Tilly Bagshawe 3-book Bundle: Scandalous, Fame, Friends and Rivals. Tilly Bagshawe
her tonight, Theo thought idly. God knows it’s been a while.
He was in a bad mood thanks to an email he’d received that afternoon from the editor at the New Scientist, politely but firmly rejecting his offer to write a regular column on the changing face of physics. The little dweeb had had the temerity to imply that Theo’s academic credentials weren’t lofty enough for his shitty, second-rate magazine. ‘It’s an amazingly generous offer, Professor Dexter, especially from a figure as high profile and, I don’t doubt, busy as yourself. But our readership is primarily research scientists, working in the field. I’m sure you’ll understand that their needs and interests are very different from your audience’s. As editor, I need to be mindful of that.’
‘Mindful.’ Pretentious little turd. So because I’m on television, all of a sudden I’m not a ‘proper’ scientist? Not ‘cutting edge’ enough for your readership of losers and nerds, because MY research has been published and fêted around the world, and theirs hasn’t?
Theo adored LA. He adored everything about working in television, the fame, the money, the travel, the hot girls falling over themselves to bed him. But it still irked him that his fellow physicists refused to take him seriously. As he’d told the interviewer from Men’s Vogue only this morning (right after stressing how important it was for men in the public eye to make brave fashion choices): the scientific community was deeply unforgiving of commercial success.
Theo was still moaning to Theresa as they pulled into valet parking. ‘I wonder what that up-himself editor would give to be attending an event like this? He’d probably have to hock his apartment just to buy a ticket. Twat.’
‘Hmmm.’ Theresa wasn’t really listening. She was watching all the size-zero twenty-two-year-olds unfurling themselves from the back of limousines. Twenty minutes ago she’d felt beautiful, sexy and on top of her game. Now she felt old and fat and …
‘Theo! Darling! I didn’t know you were gonna be here. That’s so awesome.’ A brunette in a gold Dolce & Gabanna micro-mini whom Theresa had never seen before jumped on Theo as he got out of the car, draping her arms around his neck and kissing him on the lips. Theresa looked at the girl’s pin-thin legs and thought, My right breast weighs more than you.
‘Oh. Hi. You must be Theo’s … wife?’ The girl looked at Theresa as one might look at a mangy dog, her face torn between pity and disgust.
‘That’s right.’ And you must be … one of the sluts who work for him? ‘And you are …?’
‘Camille. Theo and I are colleagues. This is my boyfriend, David. He’s a producer.’
Theresa only just managed not to laugh. From behind the gazelle-like Camille, a fat dwarf of a man waddled over to shake hands. A foot shorter than his date, and a minimum of three decades older, David still managed to stick his chest out and preen as if he were Steven Tyler. Walking up the stone steps into the famously pink, kitsch hotel, Theresa leaned into Theo and giggled. ‘Poor man! Talk about Beauty and the Beast. I suppose there’s no fool like an old fool.’
‘David Weinberg is nobody’s fool,’ said Theo pompously. ‘He’s one of the highest-paid TV producers in the world. He’s the brains behind Teen Queen Wrestling and Celebrity Surgery Face-Off. You shouldn’t be so quick to judge people by their looks you know, T.’
‘Me?’ Theresa spluttered. But Theo was gone, air kissing another gaggle of preposterously pretty girls as he worked his way through the crowd. Knowing no one and feeling homesick and depressed – she’d made a titanic effort to look her best tonight, but what was the point? – Theresa did what any sensible Irish girl would do. She headed to the bar.
‘What can I get you? Watermelon vodka? Sour apple martini? Sex on the Beach?’
‘Whisky. No ice, no water.’
She downed the first drink, then a second and third. Instantly the room became a little hazy, as if she were watching the party through a lens and someone had smeared it with Vaseline. So this was it, the long-awaited Make-A-Wish Ball. I’m making a wish: I wish I were at home, listening to Classic FM on my computer. I wish I were two stone lighter. I wish I could make Theo fall in love with me again.
‘Would everybody please take your seats for dinner.’
* * *
Dinner was served in the hotel’s famous art deco Crystal Ballroom. Above Theresa’s head a lavish chandelier twink -led naffly over the pink and white tables, where Hollywood’s elite sat sipping soda water and nibbling half-heartedly on plates of tuna tartare. ‘I feel like I’m at Jordan and Peter’s wedding,’ Theresa joked to Theo. ‘There are enough sequins in this room to make Liberace wince.’ Once upon a time Theo had shared her irreverent sense of humour. No longer. Since moving to LA, he seemed to have had his appreciation of the absurd surgically removed.
‘Don’t be facetious,’ he hissed at her. ‘Who’s that on table nineteen? The woman everyone’s crowding around?’
Theresa looked. She didn’t recognize anybody.
‘That’s Dita Andreas,’ said the girl on Theo’s left. ‘Her new movie, Heaven’s Gate, just had the biggest September opening weekend on record. Variety’s calling her the new Angelina.’
It wasn’t a soubriquet that Theo would have picked. If anything, Dita Andreas looked more like an older, more womanly version of Scarlett Johansson, though she did share Angelina’s trademark full-lipped pout. Her simple, black L’Wren Scott sheath and Neil Lane diamond drop earrings contrasted dramatically with her pale colouring. Blonde and sultry, with unfashionably fair skin and blood-red lips, she was not the most beautiful woman in the room. But she exuded sexuality like a stoat in heat, and she had that something, charisma, star-quality, whatever you wanted to call it, that eclipsed all the younger, taller, more regular-featured girls surrounding her.
‘Is she married?’ Theo asked bluntly.
‘Theo!’ Theresa blushed.
‘Uh huh. Newlywed,’ said the girl on his left. ‘To Brett Graham, the director on Heaven’s Gate. He’s her fourth husband. Dita collects husbands the way Angelina collects orphans. Doesn’t keep ’em as long though.’ The girl laughed.
Theo stared across the room at Dita. He wasn’t alone. The entire party seemed to be fixated with her. But some sixth sense made Dita look up and notice him.
‘Who is that man?’ she asked her husband.
‘Which man? The blond?’ Brett Graham glared at Theo. ‘He’s nobody.’
‘No, really. You don’t know him?’
‘No, I don’t know him. Which means he isn’t in the film business. I know everybody in the film business.’ Brett Graham was used to having girlfriends hang off his every word. With Dita Andreas, it was different. He was constantly having to prove himself, to try to impress her and keep her interested. Every day he spent with her he felt his heart growing tighter and his dick growing harder. It was torture.
‘He’s a physicist.’ The man opposite Dita interjected helpfully. ‘Theo Dexter. He has a TV show on NBC.’
‘You see?’ said Brett, smugly. ‘I told you. He’s in TV. He’s nobody.’
Dita smiled at Theo, and turned away.
Not long after dinner ended, Theresa was back at the bar, alone again. Dita Andreas and her entourage had already left. No doubt they had another, more important party to go to. Theresa had seen Theo talking to Dita earlier, introducing himself, but Dita’s husband had dragged her quickly away. If only I could control Theo like that, Theresa thought sadly. He was on the dance floor now with yet another young NBC staffer. Theresa watched the pair of them glide across the polished marble, their perfect bodies pressed close, feeling like Sandra Dee watching Danny and Cha Cha win the dance-off in Grease. She downed another whisky.
‘I’d