Dying on Principle Read Free Page A

angular that the chicness is overridden by the fact that it’s viciously unflattering. She sported this sort of cut, no doubt quite fiendishly expensive in its asymmetry.
    So why was this fashion plate working at George Muntz College and why was she white with anger?
    I dabbed a finger on the keyboard – no point in hanging around doing nothing, after all – and my document oozed slowly from a laser printer. I picked up the neat pile of papers, extracted my disk, switched everything off, and then lifted an enquiring eyebrow.
    She didn’t quite throw me from the room.
    As she ostentatiously closed the door behind us, she called out: ‘Melina? Melina!’
    I prepared to walk away – I had no more business there, and I wasn’t prepared for a public rebuke – but then I hesitated. The person who approached, shoulders hunched, eyes placatingly down, was the black woman from the choir.
    I caught Suit Woman’s eye; I didn’t want her to take out her bad temper on someone much more vulnerable than I.
    She pinched her lips, acknowledging me reluctantly.
    â€˜Melina, this—’
    â€˜Sophie Rivers,’ I supplied, smiling at Melina.
    â€˜Ms Rivers complains that her computer has failed.’
    â€˜Printer,’ I said. ‘I can’t get it to go on line.’
    â€˜Printer. Fix it. Or get her a new one out of the stockroom.’
    â€˜Yes, Ms—’
    â€˜Dr.’
    â€˜Dr Trevelyan. Shall I do it now or later, Dr Trevelyan?’
    â€˜Not now,’ I said. ‘I’m due in a meeting. I’d rather it were later. Eleven thirty. See you then, Melina.’
    I turned and strode off before Dr Trevelyan could point out that Melina did not need my presence to repair or replace my printer.
    In fact, I spent the start of the meeting wondering why I’d made such a point of it, and my concentration was so poor I found myself landed with writing up the minutes, a job I’d been intending to avoid.
    Melina thought there was probably dirt in one of the switches; it would only take five minutes to repair if it was, but in the meantime she’d leave me with another printer.
    She stood clutching the printer flat against her chest, with her back to the door, almost as if awaiting my permission to withdraw. Or was she looking for some excuse to stay?
    â€˜How did you think the concert went on Sunday?’ I asked, pushing a chair at her.
    She sat on the extreme edge. ‘OK,’ she said. And then she smiled. ‘If you like
The Music Makers
, that is. And if you like Blount as a conductor.’
    I grinned.
    â€˜I mean, it’s not very good Elgar, is it?’ she continued. ‘Not really his best? Oh, dear, I mean—’ You could see her confidence ebb and flow.
    I shook my head to encourage her. ‘Lousy Elgar.’
    â€˜And that Claude Blount.
Sir
Claude Blount. Why is he a Sir and Peter Rollinson not?’
    â€˜I fancy it’s a hereditary title, not one he earned.’
    I thought for a minute she was going to relax into a proper natter, but she suddenly looked at her watch and sprang to her feet in one rather graceless movement.
    â€˜She’ll be expecting me back. Dr Trevelyan.’
    I got up too. ‘Why don’t we have some lunch together?’ I added, to give her a chance to be kind to me, ‘I’m such a new girl, you see – it’s so nice to talk to someone I know. I’m free at one.’
    â€˜The technicians have their own canteen,’ she said.
    â€˜Well, we could nip out to the Court Oak.’
    â€˜I don’t drink. Thank you, Ms Rivers. I’ll report back to you later.’
    Why should she be so keen to avoid me? Was it me, or didn’t she like people? Just then I didn’t have time to worry. I had a class to go to, and teaching T. S. Eliot to A-level students requires all my concentration.
    And I didn’t have time for any lunch, either. As I came out of