Scandalous (6 page)

For Sasha, the highlight of her first week was the tour of the Cavendish laboratory. Possibly the ugliest building in England, and certainly the ugliest in Cambridge, to Sasha Miller it was the most mesmerizing thing she had ever seen. This was where the magic happened! This was the Emerald City of Oz. The third-year physicist from Magdalene who showed her around didn’t appear to share Sasha’s enthusiasm. A skinny, greasy-haired boy with a Birmingham accent and acne so severe that he was more spot than face, he led Sasha from room to room with a look of pained ennui.
Doesn’t he realize that we’re standing on the frontier of experimental physics? That we’re walking in the shadows of the great Cavendish professors, of Maxwell and Thompson, Bragg and Mott?
Sasha couldn’t wait to call Will tonight and tell him all about it.

They emerged into the daylight—to Sasha’s regret and her guide’s relief, the tour was over—and Sasha noticed an extraordinarily good-looking blond man surrounded by an admiring throng of female undergraduates.

“Who’s that?”

“Professor Dexter.” The boy’s Brummie accent made him sound even more bored. “Fancy him, do yow?”

Sasha blushed. “Don’t be so ridiculous. I wondered what the fuss was about, that’s all. The man’s being mobbed.”

“Well. You’ll find out for yerself soon enough, won’t yow?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re at St. Michael’s?”

Sasha nodded.

“So’s he. Physics fellow. He’ll be your director of studies.”

Sasha looked at the man again—what she could make out of him through the herd of miniskirts and skinny jeans.
He looks
very young to be a fellow. I hope he knows what he’s talking about.
How awful it would be to have made it to Cambridge only to be taught physics by someone second-rate. Still, one shouldn’t judge by appearances. Lots of people thought Will was a standard-issue, shallow, rugby-obsessed, public school boy when they first met him.

Which only went to show how wrong first impressions could be.

Professor Theo Dexter sat in his rooms at St. Michael’s hunched over his computer in a foul mood. Last week’s optimism about the new term already felt like a distant memory. So far, this year’s intake of undergraduates had been dismal. Barely a single good-looking girl among them. As for the physicists, it made you wonder what the hell the government’s two hundred million pounds of extra education spending was being spent on. Certainly not hiring decent science teachers. To think that these kids were the best that the English school system had to offer. Morons, the lot of them. God, it was depressing.

He turned back to his book.
Cursed bloody thing.
As an academic, you were expected to publish your own work at least every few years. Most scholars, including Theresa, considered this “the fun part” and saw teaching as a distraction from their studies. For Theo it was the other way around. He found the obligation to continually reinvent the wheel and come up with new theories an immense drain on his time and energy. The truth was, he wasn’t much of an original thinker. He was bright, naturally. Unlike most of his colleagues, he was also a good communicator, with a gift for expressing the most complex ideas in theoretical physics in simple, human terms. But Theo Dexter had yet to stumble across that one seminal thought that would forever be identified with his name. Deep down he was wildly envious of his wife’s ability to come up
with new angles on Shakespearean criticism over her Special K every morning. Not that he’d ever have told
her
that. Inspiration seemed to explode out of Theresa involuntarily, like a sneeze. Theo Dexter knew that his fellow physicists considered him a plodder. If only he had half his wife’s instinctive, unstructured brilliance, they might start taking him seriously. As it was…

A knock on the door disturbed him.
Who the hell could that be? I don’t have any supervisions this morning.

“Yes?” He sounded less than welcoming. Tentatively the door creaked open.

“Professor Dexter?”

“Yes? For God’s sake, come in whoever you are. Don’t skulk in the corridor like a thief.”

A young girl shuffled nervously into the room. Theo’s first thought was,
She’s escaped from the circus
. Dressed in baggy, striped trousers teamed with a multicolored, polka-dotted shirt, dark hair flying all over the place, mascara smudged, she looked like a lunatic. His second thought was,
She’s pretty
. It was hard to make out much of her figure beneath the billowing clothes, but the face was angelic. Porcelain-white skin, wide-set green eyes, hair as black and gleaming as liquid tar.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Sasha Miller. I’ve got a supervision with you this morning. Eleven o’clock?”

So she’s a physicist! One of mine. Thank you, God. At last.

“Ah. Miss Miller. Well, your supervision was actually scheduled for yesterday morning. But do come in.”

“Oh God. Was it?” Sasha blushed scarlet. “I’m terribly sorry. I’m afraid I can be a bit disorganized sometimes. I’m working on it.”

Theo offered her a chair. In a fluster, Sasha somehow managed to miss the seat, lowering her bottom into midair and only just righting herself before she hit the floor.

“Sorry.” She clung to the chair’s arms like life rafts.

Theo smiled.
She’s adorable. So gauche. I wonder if she’s even eighteen yet?

“Don’t worry,” he said kindly. “A lot of people get muddled in their first week. How are you finding Cambridge?”

“Oh my goodness, it’s perfect,” Sasha gushed. “Just magical, thank you. St. Michael’s is like a dream come true.” She thought,
He seems very kind. I shouldn’t have judged him so harshly the other day.

“It’s certainly a very special place,” said Theo.
I wonder if her nipples go darker when she blushes?
“Especially for we physicists. These are exciting times, Sasha. World-changing times. And Cambridge is right at the heart of it.”

Sasha felt a rush of excitement and pride so strong she had to grip the chair even tighter. She loved the way he said “we.” Professor Theodore Dexter, a Cambridge physics professor, her tutor, was addressing
her
, Sasha Miller from Frant, as an equal. She felt like a coconspirator in some wonderful, top-secret plot. Looking at him close up for the first time, she had to admit that Professor Dexter really was terribly good looking. Better looking than he’d seemed across the parking lot at the Cavendish labs. He reminded her of an American actor…she was so bad with names, she’d never remember which one…one of the doctors from
ER
perhaps? He was certainly very young. She’d been right about that the other day.
But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Isaac Newton discovered the generalized binomial theorem at twenty-two. Mozart wrote his first concerto at six. You can’t put an age limit on genius.

“Listen, Sasha, I’m afraid I’m a bit busy just at the moment. I wasn’t expecting you, you see.”

“Oh. Of course.” Embarrassed, Sasha got up to go. “I’ll get the notes from one of the others and I’ll, er…I’ll come back next week. Sorry.”

“Please, stop apologizing,” said Theo smoothly. “If you like I could meet you somewhere for a drink this evening? We can talk
through the course, what’s expected of you, the lecture schedules…that sort of thing.”

It was such an unexpected suggestion that for a moment Sasha didn’t say anything. She was supposed to be calling Will this evening for a proper chat. She’d even blown off Georgia, who’d been on at her to come to some quiz night at Caius, because she wanted to focus on Will. It had only been a week, but already Sasha felt like the distance between them was growing. All the magazines said that long-distance relationships took work.

But she couldn’t exactly turn down her professor. Not after he’d been so understanding about her coming at the wrong time and all that.

“All right. Thanks. Where should I…?”

“I’ll leave a note in your pigeonhole.”

Sasha left, and Theo turned back to his book. All of a sudden his spirits had lifted exponentially.

Perhaps inspiration was about to strike after all?

M
ICHAELMAS TERM SEEMED
to race by. Sasha hadn’t ever known time to pass so quickly. Once the excitement of freshers week was over, St. Michael’s got back to work. The bar was still packed every night, but by eight thirty in the morning a steady stream of green-faced undergraduates could be seen on their bicycles heading for labs or libraries. Even Georgia, whose dedication to partying was the stuff of legend, dutifully trekked off to the architecture faculty building every morning with a back-breaking stack of files under her arm.

When she didn’t have a supervision with Professor Dexter, Sasha spent her days shuttling between the Cavendish lab and the university library (the
UL
). After a brief panic in the first two weeks, when she’d worried she might be out of her depth intellectually (Professor Clancy’s “introductory” lecture on nanophotonics was so impenetrable he might as well have been speaking Urdu), she soon relaxed and began to delight in her studies. Not only was the teaching phenomenal—physics lessons at St. Agnes’s felt like another lifetime already—but the facilities and technology at her disposal were the stuff of Sasha’s dreams. Of course, it was the astrophysics course that really excited her: the formation of stars and planets, observational cosmology, evolution of galaxies, active galactic nuclei. Sasha had been obsessed with
space before she knew how to say the word. She felt incredibly lucky that her own director of studies at St. Michael’s, Professor Dexter, was an astrophysicist himself. Not to mention a wonderful teacher and mentor.

Sasha’s respect and admiration for Professor Dexter had grown exponentially since their first drink together in freshers week. Not only was he clearly an
amazing
physicist, but he really went the extra mile to nurture and encourage his students. He was constantly offering Sasha extra help with her assignments. When she began her first solo research project, into astrophysical plasmas, he even took time out of his weekend to come around to her rooms and check her work. How many professors did that? Of course, he was probably only too glad to get out of the house for a while, poor man. Over the past few weeks Professor Dexter—Theo—had opened his heart to Sasha about his unhappy marriage. His wife’s drinking problem and affairs had clearly wreaked a terrible emotional toll. But he was loyal to a fault, putting up with her blind rages. Bipolar could do terrible things to a person. Sasha felt that, on some unspoken level, she and Professor Dexter had become friends. Their twice-weekly supervisions were the highlight of her week.

By contrast, one of the hardest parts of Sasha’s week was her regular Sunday night phone call to Will. Every week she looked forward to hearing his voice. And every week they seemed to run out of things to say to each other almost immediately. It had gotten to the point where Sasha had taken to writing bullet point lists before each call, pieces of news she could tell him, questions she could ask to keep things going. Twice he’d promised to come up and visit her, and twice he’d canceled because of rugby.

“I do miss you, babe. But I can’t let the lads down. Maybe you could come back to Sussex for a weekend? We’re playing Saracens’ Second Fifteen on Sunday, there’s gonna be a huge party at High Rocks afterwards.”

“I can’t, darling. Not this weekend. I’ve got so much work to do,” said Sasha. Then she felt guilty all week because she’d lied to him, and she didn’t know why.
What’s happening to us?