Chapter Seven #2
At the time, I thought I’d probably just sell it, but then Orson told me about Huxley’s idea of forming a consortium of hand-picked wealthy businessmen and women, with the intention of developing a business club and resort, and donating the proceeds to charity.
Orson said Huxley was looking for a site, and suggested the land I’d inherited.
My father—technically my stepfather, but I’ve called him my father since he adopted me when I was thirteen—was an incredibly altruistic man who took on me and my two brothers and made us into the successful businessmen we are, and for me it felt like a way I could honor him and give something back to the community.
So I offered Huxley the land, and the construction of the Midnight Club began.
While anyone can stay here, we advertise it mainly as an exclusive resort that’s especially suitable for business people.
Our aim was to provide a luxury setting for companies to hold conferences and retreats, and so far we’ve had the biggest dairy, construction, and telecommunication companies come here, as well as the All Blacks rugby team.
We offer a small amphitheater for lectures, several large function rooms, and many smaller meeting rooms with a big staff to wait hand and foot on the guests, offering them efficient business services, as well as first-class refreshments.
The Michelin Guide doesn’t feature New Zealand, but we do have a Michelin chef working for us who produces the most amazing food that’s won the restaurant a Kiwi Cuisine Good Food Award of Three Hats, which is the very highest that can be given, and of which we’re incredibly proud.
Our bars offer several hundred whiskeys and other spirits, and the nightclub is the very best, classy and well designed to provide nooks and private rooms for late-night business deals, as well as an entertainment outlet for those who need to let off some steam after a busy working day.
The buildings sit ringed by hills, nestled in a shallow dip that leads down to a private beach and the sparkling blue Pacific beyond.
It’s a superb site, created by an architect with expertise in biophilic design, which means it integrates nature-inspired elements like plants, water features, and colors to create a sense of connection to nature.
The hotel rooms have open floor plans and large windows to make the most of the natural light, and the furniture is created from natural materials like wood and bamboo.
There are several large pools and hot tubs for guests, all laid out within carefully tended gardens full of palms and ferns.
And the grounds, which include tennis courts and other sports facilities, are surrounded by locally sourced plants and trees that are starting to reach their full potential and make the place look as if it’s sprung out of the natural bush.
We even have a healing pool nearby, known as the Waiora, which belongs to Scarlett, Orson’s girl, and the two of them are now developing the site and creating an area for guests to be able to partake of the healing waters and spend quiet time by the waterfall in a safe but spiritual setting.
I want to take a walk down there at some point.
It’s a nice place for personal reflection and for thinking of those who have passed.
“You’re quiet,” Orson says as we cross the drive toward the building. “Are you worried about the meeting?”
“No,” I reply, even though I am, a little. “I was thinking about your mother.”
“Oh.” He glances at me. We rarely talk about Eleanor.
He slows to a halt, so I stop too.
“I’m sure there must have been other women,” Orson says, “but you never talk about them.”
I don’t reply. I know he had as difficult a relationship with Eleanor as I did, and his feelings for her are mixed. But she was still his mother, and I would feel awkward discussing my relationship with other women with him.
He looks away, at the ocean. Then he looks back at me. “I don’t expect you to be a monk. Mum’s been gone a long time, and I expected you to move on eventually. Maybe even marry again. But not Marama. Out of all people… She’s not the one.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I stiffen. “I’m not going to be lectured about who I can and can’t date by the guy who had no qualms getting involved with my enemy’s daughter.”
He frowns. “That’s different. I didn’t plan for that to happen.”
“Nobody plans to fall in love.”
“Do you love Marama?”
“Of course not. I hardly know the girl.”
He tips his head to the side. “Are you in love with her?” It’s a distinction I made to him when we talked about his feelings for Scarlett.
I hesitate. Then I say, “Absolutely not.”
He gives a short nod, apparently mollified. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”
I follow him into the building, unable to still a flicker of unease deep inside me as I think about Marama’s quiet, radiant beauty, and the warmth in her eyes as she looked up at me last night.
But no, that’s just lust, pure and simple.
I want her—I don’t deny that. My body lusts after hers. But my heart remains firmly separate.
We cross the lobby, order ourselves a takeaway coffee from the barista, then head for the offices, knowing that the Midnight Circle will be meeting in the main board room.
Sure enough, as we approach the glass-walled room, I can see that the other six members are already there, seated around the table: Huxley and his wife Elizabeth, Mack Hart, Joanna, Kingi, and Rangi.
Orson pushes open the door and I follow him in.
I glance around the room quickly as Orson walks around the table to sit on the other side.
Elizabeth and Joanna say hello, then return their gazes to their phones.
Mack and Huxley both say, “Morning,” and there’s a touch of amusement in both sets of eyes.
Kingi meets my gaze with a stony glare. No amusement there.
Rangi doesn’t even look up. His gaze is fixed on the table, and he seems lost in thought.
I sit opposite Orson and sip my coffee.
“Sorry to call you all in,” Huxley says. “But I assume you’ve all seen the article in Kōrero this morning, and I thought it merited a discussion.”
“Is this about the latest episode of Shortland Street?” Orson asks. “Because I’m afraid I missed it.”
I stare at him, surprised at his levity and oddly touched by his support.
Kingi glares at Huxley, who holds up a hand in an unspoken communication, as if they discussed this previously, and Huxley is indicating he’ll take care of it.
“This isn’t a laughing matter,” Huxley states. “We’ve all worked hard to promote the Midnight Club as an exclusive high-class resort, and to make the Midnight Circle consortium a respected and trustworthy business. The last thing we need is gossip and scandal surrounding one of our members.”
“Spencer,” Joanna says, giving me a baffled, impatient look. “Seriously. What were you thinking?”
I lean back in my chair and rest an ankle on the opposite knee, holding my coffee cup.
“I understand why you’ve chosen to go down the professional angle,” I say to Huxley, and follow it with a glance around the room.
“And I do apologize for any negative publicity I’ve brought to the Club or the Circle.
That wasn’t my intention. The last thing I would want to do is bring trouble for the Circle.
But I didn’t attend the auction as part of the Circle, and the article focuses more on me, so I’m confident it will impinge only on me personally. ”
“And Marama,” Kingi says.
I study my coffee cup and don’t reply.
Mack has ADHD, and he possesses a couple of fidget toys that he uses during meetings.
He has one now, a tiny silver and black spinner, and he plays with it subconsciously as he says, “The Midnight Club franchise might have been Huxley’s idea, but we’re all aware of your generous donation of land for this resort, and of the fact that you brought a level of prestige and esteem to the Circle when you agreed to join.
You’re well respected in the business community.
So I guess it’s just that we’re…” He tips his head to the side as he chooses his words.
“…surprised by what happened last night.”
I’m tired of tiptoeing around. Was what I did that bad that it deserves a dressing down from my peers? I lean forward, forearms on the table, and Rangi finally looks up and meets my eyes.
“When I first heard about the auction, I told Marama she shouldn’t take part,” I say.
“We all know Genevieve Beaumont—she’s smart, and she’s ruthless, and she hates the Midnight Club because we didn’t make her part of the Circle.
She’s already targeted Helen and convinced her to join her crusade.
And now she wants to poach Marama too. She knows how to appeal to women’s egos. ”
“That is true,” Joanna says. “She’s tried to get me to jump ship.”
“And I know Victoria can’t stand her either,” Elizabeth adds. “You know how much she hates being used as a symbol of transgender issues.”
“You weren’t there,” I tell Rangi earnestly. “Genevieve was parading these women across the stage like cattle at a market, and asking everyone to bid on them under the pretense of it being about empowering women. Do you think it was other women who won the bids?”
Rangi frowns, then looks away.
“No,” I say, tapping on the table to emphasize my point, “the article didn’t mention that, but every single winner was a man, most of them twenty or thirty years older than I am.
And then it was Marama’s turn, and she came on the stage looking young and beautiful, and all around me I could hear the whispers beginning.
” Fury billows through me. “I was not going to have that pack of snarling dogs bidding on your daughter like she was a prize heifer,” I snap.
“So I took her off the table. I did it on the spur of the moment, and I hope you would have done the same if it were the other way around, and it was Helen who was up there.”
Silence falls. I glance around, relieved to see that they obviously believe me.
Even if I am lying.
I try not to wince. I was mostly telling the truth. The auction was degrading, and I did bid a million on the spur of the moment. But I have to admit that part of the reason for the outrageous amount was to impress Marama, and to stake my claim. Well, I’m not called the Wolf of Waiheke for nothing.
“On the bright side,” Orson says cheerfully, “the million dollars will go toward women’s art programs, so that’s good PR for us.”
“And Marama was a little under the radar before,” Elizabeth says, “but it has put her in the spotlight. Okay maybe she’d prefer the focus to have been on her art, but I understand that it’s landed her a commission from the Te Whaihanga Toi Foundation.”
“Oh?” It’s the first I’ve heard of it.
“Hariata Pere and Genevieve Beaumont have commissioned her to do a series of paintings for an exhibition to be displayed at Lumen,” Elizabeth continues. “It’s going to be called Maramataka.”
“The lunar calendar?” Joanna clarifies, and Rangi and Kingi nod.
“The rising of the moon,” Elizabeth says. “With themes of female power and sexual agency.” She looks at me, and this time there’s a touch of mischief in her eyes. “I believe your portrait is to be the first of the series.”
Orson has just taken a mouthful of coffee, and he coughs and sprays some of it over the table. “Sorry,” he says, mopping it up hastily with a serviette.
Kingi snorts, and Rangi’s lips curve up. “Well if that doesn’t show how karma works, I don’t know what does,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Bring it on,” I say. “I can handle it.”
Huxley laughs. “All right.” He gets to his feet. “Let’s play it by ear and see how it goes. Thanks for coming, everyone.”
The others also rise and start making their way out. I stay where I am, finishing off my coffee. “Thanks,” I mouth to Orson as he passes.
He nods. “You want to come back on the heli?”
“Yeah, can you give me a couple of minutes?”
“Sure.” He heads out.
Kingi passes me and also nods, but doesn’t say anything. Then there’s only me and Rangi left, sitting at the table, as the door closes.
My old friend and business colleague looks at me. “You really did it for her, and for me?”
I nod. “You didn’t see them. It was feral out there. I couldn’t bear the thought of one of them having her.”
He gets slowly to his feet and walks around the table, stopping when he reaches me.
Then he bends a little, so his mouth is near my ear—not that anyone can overhear us anyway.
“You touch her,” he murmurs, “I’ll break your fucking legs.”
He waits a moment. I don’t say anything and just study my coffee cup, outwardly calm, while inwardly my heart bangs on my ribs.
Eventually, he straightens. I half expect him to say something else, but he doesn’t; he just walks past me, and heads out of the door.