Newton’s Fire

FOUR
I

Rachel Parkes rested the tea tray on an upraised knee as she turned the doorknob of Professor Armstrong’s office, pushed it open and then hurried through, setting the tray down gratefully on the edge of his oak desk so that she could finally scratch the tip of her nose, which had been itching dreadfully all the way up the stairs.

‘Not there,’ sighed the professor, taking off his reading glasses as he looked up from his paperwork. ‘The coffee table.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I mean, you do realize why they call it a coffee table? It’s not just a whim, you know.’

‘I had an itch,’ she told him. ‘On my nose.’

‘How fascinating,’ he said. ‘Do you have any other bodily sensations you wish to tell me about?’

‘Not currently, Professor,’ she said, transferring the tray as requested. ‘But I can keep you informed.’

He shook his head at her as he came over to the table, poured himself a cup. ‘You call this tea?’ he asked.

‘That’s what it claimed on the box.’

‘I’ll be glad when Karen gets back.’

‘Me, too.’

His eyes narrowed; his lips pinched tight. ‘How’s the budget report?’ he asked. ‘I trust you’ll have it ready for me this evening, as you promised.’

‘I never promised it this evening,’ she said. ‘I promised it first thing tomorrow.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘If there’s no difference, you won’t mind waiting.’

‘I’d like to look it over at home tonight.’

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t. I have my appointment.’

‘Your appointment? Today may be a Sunday, Miss Parkes, but it’s still a workday.’

‘You knew about this. I cleared it last week.’

‘Remind me.’

Behind her back, Rachel clenched a fist. He knew exactly where she was going, and why. He just wanted to make her say it for some perverse reason of his own, perhaps so that he could deliver another lecture on the folly of Afghanistan, graveyard of empires. Damned if she’d let him use her brother that way. Damned if she would. ‘It’s private,’ she said. ‘And the budget report will be on your desk first thing tomorrow, as I promised.’

‘I plan to be in very early.’

‘It will be waiting for you.’ She nodded a little too curtly, tried to soften it with an afterthought of a smile. But he wasn’t even looking at her any more. He simply waved her away with a patronising little flick of his right hand, then stirred a pinch of sugar into his tea.