Chapter 12 Artist
CHAPTER TWELVE
artist
REY
Beanie’s wet nose and soft fur on my naked leg wake me up at my makeshift desk. It’s the fourth night in a row I’ve fallen asleep studying instead of going to bed. I stretch and wince. My back aches, and my mind is buzzing with new information.
After Horace called on Monday and said he’d got an intern spot approved, I was surprised it’d gone so fast.
“He’s desperate for good artists,” Nia divulged when I came in to sign the contract on the same day. “I reminded him it’s a freebie. You’re a fast learner, already in the system, and know the Infinio staff. Plus it’s a temp contract. Easy to get approved.”
I smiled at her. “Thanks.”
She waved it off, but I knew she didn’t have to do that for me, and it warms me knowing I have her in my life.
Not wasting a minute of my temporary intern role, I’ve spent every waking moment since signing the contract focused on it.
I’m learning about concept processes and digital painting workflows, shadowing artists who’ve worked at Infinio for years, watching tutorials (even in my spare time), and using new tools.
I’m about to implode with information overload, but I’m loving it.
My brain feels lit up, resurfacing memories of forgotten artistic skills and techniques that are finally useful again.
It’s the first time in a long time I’m sketching.
Being in the art department every day, surrounded by their work and conversations, and with the memories I have of the magical scenery at The Orion, ideas keep forming that demand to come to life. I’ve started taking my notebook with me, like I used to.
I am an artist again.
If I hadn’t been so busy, I might’ve spent more time staring at my phone, wondering why Robin isn’t texting me back. Which is better than me delving into the crushing disappointment that threatens to take over my chest.
Three messages without an answer must be sufficient proof that he’s now ghosting me.
It sucks like all hell, but it’s for the best if he’s not into it after all (tell that to the knot in my stomach).
Friday morning, I arrive at the office before anyone else on the art team, ready to take on another day and do my best to be worthy of being here.
I love the office early in the morning. The late May sun creeps up just between the buildings outside, making the leaves and light dance on the frosted windows on this side of the building.
“Early bird,” a voice says from behind me, and I jump, turning to see Silas, one of the team members I met this week. He’s worked here for three years and won some sort of big deal digital art thing he likes to remind us all if it’s been over twenty minutes since last time it came up.
“What’s your story, Rey?” he asks, leaning on my desk next to me. “You’re doodling a lot.” He peers over my notebook, getting into my personal space. He’s wearing way too much deodorant.
“Yes,” I answer lightly, hiding my revulsion with his choice of antiperspirant. “I have ideas and need to draw them as they come to me so they don’t get all jumbled up.”
I close my notebook. Something in me wants to protect it from him, although there’s nothing he’d be able to do with it. It’s my style.
“Did you draw these?” he asks, stroking a finger down my upper arm, over my intricate black and grey wildflower tattoo. I move back, away from his touch, but don’t comment on it.
“Yes, I did,” I answer, my tone clipped.
“Alright,” he says, smirking. What the fuck does that face mean?
I snatch up my notebook and leave to do some more brainstorming over coffee.
It seems impossible to get away from this type of guy, whether I’m in a bar or in an office.
In a group of such diversity as this one, there’s still the guy who feels he’s got all the privilege to do as he pleases.
Ugh, just like the man at the bank when I worked as a secretary after I quit painting.
Mum couldn’t believe I’d waste an opportunity at a bank…
I stomp over to the coffee machine and, in an over-emotional state, I can’t stop myself from writing one last message to Robin although I know I shouldn’t. It just pisses me off that men think they can behave however they fucking please.
I know I shouldn’t write this as you’re clearly ghosting me. I can’t stop this wild spin you’ve set me off on, and I thought you felt the same way, so if you change your mind and stop being a silly man, I’m here. But don’t think for too long
That wasn’t half as angry as I wanted it to be, but I’ve sent it. Bollocks to you, Robin. One evening together, and he’s where my mind goes when it gets a moment’s break from everything I’m trying to learn.
To my relief, I find Tolu, Kaia, and Noor in the lounge area, talking animatedly over a laptop. Their energy immediately refills my joy.
“Morning,” I chirp. “Playing Grunge?” Yep, I’ve done my research on Infinio’s games.
“Yes,” Noor answers, and the group shifts, making space for me.
“I’ve not played it yet. Is it as good as Dragon Trials?”
I don’t even know for sure if the game is good, I’m just taking everyone’s word for it. It’s too dark and earth-toned for my taste.
“It’s pretty good. We’re studying the style, we have to make a prototype as part of a fun competition between the development pods,” Tolu says, wiggling their eyebrows.
“I recognise what Horace talked about. The lighting, level of detail, colour palette—it’s all consistent with Dragon Trials and the others. It’s a solid Infinio visual.”
“What’s the prototype you’re making?” I ask, keen to understand more about how it all works. “Do you need any concept art to kick you off?” I’m half joking, but I also wrap my arms more tightly around my notebook.
“Sure, why not? Do you have something to share?”
I flick through some of my sketches, explaining the environment, the last elf-like survivors, and the surrounding magic.
“I’m practicing drawing it all up on the tablet. What do you think?”
The three budding game developers look at each other and back at my notebook that’s covered in my sketches. “It sounds really fun,” Noor says, flicking through some of the pages.
“I’m sensing a but.”
“But it’s not Infinio’s style, is it? It’s more stylised, or were you thinking of making it look realistic?”
“No, like this,” I point to the illustrated elves, and my game-version of Beanie, but I know he’ll look much better in movement.
“But we have to do it in the style Damian set,” Tolu says, scratching their chin with a blue-painted nail matching their curly hair.
“But why, though? I know I’m new at this, but don’t people get tired of playing the same games again and again? The same dreadful colour palette, angry faces, and scary creatures?”
“The games are popular.”
“Damian is not,” I say, and the trio nods slowly.
“Why not take a stand against that creep? Why are we keeping his legacy?” I’m taking a leap here, and words fall out of my mouth a wee bit faster than I intended.
But it can’t all be set in stone, I’m sure.
Horace saw my portfolio, and he knows well it’s not the same style.
“That’s Mark’s call to make,” Kaia says, standing up. “Does Horace know you think this?”
“Not explicitly…”
“I’m here for it,” Noor says. “It’s just a prototype. Let’s have some fun with it.” He shrugs, and Kaia bites her bottom lip. “How soon can you get this drawn up with colour?”
“Umm, I’m just learning the tools, but I can get you a first pass next week? You can use my sketches in the meantime?”
They take photos of my sketches with their phones. I’m thrilled and a bit scared. They like my idea, but will they be allowed to use it?
“How are you doing over there in the creative corner?” Tolu asks.
Tolu, Kaia, and Noor are all in the middle area with the development pods. They’ve got the tall floor to ceiling windows and a view of the Thames, but I enjoy the colourful corner I’m in. It’s got art plastered everywhere, and it puts a smile on my face.
“With Mark moving down to sit with Horace and you lot, I’d imagine it’ll change a bit. He’s quite intimidating, isn’t he?” Tolu says, grimacing.
“I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t seen him all week,” I say.
“Seriously? He’s just moved into the office behind your corner.”
“What?”
“Have you not seen the people there all week setting it up? Frosting the windows?”
I take my coffee and rush back to my corner to find out what the hell they’re talking about. Yes, the walls are partly frosted, but standing at my desk I can’t see him. My wall is covered with drawings.
Carefully, I round the corner and stoop to check who and what is in there, and nearly bounce out of my jumpsuit when I see him sitting there behind the glass wall.
Fuck.
I step back, out of sight.
Was it him, though? I only saw the expensive-looking leather shoes and assumed.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I crouch down again. This time I peer up at him past the frosted section, to be certain it’s really him. And sure enough, there he is. In the glass office next to Horace’s. He’s just sitting there, frowning at his phone, unaware of his curious neighbour.
I sneak back to my desk, thinking through the last three days. How did I not notice this change? Did he just move in there this morning?
The dragons on the wall glare down at me; they’re hiding him. Thankfully.
But I need to find out…
Peering through the cracks of the taped-up art, I can’t help but wonder, can he see me?