Chapter Nine
Scarlett
“Scarlett? There’s something for you at the office.”
I’ve just finished a Jiu Jitsu class, and I pause on the way to the showers, sweating profusely and red-faced. Maria, who’s in charge of our stores and who orders in our food and other supplies, hovers in the doorway, eyes dancing.
“I’ll just have a shower,” I tell her, “and then I’ll pop over.”
“You might want to go now,” she says, “before the whole commune sees them.”
“Them?”
She just winks at me and walks away.
Frowning, I grab a towel and loop it around my neck, then head outside. It’s a cooler day today, as if Tāwhirimātea—the god of the weather—and Rūaumoko—the god of the seasons—decided that my foolishness yesterday marked the end of summer, and today is the first day of autumn.
I wince as I step down from the retreat building. I should have worn looser yoga pants. I’m still tender underneath, and these ones keep irritating my sore skin.
I scowl as I head across the green toward the main office, dying a little inside at the memory of what transpired in the gazebo. I was such an idiot. I assumed that because I ride a bike and use tampons I wasn’t going to bleed, and I’d hoped he wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t had sex before. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I groan silently at the thought of how I squealed, how quickly he shot back, and the shocked look on his face as he saw the blood. The poor guy. It wasn’t his fault. No young guy is going to turn down a girl when she offers herself on a plate to him like that .
No, it’s my fault that I feel embarrassed and humiliated, not his. It was actually rather sweet that he refused to continue. I think. Maybe he was just so turned off by the whole virgin thing that it killed any desire he had. My spirits sink even lower, and tears prick my eyes. But I cried enough last night; I’m not going to give in to self-pity again. I lift my chin, push open the door to the office, and go inside.
Various people take turns manning the desk here. I fill in from time to time. You have to answer the phone, take messages, watch over the library and computers, accept deliveries, and generally help out with the day-to-day running of the business of the commune and the retreat.
Today Lou is on the desk, but she’s not alone; Ana’s here too with a couple of her young friends, as well as Richard, the leader of the Elders, and George.
They’re all looking at something sitting on the table in the corner. As I walk in, they part and stop talking.
“Hello,” Ana says with a mischievous grin.
I don’t reply, because the object on the table has rendered me speechless. It’s a bouquet of red roses. Oh my God, how many are there? There must be three dozen at least, and they’re absolutely beautiful, half open and half in bud, glistening with water droplets. They’re wrapped in cellophane, and I think they’ve come in the vase because I don’t think it belongs to the commune—it’s round and glass and painted with more red roses.
“They came with a card,” Lou says, passing it to me.
I take it. The front bears one word—my name, Scarlett, and above it someone has hand-drawn a fancy red heart. My face heating, I open the envelope and take out the card. Like the envelope, the card also bears one word: Orson. Inside the O, someone has drawn another red heart.
Richard takes the card out of my hand, and the others look at it. At the commune there’s little privacy, and we’re used to sharing everything. I don’t have any secrets from Ana or any of the others. But for maybe the first time in my life, I hate the fact that they’ve all seen what suddenly feels like a very private message.
“Ooh,” Ana says. “Orson!”
“Orson Cavendish?” Richard asks. “What’s he doing sending you flowers?”
“Hmm,” George says, eyes gleaming.
“Is it a business gesture or a personal thing?” Lou asks .
“No kisses,” says one of the other girls. “Business?”
“You don’t send roses for business,” the other girl says. “Or put a heart on the card.”
“He wants to buy the Waiora,” Richard tells them, frowning. “That’s all. He’s trying to flatter you.”
“That's not it,” Ana says impatiently. “He likes her. It was written all over his face when he came here.”
I blush even more. “That’s not true.”
“You can’t go out with him,” one of the girls says. “He’s a capitalist pig who’s only interested in money.”
“He’s not,” Ana protests, “you obviously didn’t see him the other day. He’s gorgeous, and he’s really nice.”
“Don’t let his looks distract you from the fact that he’s here for business,” Richard warns. “He’s well known in the city for being ruthless and cutthroat. He’s not the sort of guy who’d send flowers without having a seven-point plan in place.”
I swallow hard, thinking about how tenderly he kissed me, and how he held me when I cried. Was it all a ploy to get around me? Surely not? But then he himself said you’re the naivest person I’ve ever met.
“Can I talk to you for a moment?” George asks me. He exchanges a look with Richard before gesturing with his head for me to follow him into the library.
After taking the card from Richard, I follow George, and he closes the door behind him. The library is empty this early in the day, with most of the women in the retreat busy with exercise classes or workshops. I stand in front of the shelf of gardening books and look at George awkwardly. He worked closely with my father, and I know Dad trusted him implicitly, but Orson’s comment about it not being a great idea to have one person in charge of a company’s finances has sown a seed of doubt deep inside me.
Who should I trust more, though? A guy I’ve grown up with, who’s part of the commune, who my dad loved and trusted, and who’s been nothing but supportive of me and my family? Or a ruthless businessman who’s only interested in acquiring my land, and who’d no doubt resort to any sneaky tactic to get what he wanted?
Except I don’t believe Orson is like that. I think he sent me the flowers because he likes me, and he was sorry that he hurt me, and he regrets what happened and how it ended.
Or am I being naive again ?
“I think we can use this,” George says.
I blink. “Use what?”
He flicks his fingers toward the office. “The flowers. His interest in you.”
“So now you think he’s interested? That it’s not just about the Waiora?”
He tips his head from side to side. “Can’t it be both? And can’t we use that to our advantage?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I think you should encourage his interest and use it to push for more money.”
I stare at him, genuinely shocked. “Are you serious?”
His expression hardens. “Do I have to tell you again about our situation?”
“No…”
“Do you want the commune to close, Scarlett? Do you want us to go under?”
“Of course not,” I say sharply.
“We all have to do what we can to make this work,” he says. “It’s what your father would have wanted.”
“He wouldn’t have wanted me to pretend to like Orson Cavendish to get his money.”
“I think that would be exactly what he would have wanted.”
That stuns me into silence, because I realize he might be right. He’d have been horrified to think I like Orson, and furious at what I’d let happen at the gazebo. But what better way to get revenge on Spencer Cavendish than for me to pretend to like his son in order to push him for more money? I know he’d have thought that was most amusing.
Maybe it would just be playing the game. Orson pretends to like me to get the Waiora; I pretend to like him to get more cash. We all know it’s happening, so where’s the harm?
But the thought makes acid rise from my stomach, and I press my hand over my heart. “I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this.”
His expression turns impatient. “I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do. You’re a young woman and he’s a good-looking guy—it’s hardly a chore. I’m just saying you should play along with him a bit. Let him take you out to dinner, wine and dine you. Turn the charm on. Come on, Scarlett, you’re not fifteen anymore. You’re a woman of the world now, and you know how men work. ”
My face is so hot you could cook eggs on it. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but I’m not going to prostitute myself, I don’t care how many million dollars it’s for.”
He rolls his eyes. “Scarlett…”
I turn around and walk out of the office, pick up the vase and flowers, stride past the others who are still standing there, and go out into the sunlight.
“Scarlett.” George comes out after me, Richard on his heels. “We agreed last night that we will sell the Waiora to Orson for seventeen and a half million, providing he puts the land in a trust like he said, and that we get to decide over what developments he makes to our side of the pond. So I suggest you deliver that news to him and do your best to convince him to raise his offer.”
I stand there with the two men looking at me, the smell of the roses rising to my nostrils, my chest heaving with indignation. I could refuse. Say I’m not going to play a part in this ridiculous charade. Tell them how insulted I am that they think I would practically sell myself to save the commune.
But I don’t want it to close. What would I do if it did? I’d have to join the real world, which I find incredibly scary. A world where the only things that people care about are money and designer labels and fast cars and fancy restaurants and who’s posting what on Instagram. It’s not my world at all, and I would end up like the butterfly Orson mentioned flying into the rotor blades of a lawnmower and being chopped up into little pieces.
“All right,” I say stiffly. “I’ll go and see him.”
They both nod with satisfaction. “Thank you,” Richard says. “Good luck.”
The two of them turn and walk back into the office, passing Ana as she comes out. She glances at them, then walks up to me, studies my face, and asks, “Are you okay?”
I force myself to smile. Even though she’s only twenty-one and therefore only three years younger than I, sometimes it feels as if the two of us are a completely different generation. She has bought herself a phone and is more au fait with social media and the things that are important to young people in this day and age. Both of my feet remain firmly in the commune, but she has one foot in the real world, and even talks about getting a job in the city. Despite this, she’s struggled more than I have after our father’s death. She was his baby, and although he did his best to protect both of us from the harsh realities of the world, he was more open and honest with me because I was the eldest, so I’ve always felt the need to protect her.
“I’m fine,” I say. “They want me to go and see Orson, that’s all. They’ve decided to sell the Waiora.”
She studies my face. She knows how I feel about selling the pool, but she didn’t want to go with me when I scattered Mum’s ashes, and she isn’t a part of the healing program, so it doesn’t hold quite the same meaning for her.
“Are you okay with that?” she asks.
I look away, across the duck pond. What do I say to that? The whole issue is now knotted up inside me like a tangled ball of wool, and what happened yesterday has only complicated matters.
“They are beautiful,” she says, bending to sniff one of the roses.
“I’ll go and see him later,” I say reluctantly. I haven’t told her about the Elders wanting an extra two and a half million for the Waiora, and I’m not going to, because that means admitting what they want me to do, and I know she won’t approve.
“All right,” she says. “You can tell me all about it tonight.” She kisses my cheek, then heads off.
I go home and place the vase with the roses in the middle of the coffee table in the living room. They are such a vibrant color, a true scarlet. Did he choose that shade on purpose? I take out the envelope, remove the card, and look at both my name and his name. Did he call a company and tell them what to put on there? Or did he write them personally? I brush my thumb across his name with the heart in the middle of the O. It’s true that he didn’t add any kisses. But if he just wanted to say sorry, why put the heart?
We have a landline, because my father used to work from home sometimes, so I go over, pick up the receiver, and dial the mobile number on the business card he gave me rather than his office number. It rings a few times, then goes to voicemail.
“It’s me,” I say, my heart racing. “Scarlett Stone, I mean. I… um… just wanted to say thank you for the flowers. And to tell you that I need to see you. For business reasons. Can I… um… make an appointment? I’m not sure whether you’d rather see me at your office in the CBD? Um… maybe you could let me know sometime. That would be great, thank you.” Jesus, could I waffle any more? I end the call, cursing myself, and head off to the bathroom to take a shower .
I’ve just got out when I hear the phone ringing in the living room. Wrapping a towel around me, I run through the house to answer it. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” he says. “Orson Cavendish.”
“Very funny,” I reply sarcastically. “Don’t mock me. I get nervous on the phone.”
He chuckles. “You liked the roses?”
“I did.”
“I went to three different florists to find one that sold the shade I wanted.”
For some reason, that makes me soften inside. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“You wrote the card?”
“Yeah. Took me an hour to come up with the message.”
That makes me laugh.
I walk across the room to look out of the window at the kids in the playground next to the duck pond. I feel suddenly and inexplicably shy.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
I fiddle with the catch on the window. “For what?”
“You know what for. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I feel really bad about that.”
My lips curve up. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Even so. If I’d have known… but even if I had… I mean…” He clears his throat. “I’ve never been someone’s first before.”
I straighten the curtain. “Really?”
“Really. So it took me by surprise for several reasons.” Voices sound in the background. “I can’t talk much now,” he says, “I’m due in a meeting, but I’ll be at the club around four this afternoon if you want to come over.”
“Are you sure? I just want to talk business, and I thought you’d rather do that at your office.”
“We do business at the club, too.”
“Oh yes, but not until midnight, right?”
“Normally, but you said you go to bed at seven, so…”
“Ten,” I say, laughing. “I’m not twelve years old.”
He chuckles again. “So you’ll come over?”
“Okay. ”
“I’ll see you then.”
“All right.”
He hesitates. Then he adds, “I look forward to it,” and ends the call.
I switch mine off and return it to its holder, then go over to the roses on the table and pick up the envelope and card. He wrote it himself. I brush my thumb over his name again, looking at the heart in the center.
Then I put it down and head off to get dressed.
*
In the afternoon, I help out in the retreat. It’s a non-profit organization and a registered charity, affiliated with the National Collective of Independent Women’s Refuges. It’s partially funded by the Ministry of Social Development, but relies mostly on donations, both monetary and of clothing and other items. We work with another refuge in the city, also set up by my father, and they run an office where people can drop off their unwanted stuff and a shop that sells everything on. Some of the members of the commune work in the shop and help with sorting, washing, and ironing the clothes. Ana does this a few days a week. But I prefer to stay in the commune and work in the retreat.
Today I help prepare lunch in the main refectory—pita breads loaded with lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes, grated carrot, olives, crumbled feta cheese, spinach, parsley, and an Italian dressing I make myself, along with some homemade coleslaw and air fryer French fries for whoever wants them.
Afterward, when everything’s washed and put away and the kids are back in the schoolroom, I take some of the women on a walk to the Waiora. We sit by the side of the pool, and I give them a guided meditation.
It’s quiet there, with no sign of any of Orson’s men, and I’m pleased about that, as a couple of the women are new to the retreat and very anxious and jumpy. For the first time, as we sit on the uneven ground around the water’s edge, I think about how nice it would be to have a gazebo like the one on the other side where Orson and I… no, not going to think about that. But it would be cool to have a small platform with comfortable outdoor bean bags to perch on, and maybe some screens we can pull around in case there are other people present .
Well, if we accept his offer to purchase the pool, he’s said he will pay for any developments, so maybe we should take him up on the offer. If I think about it from the angle that it will improve the experience for these women, it might help me justify accepting his help.
While we sit in silence, letting the autumn breeze drift across us, I try to clear my mind, but instead memories of the moment that I told him what we do at Kahukura creep into my mind. He teased me at first, suggesting we’d want fairy lights and ‘as much kale as you can eat’, but after I reacted angrily and explained we were actually a Women’s Refuge and highlighted the work we do at the retreat, he looked genuinely shocked. He didn’t know. That interests me. Had Spencer Cavendish not told his son about what we do there? I find that interesting.
Well, it’s three fifteen now, so I guess I should start thinking about making our way back. I want to get changed before I head over to see Orson. Only because I want to smarten myself up for our business meeting.
I don’t want to make myself look nice for him.
That doesn’t enter my head at all.