considered her life to be an endless series of lucky accidents – the acceptance into grammar school and later to Cambridge; her starred first in English literature; and now her soon-to-be marriage to the most eligible man in academia. She never believed herself worthy of the wonderful things that kept happening to her. Still less could she accept that she herself was responsible for them.
But Theo Dexter did love Theresa. He loved her wild, Celtic beauty, her white skin and fiery red hair. She was artistic and sensitive, two qualities that he utterly lacked, but was capable of admiring in others, particularly women. She was passionate, terrific in bed and, most important of all, she worshipped the ground he walked on. Other physicists might be reluctant to take Theo Dexter seriously, but Theresa O’Connor was never in any doubt as to his genius. Sleeping with her, just being around her, was like plugging himself in to an inexhaustible ego-recharger. Those who thought that Theo Dexter’s ego couldn’t possibly need recharging did not really know the man. His arrogance and his insecurity had always gone hand in hand.
They were married in Cambridge, in the ancient Holy Trinity Church on Bridge Street. Theo would have liked a more lavish affair, but they couldn’t afford it. Theresa would have been happy in a register office in Slough, so great was her joy at becoming Mrs Dexter. She wore a plain white dress from Next for the service, teamed with flat ballet slippers (Theo hated her in heels; they made him look short). Despite her simple attire, or perhaps because of it, the bride couldn’t have looked more radiant. At the reception, a simple affair at the Regent hotel, Theo’s best man, Robert, made a joke about how much the happy couple had in common.
‘Theresa loves Theo. And Theo loves Theo. They’re a perfect match!’ Theo laughed thinly, but the rest of the guests roared. ‘The only two people in Cambridge who think Theo’s cleverer than Theresa are Theo and Theresa.’ More laughter. ‘Here’s hoping the kids have Mum’s looks and Mum’s brains.’
Theo thought: Note to self: Drop Robert Hammond as a friend.
Theresa thought: I wonder how long it’ll be before I get pregnant?
‘Polycystic ovaries.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Poly – cystic – ovaries.’ Dr Thomas, Theresa’s Harley Street consultant, sounded irritated. A gruff, bullying man in his sixties with overgrown caterpillar eyebrows and a pink bow tie, Dr Thomas was a brilliant gynaecologist. But he had the bedside manner of a Stalinist general. ‘Your ovaries produce fewer eggs. In addition, in your particular case, the quality of those eggs you do produce is extremely poor.’
‘I see.’ Theresa bit her lower lip hard, trying not to cry. My life is perfect. What right do I have to blub over one tiny setback?
‘So what do we do from here? IVF? Donor eggs? What’s the next step?’ Theo spoke brusquely, trying to sound in control. Deep down he was overwhelmed with relief that the problem wasn’t on his side. Not that he wanted kids, far from it. But no man liked the idea that they were shooting blanks.
‘I would give IVF a very low chance of success in your wife’s case.’
Theresa swallowed. ‘But there is some chance?’
‘Less than five per cent. You’d be wasting your time,’ said Dr Thomas brutally. Despite herself, Theresa felt her eyes well up with tears.
Theo asked, ‘We can still try naturally, though, can’t we?’
‘You can try.’ Dr Thomas shrugged. ‘Otherwise I would steer you towards considering adoption.’
Theresa’s eyes lit up, but Theo shook his head firmly.
‘No. Not for us, thank you, Doctor. I’ve no interest in raising another man’s mistake.’
On the long drive back to Cambridge, Theresa stared out of the car window in silent misery. As always in times of trouble, her mind turned to Shakespeare:
‘The miserable have no other medicine but only hope.’
I will not give up hope. I will keep trying.
She’d been disappointed by Theo’s hostility to the idea of adoption. But then why shouldn’t he want a child of his own? After all, she did. It was her fault they couldn’t conceive, not poor Theo’s. Suddenly she was seized with panic. What if he left her? What if he left her because she couldn’t have children?
‘Of