To the world at large, Theo Dexter was a brilliant scientist. He’d published two books with titles that no ordinary mortal could understand (His debut, the catchy Prospective Signatures of High Redshift Quasar HII Regions, sold a very creditable five hundred copies), he had a first from Oxford and a PhD from MIT and he was still only thirty-five. To the physics faculty at Cambridge, however, he was an amateur. A mere popinjay. Not only were his ideas rehashed versions of other people’s research, but the man dyed his hair, for God’s sake. He wore Oswald Boateng bespoke suits – in Cambridge! – and was even rumoured to undergo regular facials, whatever those were. Female students flocked to his lectures to catch a glimpse of that rarest of all known mammals – a sexy scientist – when just down the hall, infinitely more brilliant and innovative minds were being ignored. A combination of envy and intellectual snobbery had made the golden boy of Cambridge physics deeply unpopular amongst his peers. Being offered the St Michael’s fellowship was the final nail in Theo’s coffin.
Not that he cared. At least, that’s what he told himself. I’ve got the cushiest job in Cambridge, rooms that any other junior fellow would kill for, and a revolving door of willing, educated pussy at my beck and call. Not to mention a lovely wife and a pretty house off the Madingley Road. What more could a man ask for? And yet despite his smugness, lack of scruples and almost limitless physical vanity, deep down Theo Dexter did want to be taken seriously by his fellow scientists. One day, he vowed. One day I’ll show them all.
Feeling himself building to a climax, he reached down and grabbed Clara’s hair, forcing himself deeper into that heavenly mouth. Instinctively she pulled back, but as he started to come Theo held her head firmly in place. If you want top marks for your crappy dissertation, angel, you’re going to have to swallow. Afterwards he watched her get dressed, physically lifting each of her enormous breasts into her bra. Beautiful. He’d been worried he might not be ‘up to it’ for today’s pre-term tryst with his student. Theresa, his wife, had pounced on him earlier that morning, waving a positive ovulation stick as if she was trying to bring a plane in to land. It was sad, really. The doctor had told them that their chances of conception were low to nil, but Theresa couldn’t let it go. For his part, Theo had never understood the big deal about kids. Sleepless nights, dirty nappies, the mind-numbing boredom of the playground. Who in their right mind would sign up for that? Then again, he was by no means sure Theresa was in her right mind. She always seemed to be away with the fairies these days, so lost in her Shakespeare that she barely registered his presence – or lack of it. But Theo Dexter was not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. Tomorrow was the first day of Michaelmas term. That meant a new year, and a new crop of nubile, naïve young freshers, all of them in search of a mentor. If there was one thing Professor Theodore Dexter prided himself on, it was his ability to mentor. Just look how far dear Clara had come.
Fifteen minutes later, Theo was on his way to Formal Hall for lunch. Two shags in six hours had left him ravenously hungry, and the smells of garlic and onion wafting up the stairs from the college kitchens were like a siren call to his stomach. Only about half the St Michael’s fellows ate in Hall on a regular basis, but Theo Dexter went every day. Partly out of meanness (meals in college were free), but partly because he had yet to find anywhere he preferred to dine than in the dark, Tudor splendour of St Michael’s. Everything about it, from the rituals of the Latin grace and standing to welcome the Master to high table, to the strict rules about the passing of wine and water, gave Theo a deep and abiding thrill. To eat in college was to become part of history. It was to claim one’s place amongst the chosen ones, the privileged few whose intellect set them above the rest of humanity. Theo Dexter grew up in a nondescript semi in Crawley, but he had made it to the table of the Gods, and he relished every second.
‘Morning, Dexter. Off to enjoy the condemned man’s final meal? Depressing, isn’t it?’
Professor Jonathan Cavendish, Head of History at St Michael’s, was in his late fifties. A handsome man in his youth, one of the university’s most successful rowing blues, he had long since run to fat. Renowned as a bon vivant, Jonathan wore his paunch with pride, and didn’t seem remotely concerned by his thinning hair, or his fattening arteries. Everybody at St Michael’s loved him. Everybody except Theo Dexter. Jonathan Cavendish made Theo’s skin crawl. Why the hell doesn’t he go to the gym? Can’t he see he looks like Friar Tuck?
‘I don’t know what you mean, Johnny.’
‘The bloody undergraduates coming back, of course. Don’t tell me you’re not dreading it. Tomorrow morning they’ll be crawling all over college like vermin.’ Professor Cavendish shuddered. ‘I suppose one shouldn’t complain. They are our bread and butters after all. But really, it’s so difficult for college life to run smoothly with so many drunken children underfoot. And to do one’s work.’
Theo was silent as the two men crossed the cobbled bridge that led into Second Court. He was aware that most of the fellows at St Michael’s shared Johnny Cavendish’s view of undergraduates as an inconvenience, a necessary cross to be borne. But Theo Dexter didn’t see it that way. Just the thought of all those earnest eighteen-year-olds in cheap miniskirts, away from home for the first time, was enough to put a spring in his step and a song in his heart.
Dressed in their long, black academic robes, the professors filed into Hall like penguins on the march. Theo looked around at the familiar faces as grace was said and they sat down to eat. Most of them were elderly and wrinkled, a curmudgeonly group of old farts. Almost all of them were male. Watching them slurp their soup and scatter breadcrumbs through their thinning beards, Theo was conscious of being a class apart. Not only was he half their age, but he was clearly the only senior member of college who took care of himself. With his streaked blond hair, naturally athletic physique and bland, almost soap-star handsome features, Theo took great pride in his looks. His wife Theresa had annoyed him last week by giggling when he came home from a four-day academic symposium in Los Angeles with a mouthful of bright white porcelain veneers.
‘What? What’s so funny?’
‘Sorry, darling. They’re jolly nice teeth. It’s just that they make you look so…American. Were they awfully expensive?’
‘Of course not,’ lied Theo. They’d actually cost him the better part of fifteen grand, but he wasn’t about to tell Theresa that. In America where Theo had spent most of his postgraduate years, no one criticized you for spending money on your appearance. If anything, good personal grooming was considered a sign of self-respect. This was one of the many things Theo preferred about the States. Here you were made to feel like a vain, shallow idiot. ‘Besides, I’m a fellow now. It’s part of my job to look professional.’
Unlike his wife, Theo’s young mistress Clara had been wildly impressed with his Hollywood smile when she saw it this morning. Young people appreciate me, thought Theo. The sooner the undergraduates breathe some life into this place, the better.
‘My goodness, Professor Dexter. You’re ready for your close-up.’
Margaret Haines was smiling. One of only two female fellows in the entire college, Margaret made Theo uncomfortable. A Latin scholar, she was cleverer than he was and only a few years older. He could never quite tell if she was being sincere or taking the piss. In this instance he rather suspected the latter.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a perfectly pressed gown in my life. It looks good with your tan though. Have you and Theresa been away?’
‘I was away,’ Theo said cautiously. ‘California, for work. T had to stay here, unfortunately. She’s at a crucial stage with her book.’
‘Oh. How unfortunate.’ That smile again. ‘You must have been lonely.’
Definitely taking the piss. Stupid old dyke.
‘I soldiered on, Margaret.’
‘I’m sure you did, Theo. I’m sure you did.’
Margaret Haines had vociferously opposed Theo Dexter’s appointment last year, but she’d