“Earth to Nif, where’s your head this morning?” Clare knocked on Nif’s forehead and she jerked from her daze. “Did you go on a date?” The older woman was dressed in a bright green and yellow dress, far too light for the sudden cold snap, so she had a dark blue cloak slung over her shoulders for warmth. Soon when Clare shifted for her afternoon naps, it would be more and more difficult for her to wake up and Nif would have to start setting an alarm beside her.
“Not exactly,” Nif said. She inhaled the spicy aroma of her chai latte. To Bean or Not To Bean, of course, fresh from her second trip to the cafe because she was too distracted to actually do anything productive. Her lips twitched into a smile, her mind again wandering to the dozen or so text messages she’d shared with Oliver.
He had been sharing random images he’d come across as he went about his business, whatever that business actually was. They hadn’t gotten that far in their back and forth to talk about anything personal. Mostly they stuck to unimportant things. Like how he liked his coffee -- black like his soul -- and his favourite form of amusement was seeing poor examples of grammar. One of the photos he sent was a street sign saying:
Wildlife
Drive Slowly
Which he thought was hilarious, until Nif pointed out that the wildlife could very well drive if they had a large, dexterous shift form. The meme he replied with was a dog wearing sunglasses driving a car.
Nif was dying to tell somebody and Sapha had no interest whatsoever in sex or dating, for herself or for others. It was probably what made her so good at her job. Rarely did she let her emotions get in the way of telling it how it was, and apparently people liked that for film reviews. Nif never really could understand how she could divorce her emotions from a story. If a story didn’t tug your heartstrings, then how could it be worth your time?
“Spill the beans, missy,” Clare said, perching on the edge of Nif’s desk and leaning in close.
“Well, I went to a support group last night -- you know, for people like me -- and I met this guy there. About my age, cute in a geeky kind of way, and really sweet. He and his friend Moira -- you’d like her -- are so lovely and I left feeling…”
“Happy?” Clare said, her face soft. “You’re radiating...contentment is not quite the right word. I’ve never seen you so hopeful, my dear. Will I get to meet this boy of yours?”
“Oh, he’s not my boy. Not by a long shot,” and Nif tucked her hair behind her ears, a lying tell her mother would recognise.
“But you hope he’ll be. I can tell these things.”
“Funny. That’s what Yong-shen said at the coffee shop.”
“Great minds, and all that,” Clare laughed.
“Except she kept going on about bears. I’ve no idea what she means by that, though she’s adamant I’ll find out soon enough.”
Leon poked his head around the door into the office, his hair, for once, unkempt.
“Jennifer! There you are! Quick! You-know-who’s about to arrive. Can you make sure the consultation room is clear and put on a pot of tea? Biscuits? Do we even have biscuits?”
“I’ll sort out some morning tea,” Clare said, hopping up from Nif’s desk in a swirl of heavy material.
“Great. Good. Thanks.” Leon caught his reflection in the window glass and he madly straightened his suit.
“Are you a fan,” Nif asked, baffled and amused at his behaviour and a delightful flush darkened his cheeks.
“What gave it away? I’ve only spoken with him on the phone before. Is it really obvious?”
“Stand still,” Nif said, stepping forward with a confidence that surprised even her. The support group last night had infused a kind of powerful magic in her. She suspected by the end of the week it’ll all be used up and she’d be just as worn out and exhausted with the world, but right now she barely hesitated to reach up and straighten his tie.
“Thanks,” Leon murmured, his gaze lingering briefly on her face before they snapped back towards the door. “I’ll meet him in the foyer and escort him up. Can you prepare the consultation room?”
“Sure.” Nif watched him go, her stomach all a flutter like she’d swallowed a handful of fireflies.
The consultation room was tidy after Pavel’s enthusiastic shredding yesterday. A table that could seat six was empty except for a carafe of water, six glasses and a stack of Cliff Salem’s published novels. She’d never gotten around to reading her own copies of the Fragmented Chronicles, but last night she’d dug out The Atrium, the first novella he wrote, from her bookshelf and had a flick through before bed. The writing was still as delightful as she remembered — a relief since she’d be working with the author now and she had never been good at lying.
A low level hum of excitement, like electricity sparking in her veins, had her restacking the books on the table to their best effect. Silly since they were his books, but she wanted to make a good first impression.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“This way, Mr Salem. We’ve set up a work space for our initial discussions, but later we will provide a private office.” Leon’s voice was muffled through the door, but Nif could tell he was at his finest. Confident yet friendly, a lord of his domain, his excitement disguised beneath smooth professionalism.
“It’s a pleasure to see behind the scenes, Leon. And please, you can call me Cliff.”
Hang on. Why was that voice so familiar? Nif craned her head to see through the glass front wall, but the frosted panels meant she could only see the lower half of their legs. Leon’s were encased in checkered blue suit trousers while Mr Salem was in dark dress jeans and converses. The same green converses Oliver was wearing last night at the support group.
“Here we are,” Leon announced and opened the door into the consultation room, Nif frozen in dismay, one of Salem’s — Oliver’s — books still in her hands.
Oliver stepped into the room first, his lips already creased into a crooked smile, and their eyes met. He blinked. Baffled. His smile instinctively grew but Nif could tell the moment he realised the conflict of Nif being here, in this space, and who he was meant to be.
Nif stood, setting the book in her hands down with a thump, and reached over the table to shake his hand.
“Mr Salem. I’m Jennifer Saito. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said and smiled through gritted teeth. He winced.
“Ah, yes. Me too. To meet you, I mean. A pleasure.”
A small part of Nif was glad he was rattled. He should be. He’d had plenty of moments last night to tell her he was a writer. Was that why Moira nudged him when Nif said she worked in publishing? Who else knew he was actually Cliff Salem, up and coming author who was not only a stellar writer, but prolific? Every publisher’s wet dream.
Leon glanced from Nif and Oliver. “Well, I’ll see if Clare needs any help sorting some morning tea. Cliff, Jennifer will be at your disposal while you’re working here with us. If you have any questions, she’ll be able to answer them all and more. I’ll give you a little time to get to know each other.”
As soon as Leon closed the door behind him, Nif sat down and crossed her arms, scowling fiercely at Oliver or Cliff or whoever he actually was.
“Isn’t this a coincidence,” Oliver said, settling into the chair opposite. He rested his hands on the table, lightly drumming the surface with his fingers.
“You never said anything last night about being an author.”
“I didn’t really intend to keep it from you. It’s just, ever since I got The Atrium published, people began to expect things from me so it’s easier to keep my author self and my real self separate.” He slumped into his chair, but Nif refused to give him any sympathy. All the texting they’d been doing last night and this morning had to be more than just being friends. Nif didn’t have the greatest experience with flirting, but she could recognise it at least.
“Sometimes they want me to tell them spoilers or create a character based on them,” Oliver continued. “Other times they want free books or want to use me to get to my agent. It’s exhausting and it just became easier to be two people. Cliff the author and Oliver the nobody.”
“So who should I refer to you as then?”
Oliver shifted uncomfortably, eyes down.
“Best to keep to Cliff while we’re at work, but outside…”
“Wait, Cliff Salem is a shifter. It says so in his… your bio. Is that a lie, too? To improve your author image?”
“Not exactly,” Oliver said hesitantly and then everything clicked.
“You never said you couldn’t shift. I just assumed. And why wouldn’t I? You’re attending a partial and non-shifting support group, but you said yourself you go for Moira. Hell, you said you were the group’s mascot. What, you’re the token shifter?”
“Wait, Nif, it’s not what you think. Well, it is kind of…”
“Clare managed to wrangle up some muffins, Jennifer.” Leon backed into the room, his arms full of paper bags and a tray of coffees. “From your favourite coffee shop!”
Nif jumped up to help him, refusing to meet Oliver’s eyes.
As she took the coffees from him, Leon leant close and asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
He studied her intently and nodded, but Nif suspected Leon saw far more than he let on.
“Well, Cliff. Today’s meeting will mostly be reviewing expectations as previously discussed and then if both parties are happy, we will have the contracts signed. Your agent will be joining us shortly.”
The muffins were dust in Nif’s mouth. She focused on taking minutes and keeping the water carafe full and fetching additional paperwork. Oliver…Cliff had been keen to join Never Archives after the publisher had bought a small, but promising, film production company that specialised in science fiction and fantasy for television. Leon had been thrilled to have someone of Cliff’s background and fame on board, but one of Cliff’s requirements was to write all the scripts himself. There was a tight deadline for the first script (with some pressure that if Cliff couldn’t meet it, then other writers will be brought in to assist) and so Leon’s promise of a workspace within a busy office and a personal assistant to cater to Cliff’s needs had been the key selling point for jumping across to Never Archives.
When Leon called an end to their meeting, only two hours had passed, but it felt like it had been days.
Oliver left with his agent, all smiles but there was a stiffness to him that hinted at his unhappiness.
“Have you two met before,” Leon said after he’d walked Oliver out.
“Once. In passing. It just surprised me. I didn’t know he was a writer.”
“Will it be a problem if you continue working with him?”
Nif’s ears burnt hot as Leon bore his full attention down on her, and she casually finger combed her hair to cover them. “No, sir. I can be professional.”
“Of that I have no doubts, and please Jennifer, call me Leon.”
“Sorry, Leon. I’ll break the habit, I promise.”
“How about we try over lunch?” Leon looked up through his lashes, his smile charming. “I could die for some fresh sushi. Or if it’s not to your taste, we could always try the Vietnamese place down on Kent Street.”
“I love sushi,” Nif blurted.
“It’s settled then. Grab your coat and I’ll let Clare know to hold my calls.” Leon bounded off to find Clare and Nif followed, chewing her lip in thought. Her phone vibrated and she knew without looking it would be Oliver. Would it be an apology or more excuses?
She left her phone in her pocket.