Hi there. You work in publishing so you must love reading. What’ve you been reading recently?

Another Tender message from the Hound of Baskerville. Nif really needed to delete her profile. She was still getting responses every couple of days -- most from this particular user -- and while a small part of her was telling her to not put all her eggs in one basket, the only person she really wanted to spend time with was Oliver.

Nif replied to a message from Clinton confirming she’d be at the support group tomorrow night. This one would be the first since Morris’s death and Clinton had offered his home instead of the usual school hall for the meeting.

She shoved her phone back into her pocket and did up the buttons of her coat, just in time to hear Leon beep his horn.

“See you, Sapha!” Nif shouted as she headed towards the door, her housemate lounging on the couch as usual, empty bagel wrappers from her late night binge strewn around her. One day she’d weasel out Sapha’s secret for staying so healthy despite the lack of exercise and poor eating habits.

“You’ve got that pepper spray?” Sapha called back.

“Yes mother,” Nif huffed.

“If only I was as cool as your mum!”

“True. I’ll message you when I’m leaving work,” Nif promised, locking the front door behind her.

Morris’s funeral had been over two weeks ago and things had gone back to a strange new normal. Her grief had softened and her nights weren’t plagued as often with bloody eye sockets or dark alleys. It helped being busy and so what if she was taking sleeping pills? No one could blame her.

“Good morning, Jennifer,” Leon greeted, handing over a small paper bag smelling like heaven and a keepcup that had manifested sometime last week. It lived in Leon’s car and matched her work one. Nif inhaled the cinnamon scent of her chai latte.

“This is from To Bean or Not to Bean! Don’t tell me you drove all the way there and back again!”

“Then I won’t,” he said, looking over his shoulder as he indicated and turned the car onto the street. “I had to go in early so figured I may as well grab you some breakfast on the way.”

“You didn’t need to pick me up. I could have caught the bus.”

“Really, Jennifer,” he said, rolling the ‘r’ of her name. “I don’t mind. Any excuse to get out of the office.”

Nif peeked into the paper bag and wriggled in her seat at the sight of a freshly baked walnut and chocolate muffin, the top crispy with caramelised sugar.

“You’re the best!” The flavours exploded on her tongue and for one blissful moment, all her worries were swept aside.

Her phone vibrated again. Another message from the Hound-of-Baskerville, but she ignored it.

“The team coordinator meeting is on Friday. They’ve requested a report on the new script writing division. Think our writer in residence is ready to give a preliminary report?”

Nif disguised her grimace by taking a sip of her chai latte. “That soon?”

“The ongoing budget needs approval. If Mr Salem isn’t ready to show something, anything, then they could decide not to further invest in this project.”

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

“Geez, no pressure then.”

Once in the office, Nif was mildly annoyed but mostly amused when Leon insisted on escorting her to her desk as if tiny ninjas were preparing to leap out of cupboards and steal her out the window.

“This really isn’t necessary,” Nif grumbled. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Leon just shrugged, “I’ll pop by before lunch. See if Cliff has any questions about the Friday meeting and soothe any ruffled feathers.”

“That’s not work appropriate language, Leon,” Clare tsked from her own desk. “Don’t make me request another sensitivity training session.”

Leon made a face, murmured a quick apology and dashed off for another “very important manager’s meeting” that Nif knew he’d been reluctant to attend.

“Mr Salem arrived before I did this morning,” Clare continued, her eyes bright as they followed Leon’s retreating back. “He hasn’t come out yet so you may need to check he hasn’t been crushed beneath all those white boards.”

“Argh, he’s going to be a mess once he hears about the meeting. Here’s me, off to play nursemaid.”

The office assigned to Oliver had transformed into a maze of whiteboards covered in timelines, character lists and concept maps that would put a criminal mastermind to shame. The central meeting table had been divided in two. One half was pushed up against the far wall and covered in reference books, two laptops, a printer and a random assortment of artifacts from a fan-made wizard staff with a honking great big ball of blue and gold resin to clay character models strewn across a large, detailed map of the Fragmented world. The second was barren in comparison with just an additional two laptops (one for Oliver and one for Nif) and a neat stack of notebooks.

It took a moment to spot Oliver, not stuck beneath any of the piles of accumulated items, but cross-legged on the ground with a pair of scissors in one hand and a print out of the most recent scene he was working on spread out before him.

“Morning!” Nif greeted brightly. “What are you doing?”

Oliver jumped, scowling as he barely avoided cutting skin.

“Trying to sort out this dialogue. The order isn’t right.”

“You’ll figure it out.” Nif watched him snip up another piece of dialogue and rearrange the slips of paper he’d already cut up. After a few quiet moments watching him work, Nif reluctantly broke the silence. “By the way, how do you feel about giving an update to the higher ups on Friday?”

“An update?” Oliver couldn’t have looked more horrified than if Nif had told him Moira was dropping her PhD and moving to a deserted island without him.

“Just an incy-wincy little one,” Nif promised. “I’ll prepare most of it and you’ll just have to show up, smile and fill in any gaps.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be ready.” Oliver almost stabbed himself in the face when he went to run his hand through his hair. He dropped the scissors and gestured around the room. “The script is a holey, plotty mess and I can’t decide if I want to work on the big picture things or focus on the details because it feels like the details are shaping the big picture things, but then am I just getting tunnel vision? I’m not just writing one episode script, I’m writing a dozen and I don’t want to be one of those author’s everyone hates because the television adaption doesn’t do the novels justice. What if they want a second season? What if I don’t include a character in the first season because I can’t include everyone and then I need them for a future season?”

Nif crouched down in front of him, careful of all the paper slips and grabbed his shoulders firmly.

“Oliver, stop it. You’re overthinking this.”

“This?”

“All of it. The scripts, this dialogue, the meeting on Friday.” Nif gave him a little shake. “How do you eat an elephant?”

“Wait, what? An elephant? A shifter or the actual animal? Because I don’t know about the ethics…”

“Doesn’t matter. You eat an elephant one bite at a time. Now, let’s sort out this dialogue and then we can review your current project plan. Once you’ve re-centred, I’ll prep Friday’s meeting notes and we can then go over them together, okay?”

“Thanks, Jennifer.”

“It’s what they pay me for,” Nif replied.

“Not enough by far.” He hesitated and Nif prepared herself for another pep talk when he blushed, tugging the hair behind his ear. “Look, you can say no and I would completely understand, but I was wondering…” but he didn’t have a chance to finish. The fire alarm went off and by the time they all trekked outside, Clare leading the way in her bright yellow hard hat with the words “Fire Warden” written across the front, the moment had passed. Just a drill, but Nif couldn’t help but wonder if it was bad timing or the universe trying to tell her something.