shit, like I said.’
‘I need to write the story up later and you have no right to—’
‘Tough. Have dinner with me tonight and I’ll tell you a story worth printing.’
‘No, I—’
‘Fine. Go tell your editor that you couldn’t be bothered to report on one of the biggest breakthroughs in coefficient regression since Legendre and his least squares.’ Quinell balled the paper tightly and bounced it back and forth between his large hands.
The woman watched as her notes teetered on destruction. He doubted she’d remember anything of what he’d told her. It was gobbledygook to the lay person.
‘My mother always told me not to go off with strangers. I imagine that includes dinner with you,’ she said.
‘And my mama told me never to date a white girl, but that hasn’t stopped me asking. I think you should go tell your mother—’
‘Telling her anything will be difficult. She died two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Dr Brody Quinell’s manner suddenly changed. His face became serious and one hand reached out to her shoulder although didn’t quite touch. He noticed her face soften, her eyes open wide as her brow lifted.
‘Thank you. But you still shouldn’t have ruined my notes.’
He stopped playing with the paper ball for a moment and let out a noise, more a roar than a laugh. ‘But you wrote—’
‘Stop!’ she said, half smiling, looking around for her photographer. Her pencil crept between her teeth. Brody could see he was winning.
‘So what’s your name?’ he asked, reckoning she was about twenty-three or -four.
She swallowed. ‘Caroline Kent,’ she said quietly.
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Kent.’
Then Dr Brody Quinell – up-and-coming mathematician in the field of statistical science – spread his lips wide and stuffed the paper right in his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he chewed and chewed. ‘Mmm, tha’s goood shit,’ he got out. ‘Reckon I’m so stuffed full I won’t be needing any dinner at all tonight.’
Carrie Kent, ace reporter with a final warning on a job that many young women fresh out of university would lose a few fingers for, her boss had said, decided she would try a tape recorder on Dr Brody Quinell. She knew she’d drawn the short straw by being given this story, but she was serving time under the science editor as part of her internship with a huge periodical conglomerate. She was determined to prove herself.
The recorder was hidden in a small evening bag. She lifted her napkin and set the purse down on the table with the half-open flap facing him. She’d expected more burger bar than expensive cuisine and was surprised at his tailored suit. He’d made an effort. Earlier, he’d perched on the wall outside the university wearing ripped jeans and a faded shirt. His research work over the last four years had resulted in a paper that was causing quite a stir in the States. It was Carrie’s job to discover and report on the personal side of Dr Brody Quinell for SciTech magazine.
‘The jeans aren’t the only thing that’s ripped, eh?’ Leah, her photographer and best friend, had said when she saw Carrie eyeing up the doctor’s lean physique.
‘Not my type,’ Carrie had whispered back, just wanting to get the story and leave. But gradually she’d warmed to the man, convinced him to take her notes from his mouth, flatten them out, and go over the technical points that she simply couldn’t read any more. Eventually, she agreed to go to dinner with the persuasive maths star – he’d been working with NASA, he confided, and had once dated an astrophysicist. He promised her exclusive details of how his research was going to be used and he would even tell her what he had in his refrigerator. If it got back to the editor that she’d passed up the chance, her job would be on the line for sure.
‘Nice restaurant.’ Carrie glanced around at the elegant wallpaper and pristine tablecloths. Conversation hadn’t exactly flowed since they’d arrived.
‘I need to write the story up later and you have no right to—’
‘Tough. Have dinner with me tonight and I’ll tell you a story worth printing.’
‘No, I—’
‘Fine. Go tell your editor that you couldn’t be bothered to report on one of the biggest breakthroughs in coefficient regression since Legendre and his least squares.’ Quinell balled the paper tightly and bounced it back and forth between his large hands.
The woman watched as her notes teetered on destruction. He doubted she’d remember anything of what he’d told her. It was gobbledygook to the lay person.
‘My mother always told me not to go off with strangers. I imagine that includes dinner with you,’ she said.
‘And my mama told me never to date a white girl, but that hasn’t stopped me asking. I think you should go tell your mother—’
‘Telling her anything will be difficult. She died two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Dr Brody Quinell’s manner suddenly changed. His face became serious and one hand reached out to her shoulder although didn’t quite touch. He noticed her face soften, her eyes open wide as her brow lifted.
‘Thank you. But you still shouldn’t have ruined my notes.’
He stopped playing with the paper ball for a moment and let out a noise, more a roar than a laugh. ‘But you wrote—’
‘Stop!’ she said, half smiling, looking around for her photographer. Her pencil crept between her teeth. Brody could see he was winning.
‘So what’s your name?’ he asked, reckoning she was about twenty-three or -four.
She swallowed. ‘Caroline Kent,’ she said quietly.
‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Kent.’
Then Dr Brody Quinell – up-and-coming mathematician in the field of statistical science – spread his lips wide and stuffed the paper right in his mouth. Cheeks bulging, he chewed and chewed. ‘Mmm, tha’s goood shit,’ he got out. ‘Reckon I’m so stuffed full I won’t be needing any dinner at all tonight.’
Carrie Kent, ace reporter with a final warning on a job that many young women fresh out of university would lose a few fingers for, her boss had said, decided she would try a tape recorder on Dr Brody Quinell. She knew she’d drawn the short straw by being given this story, but she was serving time under the science editor as part of her internship with a huge periodical conglomerate. She was determined to prove herself.
The recorder was hidden in a small evening bag. She lifted her napkin and set the purse down on the table with the half-open flap facing him. She’d expected more burger bar than expensive cuisine and was surprised at his tailored suit. He’d made an effort. Earlier, he’d perched on the wall outside the university wearing ripped jeans and a faded shirt. His research work over the last four years had resulted in a paper that was causing quite a stir in the States. It was Carrie’s job to discover and report on the personal side of Dr Brody Quinell for SciTech magazine.
‘The jeans aren’t the only thing that’s ripped, eh?’ Leah, her photographer and best friend, had said when she saw Carrie eyeing up the doctor’s lean physique.
‘Not my type,’ Carrie had whispered back, just wanting to get the story and leave. But gradually she’d warmed to the man, convinced him to take her notes from his mouth, flatten them out, and go over the technical points that she simply couldn’t read any more. Eventually, she agreed to go to dinner with the persuasive maths star – he’d been working with NASA, he confided, and had once dated an astrophysicist. He promised her exclusive details of how his research was going to be used and he would even tell her what he had in his refrigerator. If it got back to the editor that she’d passed up the chance, her job would be on the line for sure.
‘Nice restaurant.’ Carrie glanced around at the elegant wallpaper and pristine tablecloths. Conversation hadn’t exactly flowed since they’d arrived.
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