Chapter Seven
Spencer
On Sunday morning, when I wake and reach for my phone, I discover an email waiting from Oliver Huxley requesting my presence at a meeting of the Midnight Circle at midday.
I frown as I read it. That’s unusual—we nearly always meet midweek, and hardly ever during the day; it’s nearly always late evening, as our name implies.
With growing suspicion, I click on the Kōrero app.
The word means a conversation or discussion, and it’s New Zealand’s most prominent news website.
I scroll down to the local news section and, sure enough, right at the top is a large photo of me, taken at Lumen last night.
It shows me leaning back in my chair, my gaze fixed on the stage, apparently captivated by something…
or someone. I know perfectly well who it was.
Beneath it is the headline: Artist to Tame the Billionaire Wolf of Waiheke. It mirrors Genevieve’s statement enough to convince me she’s personally fed the details to one of the journalists.
Irritated, I click the link and skim the article’s details, which state how I—one of the members of the prestigious Midnight Circle—bid the outrageous sum of one million dollars for a relatively unknown female artist. A photograph of Marama—also taken at the auction—is displayed next to mine.
It’s publicity for her, but not quite in the vein she was hoping for, I’m sure.
The article is phrased carefully to insinuate that my interest is personal rather than professional. A trashy clickbait piece that will no doubt entice those who enjoy spreading gossip through the business community.
I told myself I was doing it for her father, and for her—to save her from falling into the hands of some unscrupulous letch who believed he was bidding for a private date alone with her, with all that entailed.
But I know I’m not being honest with myself.
At that moment, I did it because I didn’t want someone else to have her. I did it because I want her to be mine.
I toss my phone aside and cover my face with my hands. I’m such a fucking idiot. She’s right—I’m a dog in the manger. I can’t have her, but the thought of anyone else having her sends my blood thundering furiously through my veins.
And now it’s all over the Internet, and the Midnight Circle is going to want to hear the gory details and demand I explain why I’m dragging their name through the mud.
Although we don’t advertise the fact that the Circle donates its proceeds to charities, we’ve worked hard to promote the Midnight Club as an exclusive and classy establishment, and to keep it free from gossip.
This is exactly the type of publicity we don’t need.
Well, there’s no putting the toothpaste back in the tube. I just have to hope I can convince everyone that I did it for her and her family. Because I’m such an honorable guy.
Rolling my eyes, I head off to the gym.
When Eleanor died, I found myself rattling around in the enormous house she insisted we buy on Waiheke Island when she was pregnant with Orson.
I lived there for over twenty years, but I never liked the place, and I don’t think either Orson or Helen was particularly fond of it either.
When I found myself on my own, the kids having left before Eleanor passed, I spent six months looking around houses on the mainland, and eventually fell in love with a place in Herne Bay.
The suburb is perfectly located—close to the Auckland Harbour Bridge that links the CBD with the North Shore, just five minutes from my office, with four beaches and half the best restaurants in the city.
Although nowhere near as big as the family mansion—only four bedrooms opposed to the mansion’s nine—it has a large pool, and a beautiful north-facing view across the beach, so on the evenings I’m home, I’m able to watch the sunset paint Waitematā Harbour with oranges and purples until the stars pop out onto the midnight sky.
Eleanor was extremely sociable and loved to entertain, and I rarely had time to myself. But now I spend hours on the deck, reading, enjoying the fact that the only sounds I can hear are the waves tumbling across the beach.
I installed the exercise equipment into a spare room shortly after moving in, and now I have my own gym, also facing the beach.
I usually enjoy working out, but today I find little pleasure during the twenty minutes I spend running flat out on the treadmill, glowering instead every time I think about Genevieve Beaumont and the article in Kōrero.
Trying to burn off my frustration, I put myself through a series of rigorous weight training exercises, pushing myself hard until my tee is soaked with sweat and my muscles are trembling with exertion.
Only then, as I head to the shower, do I see a message from Orson on my phone.
You know what the meeting is about? he asks.
I hesitate, wincing, then grit my teeth and reply, Probably the article in Kōrero.
It takes about thirty seconds—presumably the time needed to find and read the article— for him to come back with: WTF?
I don’t reply.
Five minutes later, he messages again, I’ll be at the helipad at 11.30 if you want to join me.
I message back, See you then, and I head to the shower with a growing sense of doom.
It’s just starting to sink in how stupid I’ve been.
I should have made an anonymous telephone bid.
But now not only do I have to contend with the reactions of the wider business community, I have to deal with my friends and family—and Marama’s family.
I don’t know whether I’m more concerned about Rangi or Kingi. Rangi is my business partner, and I respect our relationship and his advice and support.
But Kingi is protective of his sister. And he’s a lot bigger than me.
I’m not really worried about him getting physical, and even if he did I can handle myself, but I do feel an unusual flicker of nervousness at the thought of both their reactions.
Half of me is tempted to cry off the meeting and say I’m busy or unwell. But I’ve never been one to shy away from my responsibilities, and I have to face what I’m sure will be the very loud and unpleasant music at some point, so I might as well get it over with.
As I headed into my forties, I knew that if I wanted to watch my weight and health I needed to eat well and exercise daily.
I already had a personal trainer and dietician, and he suggested that intermittent fasting was a good method for men to keep their weight down.
So for years I’ve only eaten between twelve and eight pm, and therefore I don’t normally have breakfast. But it’s Sunday, and I’m single and don’t have to live by anyone else’s rules anymore, so in a fit of rebelliousness I make myself a bacon and cheese sandwich and eat it on the deck while I catch up on my emails.
After that, feeling a little queasy and already regretting the sandwich, I change into a shirt, jacket, and trousers, and catch an Uber over to the helipad at Mechanics Bay.
Orson is already there, in the helicopter preparing for flight, and I cross the tarmac, open the door, and swing up into the seat next to him. He passes me a set of headphones, and I put them on and angle the mic in front of my mouth.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.”
He glances at me, but doesn’t say anything further. Instead, he talks to the tower, requesting permission to fly, starts the rotor blades, and then the helicopter lifts and heads out across the harbor, heading east for Waiheke.
I look down at the Pacific Ocean, seeing the beautiful curve of a whale’s fluke arc out of the water before it descends. It’s a gorgeous day, the sunlight sparkling on the surface. But it’s tough to enjoy it when I know what’s coming.
Sure enough, we’re only minutes out of the harbor when Orson says, “So…”
I study the fishing boats heading out for the day.
He blows out a breath. “Okay, what the fuck?”
I frown at him. My parents taught me that cursing was evidence of a weak character, and I’ve brought my kids up the same way, but Orson’s language leaves a lot to be desired at times.
“Don’t give me that look,” he says. “If anything needed an expletive, it’s that article. I’m not the one in trouble here.”
I scowl at him, because he’s right.
“What were you thinking?” he asks.
“I was trying to save Rangi’s daughter from the pack of prowling wild dogs that were circling her.”
“By bidding a million dollars?” he asks. “What was the bid before yours?”
“Eighty thousand.”
He gives a short laugh. I glower.
“Well I guess that did the trick,” he says. “What did Marama have to say about it?”
“She was… confused.”
“Are you going to sit for the portrait?”
“I said I wouldn’t, but I think I have to, because she has to submit a painting as part of the auction’s exhibition.”
“That’ll be interesting. What style of portrait would you have done?”
“I don’t think it’s up to me. The idea of it being an Empowerment Auction was that the women are the ones in charge.”
“Well, that’s going to be interesting.”
“Not sure that’s the word I’d use to describe it.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “Can I ask you something?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really. Are you… interested in her? In Marama?”
I open my mouth to reply. Close it again. Then say, “No, of course not.”
“You might want to practice that before you get to Midnight,” he advises.
“Thanks for the tip.”
We don’t talk again for the rest of the journey.
He lands the helicopter on Midnight’s pad, hands the keys over to the staff who look after it, and we walk down the steps toward the main building.
I still find it strange when I think back five years to how this place looked before the club was built.
My father had passed away just six months before, and although he left the house I grew up in to my mother, and he gave my younger brothers each a decent piece of land on the mainland, he bequeathed the vast area of his farmland in a prime location on Waiheke to me.