Scandalous. Tilly Bagshawe
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confirmed it. Everyone knew that if you were accepted, they sent you a fat package full of bumf about grants and accommodation and reading lists. This, quite clearly, was a single sheet of paper.
Sasha wandered through into the kitchen. Don started to follow her, but Sue held him back.
‘Leave it, love. Give her a minute. She doesn’t need an audience.’
In the kitchen, Sasha stood with her back to the Aga, turning the envelope over in her hands. Sensing her anxiety, Bijoux heaved his fat form out of the dog basket and sat loyally at her feet.
‘Thanks, boy.’ Why did the stupid rejection have to arrive today? She wanted to remember this as the day Will Temple made her a woman. Not the day that St Michael’s Stupid College rejected her because she didn’t know about globalization and her cardigan was buttoned up wrong.
Wrapping her anger around her like a cloak, Sasha tore open the letter.
On the other side of Frant village green, the Carmichael family was enjoying a summer barbecue with friends when they heard the scream.
‘What was that?’ Katie Carmichael put down her beer and moved towards the garden gate.
‘Nothing.’ Her dad, Bob, turned over the last batch of Wall’s pork sausages. ‘Just some kids playing silly buggers. Any chance of another jug of Pimm’s out here, Kelly? It’s thirsty work, you know, slaving over hot coals.’
But Bob Carmichael’s wife wasn’t listening. She was standing at an upstairs window, staring open mouthed at the spectacle unfolding before her.
‘Oh my God!’ Katie Carmichael had reached the gate. ‘It’s Mr Miller. He’s got no clothes on.’
‘You what? Don Miller?’
Bob Carmichael dropped his tongs. Half the village was outside now, pouring onto the green. Some of them were taking photographs. Most of them were laughing, or screaming, or both. Everyone knew Don Miller. He’d run the local post office for the last fifteen years, not to mention heading the Frant Neighbourhood Watch Committee.
Now it was Don that the neighbourhood had come to watch. Stark naked, whooping for joy, he tore round the cricket pitch screaming. ‘She did it! She bloody did it!’
‘He’s flipped his lid.’
‘I don’t believe it. Don Miller!’
‘That’s put me right off me sausages, that has.’
‘Where’s Sue?’
A few moments later Sue Miller’s solid, dumpy figure could be seen waddling towards the growing crowd of spectators, most of whom were now cheering loudly. The last time Don had felt compelled to take all his clothes off had been the night of his twenty-second birthday when England had beaten the All Blacks at Twickenham. It was a sight Sue would never forget, and one she’d hoped she’d never have to see again. Don, however, was clearly having the time of his life, playing to the crowd with a series of pirouettes and other improvised ballet moves. His plié left nothing to the imagination.
‘I’m sorry about this, everyone.’ Sue Miller smiled sheepishly. ‘I’m afraid Don’s gone rather off the deep end.’
‘No kidding!’ Bob Carmichael wiped away tears of laughter. ‘It’s his birthday, isn’t it? Is he drunk?’
‘Not yet, but he will be. We just heard.’ Sue’s smile turned into a grin. ‘Sasha got into Cambridge.’
Three hours later, Don Miller was in bed, snoring loudly. The combination of the excitement, Sue’s homemade chocolate fudge birthday cake and at least a bottle and a half of the best red wine the Abergavenny Arms had to offer had finished him off, poor man.
‘I knew you’d do it. I jush knew it!’ he told Sasha repeatedly as he staggered upstairs, leaning on her for support like an exhausted boxer. ‘You’re going to be the greatesht scientist this country’s ever prd’ced. My daughter. You’re gonna change the world. I knew it.’
‘D’you think he’ll be all right, Mum?’ Sasha closed the bedroom door.
‘Don’t worry about your father,’ said Sue. ‘It’s the rest of the village that’s going to need counselling. Post-traumatic shock, I think they call it. I’m used to seeing your father’s wedding tackle swinging in the wind, but poor Mrs Anderson. She looked like she was about to have an aneurism. I mean, she is ninety-two, the dear old stick.’
Sasha got ready for bed in a daze. She’d had a few drinks herself, but that wasn’t the reason. In the last few hours, her life had changed forever. She’d called Will to tell him the good news as soon as she got back from the pub.
‘Great, babe,’ he yelled over pounding music. Evidently the party at Chittenden was still in full swing. ‘Cambridge is miles nearer than Exeter. That means I can still play rugby on Saturday afternoons once the season starts, then drive up and take you out for dinner. Wicked.’
If it wasn’t quite the reaction she’d hoped for, Sasha tried not to be disappointed. I can’t expect him to understand. He’s not academic. He has other qualities. And at least he’s making plans to come up and see me. That has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?
Pulling on a pair of scratchy cotton pyjamas she’d had since she was fourteen, Sasha turned out the light and crawled under the covers of her single bed. Above her, a solar system of glow-in-the-dark stickers shone a comforting green. It was a child’s bedroom and Sasha loved it. But I’m not a child. Not any more. I’m a Cambridge undergraduate! I’m Will Temple’s lover! She hugged her excitement to her like a priceless treasure. I don’t want to fall asleep. I don’t want today to be over.
Outside, the church bells struck midnight.
The day was over.
Sasha Miller slept.
Professor Theodore Dexter was having a wonderful day. The sun was in the sky. Cambridge, ever beautiful, had looked particularly lovely this morning as he cycled along the Backs into college, its spires and turrets bathed in early autumn sunlight. His rooms, the most beautiful in St Michael’s, had been newly cleaned and filled with vases of fresh flowers. (Professor Dexter’s bedder was more than a little in love with him. But then, who wasn’t?) And waiting in his bed was Clara, a German postgraduate student with the sort of oversized jugs rarely seen outside of specialist porn mags and a mouth that God had clearly created for the purpose to which she was now so gloriously putting it.
‘That’s right, sweetheart. Nice and slow.’
The blow job was so good it was almost painful. Clara was an average physicist, but thanks to her extraordinary oral abilities her PhD thesis on galactic anisotropy was rapidly edging its way to the top of the class. Trying to prolong his pleasure, Professor Dexter moved higher up the bed so that he could see out of the window. His rooms in First Court looked out over St John’s Street and the splendid redbrick portcullis of Trinity College. Trinity was larger and more prestigious than St Michael’s, but St Michael’s was consistently voted the most beautiful college in Cambridge, with its wisteria-clad medieval courts, romantic formal gardens and exquisite, walnut-panelled Tudor Hall. It also had far and away the best reputation in astro- and particle physics. Which was why so many of the faculty were astonished when Theo Dexter was offered the fellowship there.
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