Chapter Five
Marama
“What the hell am I doing?”
I’m standing in one of the meeting rooms adjacent to the function room where the auction is about to start taking place. The room is packed with the women taking part in the auction, and a slew of others helping with makeup, wardrobe, and the organization of the evening.
Helen, looking gorgeous in a designer maternity top and trousers, grins.
“You’re raising money for a good cause. Now for God’s sake, finish off your champagne.
You’re trembling so much they’ll think there’s an earthquake.
” She’s helping out tonight, fetching drinks for everyone behind scenes and running errands for Genevieve and her assistant, Carly.
I peer through a crack in the door at the hall. It’s my first glimpse of it, as the artists all ate together here, because Genevieve wanted to keep us separate from the guests to prolong the suspense.
The stage at the front bears a podium with a microphone, and there’s a row of seats behind it, which is where we’ll all be sitting in a few minutes.
The hall is filled with round tables decked out in white cloths that bear the remnants of the sumptuous meal.
A bar to one side keeps the guests stocked with champagne, wine, and spirits.
Pieces of artwork, framed poems, and other artistic pieces by the participants are displayed around the hall in the hope of encouraging the bids.
I can see one of my best acrylic paintings halfway along—of Te Rerenga Wairua , ‘the leaping place of spirits’, also known as Cape Reinga, where Māori believe a person’s spirit departs for the ancestral homeland, Hawaiki, when they die.
Spotlights bring out the vivid colors, and I’ve seen lots of people stop on their way past to have a look.
The mood is lively, and the auction hasn’t even started yet.
Genevieve has done her best to promote it as a high-class event you can’t afford to miss, and tickets sold out within twenty-four hours.
I saw the advert—the cost was two hundred and fifty dollars for a general ticket with a seated dinner and entertainment, three to five thousand for a premium table with better views, quality wine pairing, and a gift bag, and ten thousand for a sponsor table, which includes recognition in the program and a private meet-and-greet with the artists.
The place is filled with celebrities—actors, sports people, and politicians, as well as the top players in the business arena in the city. “Every chair is filled,” I whisper.
“Yeah. You won’t find another seat tonight unless you want to drop twenty grand,” Helen says.
“Jesus. I had no idea it was going to be quite this prominent.”
“Maybe you’ll start believing in yourself now.”
“I doubt it. I feel as if someone’s listed me by mistake.”
She just laughs and says, “You want to put this on?”
I turn away from the door and let her lift the purple satin sash over my head. It lays across me diagonally, resting on my hip, and bears the wording ‘Empowerment Artist.’ “It’s pretty,” I reply, “but it makes me feel a bit like I’m in a Miss World contest.”
“Wait until you put your tiara on.”
“What?” I stare at her, startled.
She snorts. “I’m kidding. You’re so gullible. They have to make you stand out, especially afterward, when you get to mingle.”
Some people have paid extra to meet personally with the artists. I’m nervous, but excited too at the opportunities that might be available here tonight.
“Now come on,” she says, “they’re about to call you to go on stage.”
The other women are making their way toward the door and forming a line, and I join them, taking my place at number fourteen out of the fifteen artists, which is where Genevieve placed me on the program.
Helen said the artists are in ascending order of importance, but I can’t imagine that’s the case.
I’m hardly the second biggest artist here—I know several of the others and they’re much more prestigious than I am.
I wish I was nearer the beginning. It’s going to be agony having to wait until nearly the end. What if the other artists have huge bids put on them and nobody wants me? Realistically I’m sure that won’t happen, but there’s always a secret fear that might be the case.
“You look amazing,” Helen reassures me. “That dress really suits you.”
I’ve made a special effort on my appearance tonight.
While I was traveling, I lived in jeans and sweaters, and the dress code around Auckland and in the Northland tends to be super casual in the summer, with everyone in shorts and tees, so it’s been a while since I dressed up.
But tonight I’m wearing a long black evening dress, off the shoulder and with a split in the skirt all the way up to my hip.
Black high-heeled strappy sandals complete the look, and with help of one of the hairdressers here, I’ve pinned up my hair with an elaborately carved bone comb, leaving a single curl hanging on one side of my face.
Winged eyeliner and dark red lipstick contrast well against my light-brown skin.
I stare at myself in one of the mirrors placed around the room, hardly recognizing the sophisticated and exotic creature looking back at me.
I’m annoyed with myself for wondering how much someone would be willing to bid for me.
With Spencer’s voice in my head insinuating this situation mirrors the Hardy novel, I want to scream at myself, They’re not bidding for you!
They’re bidding for my work, of course. It’s not a reflection on me, or my self-worth, or my beauty, or my personality, or anything but the experience I’m offering.
But I’m only human, and I’m ashamed that deep down I know I’ll be pleased if I receive a decent bid.
“Go and have fun!” Helen says.
I nod, hearing Genevieve’s voice calling for quiet on the stage. She starts giving her introductory speech, explaining the idea behind the auction, and the charity art programs that everyone’s money is going to be funding.
Then she asks everyone to give a round of applause for the artists, and I follow the others out of the meeting room and up the stairs onto the stage.
It’s all decorated in white and gold, with the words ‘Empowerment Auction’ emblazoned across the top.
It’s beautifully done, and all our chairs have golden ribbons tied around them, while the faces of the fourteen artists are projected onto the screen at the back, along with examples of our art or pictures of where we work.
I continue to tremble as I take my seat and look out across the large room.
Oh my God, there are so many people. It’s a black-tie event, and the men are all in tuxedos, while the women are in sparkling long gowns.
It’s like the Oscars or Emmys. Most people are drinking champagne, and the menu consisted of multiple courses with luxury dishes containing premium local ingredients, like South Island Crayfish Tail with Citrus Beurre Blanc, and Line-Caught Hapuku with Champagne Velouté & Paua Ravioli.
There are plenty of women here, but there are also clusters of businessmen on their own, most of them older, red-faced, and clearly on the way to being drunk.
I’m surprised, and for the first time I get a tingle of unease as I think about Spencer’s warning again.
I dismissed his words at the time, thinking he was just jealous, but maybe he was right.
Are these guests really altruistic donors keen to help women artists?
Or are they merely greedy old men hoping for private time with one of us?
Earlier this evening, I took a few minutes to check the guest list. I pretended to myself that I was looking to see if there was anyone I knew on it, but deep down I knew I was only looking for one name.
Part of me had wondered all week whether Spencer would come to the house again to try to convince me not to take part, but he didn’t.
I wondered then if he would turn up to bid on me.
But his name wasn’t on the list, so clearly he’s decided to steer clear and leave me to the wolves.
Correction—the other wolves. I’m glad he isn’t here.
But it doesn’t stop me being nervous about who is going to win the bid.
Shivering a little, I watch the first artist come forward to speak briefly into the microphone as she introduces herself and her art.
She’s much younger than me, a violin player lauded as a prodigy, and she’s offering a private performance at a dinner party held at the winning bidder’s home.
It’s a rare opportunity to see a skilled musician play close up, but as I watch as a couple of older guys lean toward each other, exchange a sentence, then laugh, I’m convinced they’re not discussing whether she’s going to play Brahms or Tchaikovsky.
Genevieve has made it clear that we artists can decline any winning bidder if we’re uncomfortable, but I wonder whether any of us would have the courage to do that, knowing that the money is going to charitable causes.
I look at Genevieve, half-expecting to see her frowning, but she’s flushed and excited, apparently thrilled with how the evening is going.
Again, I’m surprised. I would have thought she’d have made sure that more female guests attended, and somehow excluded the older, rich white guys.
But I guess it’s impossible to do that when the majority of people who run the businesses here in the city are of that demographic.
They’re going to be the ones raising the bids, so I guess it makes sense to take their money.
The young woman finishes talking, and Genevieve starts the bidding at five thousand dollars. Guests have all been given paddles with numbers, and across the room bidders lift them in turn, and the price slowly rises.