Chapter Three
Marama
The huge sign above the building reads ‘Lumen Business Club’. It’s right in the heart of Auckland—prime real estate in the CBD, surrounded by law firms, accountants, insurance brokers, and coffee shops where people in suits can grab their morning cappuccinos before they head to the office.
I hesitate on the pavement, trying to pluck up the courage to go in.
Unlike my brother and father, I’ve never been comfortable in places like this.
I don’t mind the Midnight Club because it’s family-owned and run, and I know a lot of the people who frequent it.
But I do feel intimidated when surrounded by successful, driven people.
I have no expertise in business or finance.
I’m not left brain at all. I’m entirely creative, and everything I do is based on instinct and gut feeling, which has gotten me into trouble more than once.
So coming to a club like this which is going to be full of confident, successful women makes me more than a little nervous.
Unbidden, Spencer’s compliment springs into my mind. You have incredible talent. You could take this country by storm if you put your mind to it.
I scowl. As nice as his words were, I can hardly rely on him to boost my confidence.
Every time I think about last night, I feel a stab of hurt, embarrassment, and shame deep inside. It doesn’t matter that he twisted it into ‘I want you so much that we can’t risk it.’ I don’t believe him. He turned me down easily, and it really stings.
I push him out of my mind. Lumen isn’t far from Huxley’s Business Club, which is run by the same guy who heads the Midnight Circle.
I’ve been to his club, and while women are very much welcomed there, its deep red and purple tones have a somewhat traditional feel.
The Midnight Club has a midnight-blue and silver theme that, again, while not specifically masculine, somehow makes one think of businessmen like Spencer Cavendish with his silver hair. Or maybe that’s just me.
Anyway, as soon as I walk into Lumen, I’m struck by the feminine color palette.
The large foyer has light green walls, lavender-and-white pillars, and light-gray furnishings picked out with pastel-colors—soft blues and yellows, with the occasional splash of scarlet jumping out to claim you, like red lipstick on a demure woman.
Pretty lamps cast soft light on the numerous pieces of art displayed on the walls.
I stop to glance at some of them—they’re all done by female artists, and they’re all suggestive of the strength and power of women, such as one small collection featuring nudes of older women clearly unashamed of their aging bodies.
They’re pricey, so the artists obviously aren’t afraid to charge a decent price for their work, and presumably they assume that customers are going to have money to burn.
The reception desk is staffed by two women—one Māori, one Japanese—in lavender pantsuits with white blouses and pastel-colored scarves.
The place is busy with clients, and everywhere I look I can see smartly dressed businesswomen, walking to and from meeting rooms with briefcases or standing talking with takeaway coffee cups, all of them with carefully coiffured hair, long painted nails, and spotless makeup.
There are a couple of men, so they’re obviously allowed in here, but they’re definitely outnumbered by the women.
Do they feel intimidated or threatened by all this positive female energy? I do, a bit, and I’m a girl.
I look around, searching for a sign for the meeting at three p.m., and wondering whether I should check in at reception. I’m just about to head over there when I see a woman walking toward me with a big smile on her face.
She’s tall, almost too thin, and elegant in a fawn pantsuit with a champagne-colored silk blouse. Her blonde hair is twisted up in a chignon, and she has heavy but expertly applied makeup. She’s also wearing stiletto heels that are about four inches high.
“Marama,” she says, holding out her hand.
“I’m so glad you could come. I’m Genevieve Beaumont.
” Her voice has a touch of a French accent.
If Helen hadn’t told me that Genevieve’s mother was Māori, I wouldn’t have guessed, but Māori identity is based on genealogy and cultural connections, not the color of your skin.
Surprised to be both recognized and greeted by the owner of the club, I try not to feel self-conscious in my long black skirt and orange top. Clearly, I need to get myself a pantsuit.
“Pleased to meet you.” I shake her hand. “It was very kind of you to invite me.”
“I couldn’t have a gathering of upcoming local female artists and not include you.” She gestures for me to follow her across the foyer. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Marama Davis.”
“Oh, really?”
“I did some investigation after I bought this.” She turns a corner and stops by a long narrow window.
My jaw drops. One of my stained-glass artworks hangs there.
It’s called Whānau—pronounced ‘Far-no’—which means both family and to give birth, in the literal sense of childbirth, but also refers to the birth of a new idea.
It depicts Papatūānuku, the earth mother, sitting cross-legged, pregnant and serene, surrounded by flowers and plants.
Her round belly contains the beautiful blue-and-green world we live on.
“Goodness,” I say, stunned by how amazing it looks with the bright sunshine behind it casting fragments of color all the way down the corridor, as if someone has thrown a handful of emeralds, sapphires, and rubies on the floor.
“It’s stunning,” Genevieve says. “Everyone comments on it. I love how you depict atua wāhine in such a strong and confident way.” She’s referring to the fact that this series I did features female goddesses.
“I haven’t been to the Midnight Club,” she says, “but I presume they have pieces like this all over the site? It must be stunning.”
My face warms. “Not really. They have agreed to exhibit my latest collection of landscapes for a few weeks though.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Oh. Well, an artist of your caliber will still benefit from a display in the lobby I suppose.”
“Ah, it won’t be in the lobby. It’s in one of the meeting rooms.”
Genevieve’s light-blue eyes fix me with a steely stare, and suddenly I’m convinced she was very much aware of Kingi’s offer and my resulting disappointment.
Spencer’s words spring into my mind: Just keep in mind that everyone has their own agenda.
I blink and frown. That’s not what’s happening here, I’m sure.
I feel embarrassed and cross with myself for not challenging Kingi when he told me.
I’m so grateful for any snippet of encouragement thrown my way.
It must be nice to be confident enough not just to feel that you deserve attention and praise but to demand it.
I wait for her to criticize me for not standing up for myself, but she just says, “I see. Well, it’s so good of you to come. Is it your first visit to Lumen?”
“Yes. It’s very impressive. I love the color scheme.”
She looks around, her pride evident. “I wanted women to feel not just comfortable here but empowered and inspired. Men are welcome, of course, but I’m not ashamed to say we give preference to women, including trans women. You know Victoria Brown?”
I nod at the mention of the transgender woman who is Oliver Huxley’s good friend. “I’ve met her a couple of times.”
“She comes here a lot.” She leans forward conspiratorially and murmurs, “Between you and me, she feels more comfortable here, although she’d never admit that to Huxley, of course.”
I’m surprised Victoria would express favoritism like that when Huxley is her business partner. There’s no chance to ask for clarification, though, because Genevieve smiles and says, “Come on. I think everyone else is here, so we’re ready to start.”
I follow her along the corridor. We pass several meeting rooms with names like ‘Whakamanawa’ , which means to encourage or inspire, ‘Pūkenga’ , which means skills or expertise, and ‘ Mana Wahine ’, which refers to the prestige and strength of women.
She stops at a doorway bearing a sign that says ‘Maramatanga’ .
It means enlightenment or insight, but I don’t miss that the word also includes my name.
Did she choose this room on purpose because I was coming? Surely not? It must be a coincidence.
Like the lobby, the meeting room is full of light and furnished with pastel colors—light-blue walls, cream blinds, light-gray chairs, and the odd splash of a more vibrant blue or red.
More artwork hangs on the walls—clearly Genevieve is serious about promoting female artists.
I feel a surge of pleasure and inspiration, and also a flutter of nerves at the sight of about thirty other women in the process of taking their seats as an attractive woman with a razor-sharp dark bob calls for attention.
Genevieve gestures for me to take a chair, and I slide quietly into one as she walks forward and takes the podium. A projector displays a presentation on the screen behind her, professionally produced, moving smoothly through the slides as she presses the remote in her hand.
“Good afternoon,” she says, her voice ringing across the room.
“Thank you all for coming today. I’ve approached each of you because your outstanding creativity has personally impressed me.
I want Lumen to be a beacon of feminine strength and independence in New Zealand.
I want to uplift women, and show them that the world belongs to them.
Not to their fathers. Not to their lovers.
And not to the men who think that money makes them gods. ”