The night of Morris’s art show, Nif declined Oliver’s offer of a ride from work and instead took up Leon’s.
“Are you sure?” Oliver asked, deflating like a balloon and then pretending he was just stretching.
“Yeah, I need to go home and change. I’ll meet you there.”
“I don’t mind driving you home first,” he persisted, but Nif shook her head firmly.
“You need to pick up Moira from uni and the campus is on the opposite side of the city. You can’t be in two places at once. I’ll ask Leon if he can drive me home.”
“Of course I will,” Leon said, sweeping into the room and conversation as if he’d been there all along. “At least until this murderer is caught. The entire company has instigated a car share system for people who normally commute or stay late. I wouldn’t be surprised if we keep it after all the fuss dies down. It’s doing wonders for team morale and work efficiency. People are less likely to call in sick when they know they’re responsible for getting someone else to work.”
“That’s incredibly devious,” Nif said, mostly impressed.
“I didn’t come up with it, but I’m all for building teamship. Shall we leave at 5?”
“Sounds good,” Nif said and Leon clapped his hands together decisively before leaving to take a call.
Oliver scowled over the sheets of paper covering the consultation room table, but soon Nif had distracted him with a particularly complicated plot problem that swallowed his whole attention.
Leon’s car wasn’t as flashy as she expected until she realised he normally didn’t drive but shifted to and from work.
“Did you buy a car so you could drive me home?” Nif exclaimed, horrified, frozen half way between putting her seat belt on.
“Not only to drive you home. I may have other authors or staff that may require driving around and if we continue to explore the city for lunchtime options, we may need to start moving further afield.”
Nif studied his profile as he carefully reversed with the precision of someone trying hard to remember lessons they’d taken a long time ago and had since not had much time to practice. They jerked as he only just missed a concrete barrier.
“Would you like me to drive?” Nif asked tentatively.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, his smile embarrassed. “I’m fine once I’m on the road but these car parks are impossible to navigate.”
They changed drivers and Nif did her best not to be too self-conscious as she eased them out of the underground garage and onto a busy peak-hour street.
“When did you learn to drive?” Leon asked, paying particular attention to how she changed gears. Why Leon had bought a manual, Nif had no idea other than some strange belief it made him more masculine.
“My mother taught me when I was in high school. I had a car up until I moved to the city because my hometown was so spread out it would take all day to walk from one end to the other.”
“I can’t imagine living outside of the city. I grew up being flown from one city to another under an army of tutors and nannies.”
“Your parents weren’t around when you were growing up?” Nif asked.
Leon dropped his head back against the headrest and sighed. “Not really, but I didn’t mind. I had a lot of freedom and the people around me were kind and encouraging. It’s why I went into publishing actually. My parents wanted me to follow them into law. Mother’s a judge and my father is a lawyer. But Laurent, one of my favourite tutors, evoked a strong passion for books in me. I would’ve been a writer, but all my stories are so bland they’d send you to sleep.”
“So publishing was your next choice?”
“It was really my first. I like working with people, helping a project come into fruition. Being a writer would mean shutting the door on the world for long periods of time, and I’ve never been someone who coped with the quiet spaces in my head. What about you? Are you a closet author?”
“Not at all. I’ve always loved reading. When all my school friends began to shift, I retreated between pages where I could too. At uni I was particularly fascinated with the evolution of stories from the first draft to the polished copy, and so it was only natural to become an editor.”
“So it’s your dream?”
“That’s what I’m working towards, but…” Nif hesitated.
“But what?”
This was her boss. As much as she’d gotten to know him the last few weeks — how he always dipped his nose into his coffee at his first sip and lingered over the taste before wiping the foam off, how he tugged at the hair behind his ear when he was deep in thought, how his smile was always in a constant state of readiness so he could switch it to full beam in less than a heartbeat — he was still her superior. Leon had proven to be kind and thoughtful, and she wanted to open up to him. Get him to really understand what it was like without a shift form. How every step throughout her life, she’d been disadvantaged.
“Sometimes I feel I’ll always be judged to a standard I’ll never meet,” Nif finally admitted.
“Because you cannot shift,” Leon summed up. Her boss wasn’t stupid.
“Did you know it’s been only thirty years since the non- and partial shift discrimination laws were accepted into parliament?” Nif said in a rush. “Before then, employers could dismiss you on the spot for not being able to shift. Twenty years before that, non-shifters had to file a special request to even get married, let alone have children. People who can’t shift are seen as flawed. An anomaly. A genetic quirk best removed from the gene pool.
Most people, though, wouldn’t even know that there was once a law restricting non and partial shifters from travel and who they could interact with. They couldn’t have certain careers. Teaching. Medicine. Most work that involved interacting with people, really, as if what they were was contagious. Even now we have to be registered and my ID card informs everyone who sees it so I can’t even pretend I can shift.” Nif took a breath, held it and then gently exhaled. “Sorry. You can imagine how frustrating it is when you have someone possibly murdering non-shifters and as a result, threatening the small amount of freedom that’s been carved out for us by the non-shifters who’ve gone before us.”
“I can’t begin to know what it’s like,” Leon said gently. He reached out to brush the back of Nif’s hand on the gear stick and then just as quickly retreated. “Do you know there are three non-shifters that work for Hopscotch Publishing? It’s part of the HR policy to hire someone from minority groups and you filled one of them. To a lot of people, you got your position unfairly and I’m ashamed to admit, I didn’t give you the same chances another new hire would’ve gotten because of it.”
That hurt more than Nif thought it would. She focused her eyes on the road, but she was so distracted she almost missed the correct turn off.
“But I’m trying to change my behaviour,” Leon continued. “Making assumptions is what my parents do and I refuse to allow such unconscious biases to shape my actions.”
“Is that why you asked me to work on this new project with you?”
“It’ll be a good chance to see what you’re made of. There are no procedures designed yet for what we’re doing, so I needed someone who’s flexible, adaptable and practical.”
“How am I going so far?”
“Looking good,” Leon said. Nif took her eyes off the road to briefly look at him, and he flashed her a cheeky smile. Her stomach twisted. She didn’t know what to think anymore. She’d had the biggest crush on Leon and here he was, flirting with her, and she wasn’t sure it was what she wanted after all. After the art show, she’d give her mum a call. Her mother had taken rationality to an art form and had always been able to help straighten out Nif’s feelings.
Nif cleared her throat.
“I could give you a few lessons if you’d like,” Nif offered, fighting to keep her voice steady. “If you’re going to do more driving that is.”
“Sure. Maybe on a weekend sometime?” Leon’s hand crept into the back of his hair and he shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe we could make it a date?”
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
“Oh. Um, yeah. Yeah, okay.” Thankfully Nif was pulling up to her apartment block so she could escape her lack of verbosity. “I’ll see you tomorrow. At work. Bye!”
She closed the door, forgetting she’d been driving and then awkwardly opened it for Leon as he came around to the driver’s side.
“Have a good evening, Jennifer.” Leon purred her name, shivers dancing along her spine, and she gave an odd bow and scurried for her building’s entrance.
Nif took the stairs, two at a time, enjoying the burn and trying to calm her whirling thoughts with each pounding step.
Leon. He was exactly her type. Tall, lean and his dark hair just begged to be touched. Intelligent and hardworking, passionate about his work and he bought a car so he could drive her home. That meant something, right?
Her phone buzzed and she checked to see if it was any of the support group checking in.
It was an alert from Tender. Another message from Hound-of-Baskerville. A friend request. He’d changed his profile picture from a body shot by a lake, the sun striking the camera to flare across his face, to a distant shot of him looking pensive in a forest. His features weren’t particularly clear. Dark hair, tanned skin, a thick wristband on his right arm, but she wouldn’t be able to pick him from a crowd. Her inner Sapha said the guy was bad news, and she had enough guy worries to think about adding someone new to the mix.
Nif ignored it and unlocked her front door, already calling out to Sapha.
“I’m in here!” Sapha poked her head around the bathroom door, shoulders bare and face half done, an eyelash curler in one hand.
“You’ve got a viewing tonight?” Nif kicked off her shoes and hurried to her room, her outfit already planned out in her head.
“Yup. I can drop you on the way if you’d like. Unless you have someone else picking you up?” Even though Nif couldn’t see her, she could hear Sapha wiggling her eyebrows suggestively from the bathroom.
“No, but my boss did drop me off.”
“Wait!” Sapha appeared in the doorway, naked and glorious. “You don’t mean Leon Knight? Sexiest smile three years running and in the top ten young businessmen to watch this year? Your crush since forever?”
“I didn’t think you even noticed the opposite sex.”
“Oh, I don’t. But he’s someone to watch. So he drove you home, huh?”
“Technically I drove,” Nif muttered under her breath.
“Sounds promising,” Sapha said before vanishing back into the bathroom.
Nif squeezed into an old maroon and gold pinstripe pencil skirt of Sapha’s, a black silk blouse and a pair of brown leather ankle boots. Over top went a black three quarter coat and the purple and red scarf her father knitted her last Winter Solstice.
“Will you be warm enough?” Sapha asked.
“Will you?”
The film critic had dressed in a silky wisp of a dress and could’ve been the leading lady in a fantasy movie.
“I’ll shift when I get there. This is just human trappings for the canapés. Here, let me do something with your hair.”
It was the first time in a while that Nif had gotten all dressed up and not gone on a date.
A limo picked Sapha and Nif up, the driver not batting an eyelid when asked to detour to the old warehouse district that had been converted a few years back into art spaces and exclusive apartments. There was a rundown nostalgic vibe that had been particularly cultivated, which translated to quaint in the sunshine and downright spooky at night.
The lanes dividing the warehouses were narrow and lit by dim, orange street lamps, twisted creations of metal that didn’t do much to illuminate the cobblestones. The warehouses were a mix of two and three storey buildings, heavy wooden beams supporting massive tin roofs. A pain to keep cool in summer and warm in winter. The apartments had a soft glow about them, light sneaking through cracks in the wood and shuttered windows.
The limo pulled up in front of the art gallery, the front bedecked with fairy lights and wrought iron lanterns that could’ve once belonged to a stagecoach racing across the moors of some misty, ancient land.
“You call me when you get home,” Sapha insisted, draped in her silk across the backseat of the limo. She looked like she was planning to have a nap.
“I’ll text you,” Nif compromised.
“Better yet, I can send Charles to pick you up.” She flicked a hand towards the driver. “He can drive you home.”
“I’ll be fine, Sapha. I’ll get a lift from one of the others. Have a good evening! Try not to roast the actors too harshly.”
“If only they didn’t make it so easy.”
Nif watched the headlights vanish into the atmospheric gloom of the restored warehouses and nursed the fondness she had for her friend as she looked up at the gallery. She’d been ignoring her singing nerves. Nerves for Morris — what if his art wasn’t that good? — nerves for being in a new place, nerves for seeing Oliver again when her emotions were all twisted up over Leon. She was surprised she hadn’t rattled herself apart.
“Nif!” Moira’s voice rang across the street, her body leaning out of the driver’s side window of her car. “Wait for us!”
Oliver and Moira tumbled out of Moira’s tiny car and she locked it with a cheery beep, paying no mind to the fact she wasn’t quite parked legally.
“You look glorious! Doesn’t she, Oli? How’d you get your hair to look all bouncy?”
“My housemate is a whizz with hair, but give it half an hour and it’ll be straight as a board.”
“My hair is always messy,” Moira made a small mou of discontent, tugging at an errant curl. “Sometimes I think I should cut it all off.”
“Oh, don’t do that! I love your hair,” Nif exclaimed.
“You don’t have to live with it. Trust me, it’s really not worth the hassle. I’d love to have such straight hair like yours.”
“I spent two hours getting my hair to look like this and I get no comments from either of you?” Oliver huffed, lightly touching what was a pretty impressive coif.
“You’re beautiful, too, Oli,” Moira said, rolling her eyes. “Now let’s go inside. I hope they’ve got those little itty-bitty finger foods!”
“Canapés?” Oliver asked, slinging an arm around Moira’s shoulders and tossing Nif a fond smile. “You always eat too many and end up sick.”
“That’s because you’re an awful friend who doesn’t know when to tell me to stop. I’ve got Nif now. She’ll look after me, won’t you Nif?”
“Of course,” Nif laughed, linking her elbow through Moira’s, and together the three of them ducked beneath the fairy lights and stepped into a massive, airy space.
The gallery had used the massive warehouse space to full effect. The ceilings were high and soaring, dimly lit with back lights that threw shadows across the concrete floor and suspended artworks. They appeared to float through the air, gently swaying, the bare, rough backs on one side and the most magical images on the other.
At first there didn’t appear to be many artworks at all, but as Nif’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she could make out invisible passageways created by the artworks themselves, leading viewers from one side of the huge space to the other, passing by dozens of artworks of different sizes and structures. There were already quite a few people meandering around, faces shaped into thoughtful contemplation, the low murmurs blending with the soft tread and clack of soles on concrete. High above, security in birds of prey shifts winged silently from exposed beam to window ledge.
“It’s like an art labyrinth!” Moira said, voice hushed and yet still it echoed, catching the attention of Morris. Here was a Morris Nif had never seen before. He was wearing a neat, light blue, three piece suit, old fashioned -- it reminded her of the suit her father wore to his wedding -- and snug around the shoulders and belly. In the buttonhole was a massive sunflower, bright and full, and his shoes were so highly polished, Nif could see the ceiling lights reflected like constellations. On his head was perched a somewhat deflated fedora with a dark blue band.
“You made it!” Morris cried, his eyes bulging and lips quivering, almost as if he hadn’t expected them to make the effort.
“Of course we did, Morris,” Oliver said, stepping forward to clap the older man on his shoulder. “We wouldn’t miss this for all the tea in China!”
“That’s not saying much,” Moira said. “You don’t even like tea!” She jabbed Oliver in the side and gave Morris a light peck on his cheek. “We’re so excited to see your work, Morris.” The man flushed pink so Nif kissed the opposite cheek to balance him out.
“You can’t imagine the trouble we had getting tonight off.” Nif turned in time to see Philippa make a beeline towards them, tugging a somewhat tottering Josephine in higher than wise shoes behind her. Their outfits complimented each other, and Nif wondered if they sewed their own clothes. Philippa’s dress reminded Nif of her parents’ brown and orange flower print couch with massive shoulder pads that could’ve doubled as lounge cushions. Josephine’s flowing skirt and long jacket were the same earthy shades except instead of looking like a sofa, Josephine was like sharp calligraphy slashed across cream paper.
Clinton followed the sisters with his hands in his pockets and a somewhat content look on his face, as if this was a family outing a long time coming.
“Good evening everyone,” he greeted. “It’s a pleasure to see you all somewhere other than the school hall.”
“It’s disgusting, is what it is,” Philippa continued her rant.
“They treat us as if we’re disposable, but when we ask for time off, they act as if the world would end without us. It’s a backwards compliment if you think about it,” Josephine hurriedly said in her sister’s wake. “Hello everyone.”
“I can’t believe you could all come!” Morris said. “Welcome! Welcome!” He radiated a happiness that was contagious, and he quickly swept them through the winding, hanging hallways made of art to a cul de sac created with his own work.
“These are incredible!” Nif whispered. She spun in a slow circle, taking in the vibrant splashes of colour that almost churned with movement. There were nine canvases, suspended around a massive glowing orb, representing the sun. As people moved, the canvases swayed, giving the impression that the planets depicted were actually spinning.
Nif was drawn to the one she instinctively knew was Neptune. It was the personification of loneliness, isolation, the feelings one got late at night when the city slept and you could be the only person left alive. The moment of disorientation when you woke in a strange bed. The ache of well-worn sorrow, a childhood memory all grey and bleak, of cold rain and being forgotten at a bus stop. It was everything Nif was once, and sometimes was still.
“That’s my favourite,” Morris admitted quietly beside her. “It resonates somehow. It was the one I started with and yet it took the longest to finish.”
“It’s beautiful, Morris. All your work,” Nif glanced around at the surrounding planets, larger than life, “is just beautiful. You should be proud of yourself.”
“This is who I chose to be,” Morris said, and his smile, soft and trembling, transformed him into a different man. “One day I’ll quit my day job. Go somewhere far away and just paint. Inks and oils are in my blood. Unless I have a paint brush in my hand, I’m just existing until the moment I do.”
“Thank you for sharing this with us,” Nif said and the man shrugged bashfully and moved back into the shadows, watching them look at his works with a fierce sense of joy shining in his eyes.