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 all base passions, fear is the most accursed.’
I can’t let the fear defeat me. I have to believe. We will have children. Somehow. We will.
By the time Theresa got to the new English faculty building on West Road she was fifteen minutes late. Running across the car park, she felt sweat trickling down the back of her neck and an unpleasant wetness spreading under her arms and breasts. Panting from the exertion, she pushed open the door of the lecture room.
‘Sorry, everyone. Terrible traffic. I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of a disaster with…’ She looked up. Three faces looked back at her.
‘Where are the others? Is this it?’
Mai Lin, a sweet Asian-American girl from Girton, said kindly, ‘Maybe they got stuck in traffic too?’ But all four people in the room knew this was a lie.
Theresa knew the dropout rate for her seminars was high. Students complained that they were too chaotic, that they strayed too far from the parameters of Part II Shakespeare and the topics that they needed to cover for finals.
‘But there’s more to life than exams!’ Theresa pleaded with the head of the faculty. ‘Where’s their soul? Where’s their passion? How can they possibly expect to cover something as breathtaking as Macbeth in two one-hour sessions?’
‘Because if they don’t, my dear, they won’t cover the rest of the tragedies and they’ll fail their degrees. You must stick to the syllabus, Theresa.’
‘But I thought teaching was about inspiring people?’
‘Oh, my dear.’ The Head of English doubled over with laughter. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
Still, Theresa thought glumly, looking around the empty room, I can’t inspire them if they’re not here. If only I had a vocation for teaching, like Theo. His lectures are always packed to bursting.
Depressed, she opened her notes.
‘Right, well, for those of you who have made the effort. Let’s get started, shall we?’
Sasha’s first week at St Michael’s went by so fast, and there was so much to take in, it was like being in a particle accelerator. She was tiny. Cambridge was huge. And everything was moving at light speed.
Her room was a bit disappointing. A small, featureless box in the only ugly part of the college, a concrete seventies accommodation block that had apparently won loads of architectural awards despite looking like the multi-storey car park in Tunbridge Wells, it was hardly the ivory tower of Sasha’s
