Chapter Twenty-One
Scarlett
I finish off my champagne, and Kingi brings me another.
“It’ll be okay,” Marama says, seeing me trembling. “Don’t worry.”
It’s impossible not to, though. I feel as if I’ve thrown a hand grenade into the Cavendish family, and it’s detonating somewhere, and all I can do is wait to pick the pieces of shrapnel out of me when it’s done.
“I feel awful,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Yes, you should,” Kingi states firmly. “This stupid family feud has gone on for far too long. Orson doesn’t say anything now, but I know it upsets him that his father has refused to talk about it. Spencer is a cold fish, though.”
“Aw, don’t be mean,” Marama says. “He’s always been very nice to me.”
Kingi chuckles. “Sorry. To be fair, he had a tough childhood, and I guess he’s just erected a barrier to protect himself.”
“Tough in what way?” I ask.
“He came from a dirt-poor family,” Marama replies.
My eyebrows rise. “Oh. I didn’t realize. I assumed the family was old money.”
“No,” Marama says, “not at all. Spencer’s father worked in a meat processing factory. He and his wife had six children. Spencer was the oldest boy. His father was an abusive alcoholic who used to knock the wife around. As he grew up, Spencer used to try to protect her, and the dad beat him pretty badly on several occasions, I think.”
Kingi nods. “Hospitalized him twice. In the end the authorities intervened and put the kids into foster homes. They had to break up the kids into two homes. Spencer and his younger brothers were put into one home and the girls into another. Spencer says that’s when his fortunes were turned around. The couple who had the boys were wealthy and supportive and just really nice human beings—I’ve met them.”
“He stayed in touch with them?” Marama asks.
“Yeah. The guy had had problems when he was young and someone helped him in the same way, so it was a sort of pay-it-back kind of thing, I think. He got the boys into a decent school, encouraged them with their schoolwork, and when he saw that Spencer had a talent for figures, he got him extra tuition and pushed him hard.”
“He got Eleanor pregnant when he was really young though, didn’t he?” Marama says.
Kingi nods again. “He was only eighteen I think. But Peter and Joyce—his foster parents—paid for everything, and Peter pushed Spencer to go to university even though he was a young dad. Spencer flourished there. He discovered he had a talent for investment, a kind of sixth sense for what would be profitable. He created an online financial advisory service in his second year of university, and he invested all the money he made through it. Then when he graduated, he created Cavendish Investments, Cavendish Property Developments, and several other companies. Started on his own, gradually grew his staff. Made an absolute fortune over the years. He’s totally a self-made man.”
“So why doesn’t Orson work for him?” I ask, puzzled.
He tips his head from side to side. “He was always keen that Orson made his own way in the world. He wanted his children to be independent. I think he’d have found Orson a role if he’d wanted, but right from when we were young at school, Orson and I would talk about setting up our own company. I think he wanted to impress his father and prove that he could do well on his own.”
“Fascinating,” Marama says. “Do you think Spencer is proud of him?”
“Of course,” Kingi replies. “But he’s not the type of guy who’s open with his affection or praise. Like I said, he’s a cold fish.”
Marama shrugs. “I don’t believe it’s because he doesn’t have feelings. I think he’s just learned over the years to keep them under control. And I admire that in a way. A man in his position.”
“Orson and I run companies and we’re not like robots.”
“Spencer isn’t a robot.”
“He’s totally a cyborg. The dude never smiles. ”
“Of course he does!”
“Well, he’ll smile at you,” Kingi says with a snort.
She blinks. “What do you mean?”
He just flicks his eyebrows up. Marama instantly turns scarlet.
I smile. “He is very handsome, and—” I stop as I see Orson and Spencer come out of the building, and all words flee my mind.
To my relief, neither of them looks angry. As they approach, someone stops Spencer to talk, so Orson joins us and sits beside me.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Fine.” He squeezes my hand. “It’s all good, don’t worry.” Despite his assurance, though, he’s frowning. “I’ll get us all another round of drinks,” he says, and gets to his feet again. “Kingi, give us a hand?”
“Sure.” Kingi rises and goes with him. Before they reach the bar, though, they stop and have a conversation. I wonder what that’s about?
“Hey.” It’s Helen, Orson’s sister. She joins us at the table, lowering down heavily with her pregnant belly. “Everything all right? I saw Dad and Orson walk off.”
“Yes, fine,” Marama says, presumably deciding to leave it to Orson to tell her what’s going on. “Having a good time?”
“The food is fantastic,” Helen says. “I just adore the chef here.”
“Those oysters are to die for.”
“I know, with the mignonette sauce.”
I’m not sure what that is, so I don’t say anything. I like these women, but I am conscious that they come from a very different world from me.
“Hello.” Spencer stops by the table. He slides his hands into the pockets of his chinos and hesitates. “Scarlett… I want to apologize. I was very rude earlier, and it was unforgivable, I’m so sorry.”
His apology surprises me and takes the wind out of my sails. Conscious of Marama and Helen watching, I say, “Oh… um… it’s okay.”
“I carry thirty years of resentment and hurt with me,” he says, “and it’s time I let it go. It’s clear that Orson is very fond of you, and you’re special to him. I’ve started off on the wrong foot with you, and I’m sorry about that.”
It’s true that Spencer was rude to me. And it’s also true that my father was hardly the sort to forgive and forget. But the Cavendishes aside, he also taught me and Ana that human beings make mistakes. We all say and do things we regret. And it’s the ability to forgive that makes a person worth knowing.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I understand.”
He looks surprised, as if he expected me to tell him to go fuck himself and storm off.
“Oh,” he says. “Right.”
“Why don’t you join us?” Marama suggests. “Orson and Kingi are getting drinks.”
He looks at me. “Is that okay with you?”
I nod, trying not to wince as I think about what Dad would say if he knew I was sharing a glass of champagne with Spencer Cavendish.
He pulls out a seat and sits. Then he smiles at Marama. Kingi’s right—he doesn’t smile often, but he’s definitely smiling at her. “So how long are you back for?” he asks.
“About a month,” she says. “Then I’m going to do some more traveling. I want to go to India, and Japan, and maybe the States.”
“Still concentrating on your art?” he asks.
“Yes. Going to galleries, and seeing some beautiful places and painting them too.”
Helen sips her champagne. “Are you going to exhibit your work here again in New Zealand?”
“Maybe. I’m seeing someone in Wellington next week to talk about it and show her my paintings.” Marama gives a look that says she’s nervous but excited.
I smile. “I hope they like them.”
“Of course they will,” Spencer says. “She’s terrific.”
She pushes him playfully. “Oh, you. You have no idea what my art is like.”
“Of course I do,” he says, amused. “I have one of your stained-glass works at home.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“I bought one from the exhibition you held last year.”
Her jaw drops. “I didn’t know you went to that.”
He just smiles.
Clearly flustered, she says, “Which one did you buy?”
“Parson-Bird,” he says. It’s a nickname for the tui bird, which has white feathers at its throat. “It’s beautiful,” he says to me and Helen. “All blues, greens, and purples. I’ve hung it in one of the windows and it throws colored light across the whole room. ”
“Clearly you’re a woman of many talents,” Spencer tells Marama. There’s a slight hint of mischief in his tone.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she replies, her tone flirtatious as she gathers her wits together.
His lips curve up. Luckily, at that point, Orson and Kingi show up with a tray of drinks.
“Everything all right?” he asks, handing them out.
“Fine,” I say, and smile. “We were talking about how Spencer bought one of Marama’s stained-glass pieces.”
“I’m not surprised,” Kingi says. “They’re fantastic.” He knocks his glass as he puts it down and half of it spills across the table. “Dammit.”
“I’ll get a cloth,” Marama says, and goes off to fetch one.
“She likes you,” Helen says to her father with a mischievous smile.
Spencer just gives his daughter a wry look.
“You should ask her out,” Helen says.
“She’s in her twenties,” Spencer says, in a voice that suggests she should change the subject.
“She’s twenty-nine,” she scoffs. “Nearly thirty.”
“Still too young for me,” he says. “And she’s also the daughter of my business associate.”
“And Kingi’s sister,” Orson points out.
“Kingi wouldn’t mind if Dad dated his sister,” Helen says, “would you?”
Kingi looks startled. “Er…”
“Enough.” Spencer throws her a glare, then picks up his glass. “Have a great evening.” He gets up and walks off.
Helen giggles. “Oops. I probably shouldn’t have teased him.”
Marama comes back with a cloth and starts mopping up Kingi’s spilled drink. She glances around and says, “What?”
“Nothing,” Helen says innocently. She meets my eyes and winks.
Orson snorts and changes the subject, and the conversation moves on. But I spot Marama’s glance drifting across the pool several times to where Spencer is sitting talking to a couple of men his own age. He doesn’t look back, though. He’s obviously very aware of their age difference and her family, and I can’t imagine he’d be interested in a romantic relationship with her.
*
It turns out to be a great evening. Orson introduces me to lots of people whose names I soon forget, most of whom are business associates. But it’s clear that some are good friends too, especially the two couples who join us at our table early in the evening. I soon realize the two guys are part of the Midnight Circle.
The first of his friends is called Mack Hart, a dark-haired, intense kinda guy with very unusual eyes that are blue speckled with green, like planet Earth. It turns out he’s the inventor of the fastest supercomputer in the country. I find it more than a little intimidating to be surrounded by all these smart guys, and I wouldn’t have said a word all evening if it wasn’t for his wife—a beautiful, curly-haired beauty called Sidnie, who seems very normal and is determined to include me in the conversation as often as possible.
Orson introduces the other guy as Oliver Huxley, although everyone seems to call him by his surname. He tells me that Huxley runs a business club in Auckland, and I remember then that this was the guy who approached Orson with the idea of setting up the first Midnight Club. He’s about Orson’s height and build, a bit stockier maybe, and incredibly affable, clearly used to putting people at ease.
His wife, Elizabeth, is around my height with dark hair in a sharp bob. It turns out that she runs some kind of company that does drug research, and they’ve won awards for the work they’ve done with IVF.
“What do you do?” Elizabeth asks me politely when Orson introduces us.
It’s impossible not to feel daunted by all these powerful people. But I’m proud of my work, so I lift my chin and say, “I help run the retreat at Kahukura.”
Her eyebrows rise. “For abused women, right? Part of Women’s Refuge?”
I nod, pleased she’s heard of it. “Yes. My father created it. I hold yoga and art classes there. We believe in the healing power of creativity.”
I wait for them to exchange mocking glances, but they don’t, and Huxley says, “Incredibly worthwhile work,” while Elizabeth adds, “I can only imagine how that helps them to rediscover their equilibrium.”
“That’s it exactly,” I say, pleased. “I like that description.”
“Important for them to regain power over their own lives, I would think,” Huxley says .
“Yes, very much so.” I relax after that, and Orson squeezes my hand, obviously recognizing that I feel better.
We eat, and drink, and after a while we have a swim, during which Orson lifts me in his arms and threatens to dunk me, but he ends up kissing me, prompting Kingi to yell from the table, “No petting in the pool,” to which Orson yells back, “You’re just jealous.”
After that, there’s more champagne, and Orson feeds me a variety of sumptuous desserts. I sit and listen to him and his friends and family chatting around the table, thinking about what a different life we lead. I really like everyone present—Kingi, Mack, Sidnie, Huxley, Elizabeth, Helen, Marama, and even Spencer, when he comes over for a while, as he’s very like Orson—quick-witted, smart, and warm when he chooses to be.
But I’m not sure I can ever see myself existing in their world. It’s impossible to change your core philosophy, and mine is so at odds with Orson’s. I look around at all this wealth—the women’s jewelry, their designer clothes even though they’re wearing shorts and tees, the sumptuous food and the expensive champagne, the numerous staff waiting on their every whim… And it’s so different from my life, where you’re encouraged to do everything yourself, where everyone is considered equal, and where extravagance is frowned on, because every extra cent spent on something opulent is money that could be used to help someone less fortunate than yourself.
I’m not saying it’s not attractive… There’s something wonderful about being waited on hand on foot, and not having to do your own cooking and cleaning and washing. Imagine being able to buy any piece of clothing or jewelry or household item that you liked the look of. And not having to worry whether your car was going to break down because yours was brand new and you’d just take it back to the garage and get them to mend it. Of being able to buy a huge house or an exquisite apartment. Of having the freedom to travel without having to backpack or scrimp and scrape and not worrying about health insurance or running out of money in a foreign country.
I feel a bit differently about the Cavendishes too now I know that Spencer is a self-made man. I don’t know why it makes a difference, but it does. He’s obviously decided his family isn’t going to suffer the way he did—and I can’t blame him for that—while at the same time attempting to instill values in his children so they appreciate their wealth and don’t take it for granted. Orson told me he works fourteen hours a day sometimes, and so even if he doesn’t quite appreciate the difficulties we go through at the commune trying to make ends meet, he isn’t a playboy.
“How are you doing?” he asks now, jolting me out of my reverie.
“I’m fine,” I reply. “A little tired.” It’s late and I’ve had several glasses of champagne.
“Shall we head off?” he asks.
“I’m happy to walk home if you’d like to stay with your friends.”
He gives me a look. “This late? In the dark? I don’t think so. If you want to go home, I’ll get someone to drive you.” He gets to his feet. “Come and see my suite and have a coffee or something. I just want to spend some time alone with you.”
“I bet you do.”
His lips curve up. “Just to chat. If after that you want to leave, I’ll call my chauffeur. Come on.” He gets to his feet and extends a hand. I slide mine into it and get to my feet.
“We’re off,” Orson says to the group. “Happy birthday, bro.”
Kingi stands, and the two of them exchange a bearhug.
“I’ll see you Wednesday,” Kingi says to me. “For the audit.” His gaze slides briefly to Orson’s dad. I follow his gaze and look at Spencer. He just lifts an eyebrow.
I want to ask what’s going on, but Orson takes my hand again, and everyone calls, “Goodnight,” and we wave and head for the main building.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I say as we walk through the lobby. “I had a great time.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I liked all your friends and family. It was good to put faces to names.”
He leads us across to another corridor that goes outside under a covered walkway, heading for the main hotel building.
“Is there something I need to know about the audit?” I ask.
“Why do you say that?”
I shrug. “Just got a feeling.”
“Don’t worry about it. No point in worrying before the audit’s done.” His tone is not dismissive, exactly, but I know he’s telling me he doesn’t want to discuss it further.
I open my mouth to protest, but the double doors open automatically, and we go inside. “I love this building,” he says. “We took a long time to plan it. Kingi wanted something biophilic—it means connected to nature. He’d visited an office in Christchurch that had a biophilic design and loved it, and we decided to incorporate the architecture here.”
The lobby is full of indoor plants and even has a tree in one corner. The construction materials all look to be natural—wood, bamboo, and cork. There’s a water feature in the middle, and I can see from the large windows that during the day the place would be filled with natural lighting. The wooden panels are all carved with Māori designs. It’s beautiful.
Somewhat stunned, I let him lead me to the elevator, which is all glass, and it takes us up to the top floor. Here there’s a corridor with half a dozen doors, and he goes to one of them, touches a key card to it, and opens it.
I go inside. It’s smaller than his apartment in the city, but it’s beautiful, with a similar design to the lobby—lots of carved wood and green plants. The windows face the ocean, and the rising moon casts a silver path, as if tempting me to cross the sea. The furnishings are all natural too, simple but elegant and made from wood and bamboo. The walls are what fascinate me, though, as they’ve been painted with natural scenes—trees, grass, flowers, and animals. I feel as if I’m in a cabin way out in the bush.
“It’s fantastic,” I say, turning around to see the kitchenette and, through a door, the bedroom.
“Not huge,” he says, “but I usually only stay here once or twice a week.” He goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “Champagne? Or would you prefer a coffee now?”
I walk over to join him. “You were serious about the coffee?”
He closes the fridge and turns to face me. “Of course. I thought we could sit and have a chat. And then… you know… you can decide whether you want to stay…”
His voice trails off as I move up close to him, put my hands on his chest, and push him up against the fridge. “You really think I’ve come up here to talk?” I murmur, pressing up against him. He smells amazing; even though he’s been swimming, the scent of his cologne lingers on his clothes.
“Well, I didn’t want to assume…”
He stops speaking as I reach up onto my tiptoes and kiss him .
Mmm… he tastes sweet, a mix of chocolate and whiskey, along with the enticing smell of his cologne, a blend that goes straight to my head and fires up all my nerve endings. I lift my arms around his neck and touch my tongue to his bottom lip, and when he obediently opens his mouth, I plunge my tongue into his mouth.
“Mmm,” he murmurs with an approving growl deep in his throat. Taking me by the hips, he turns me and pushes me up against the fridge with enough force to make all the bottles inside it rattle. Unapologetically, he kisses me, until I’m breathless, and my knees are trembling, and I can’t think about anything else except the touch of his lips on mine.