Free Scandalous by Tilly Bagshawe Page A

apparently, had another miracle in store for the Dexters. Two weeks ago to the day, Theo had come home in tearing spirits, bursting through the front door like Rhett Butler and scooping Theresa up into his arms.
    “What on earth is it?” She giggled. “Have we won the lottery?”
    “Yes.” He laughed. “In a way we have. Well,
I
have. But I’ll be happy to share my winnings with you, darling.”
    Theo had come up with a theory—he tried to explain it to her, but it was all way over Theresa’s head, something about planets and the birth of the universe and quantum something-or-other. Anyway the point was it was clearly brilliant, Theo had thought of it, and he seemed to think it had potential not just to boost his career, but quite possibly to make them a lot of money into the bargain.
    Theresa couldn’t have cared less about the 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 90 percent of her time at home in this room, dubbed “the office” because it had both their desks in it, but it was 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 real 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-Martha-Stewart-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 midfifties 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