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’ ‘Get your bread back, bird, it’s utter rubbish,’ he pointed at the book with his cigarette for emphasis. ‘Those fields of study got no business being together. This isn’t a ‘you got your chocolate in my peanut butter’ scenario,’ he took a drag from his cigarette. ‘One does not go about just mixing your Bray and your Stewart with some Ortega and Rheinboldt and expect a slice of fried gold,’ he took another long drag. ‘Stewart agreed with me during a symposium up the street a few years back,’ he looked at the book again and shook his head. ‘Bloody brute force mathematics, sloppy.’ Miranda could not bite back a bark of laughter of her own, ‘You know James Stewart? The mathematician?’ she scoffed, ‘Get real.’ And she knew right then, she’d fucked up. Miranda felt the air in the room become heavy and dreadful. She looked at Grey’s face as her laughter died: she had just crossed a line. ‘I did not say I knew him,’ Grey whispered, ‘I said he agreed with me on something.’ ‘You’re serious.’.

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