Chapter Eighteen
Marama
I don’t hear from Spencer all day Wednesday. He’s a busy man, so I don’t expect him to reply to every message immediately. But I’m sure there’s another reason he’s keeping his distance.
I saw the article in Kōrero, but something tells me that in itself wouldn’t be enough to stop him from replying. I’m sure he’d know I had no hand in it, and I half-expected him to message me to ask about the other painting, so not to hear anything from him is odd.
However, my father has questioned me about it, and I have a sneaky feeling Spencer’s silence has something to do with him.
The Midnight Circle meets on Wednesday nights, so I don’t have a chance to speak to Dad again until Thursday morning. When he walks into the kitchen at seven, showered and suited up ready for the office, I’m already there, sitting at the pine table.
“Hello, you,” he says, surprised. “What are you doing up?” He starts making himself a coffee.
“I wanted to catch you before you left.”
“Oh?” He gestures at the coffee machine.
I shake my head. “No thank you. Dad, have you spoken to Spencer about my painting? The one I’m doing for the Maramataka Exhibition?”
He busies himself with pouring the espresso into his takeaway cup and going over to the fridge to retrieve the milk. “Uh… yeah, I might have mentioned it,” he says, so casually that I know he’s aware he’s causing trouble. When I don’t reply, he sets the milk steaming, then looks over at me. “Why?”
“What did you say?”
He stiffens. He doesn’t like being questioned any more than Spencer does. “I discussed the article in the Kōrero and how it will impinge on Midnight.” His voice is heavy with disapproval.
Furious, I sit there fighting against the urge to yell at him.
I want to tell him. To bring it all out in the open.
I hate the fact that I have to keep my feelings for Spencer secret.
That we’re sneaking around as if we’re doing something wrong.
Why will it impinge on Midnight? Why is it anyone else’s business?
But Spencer doesn’t want me to tell anyone, and I know for a fact that if I blurt it out to my father, Spencer is going to be the one who bears the brunt of Dad’s disapproval.
It’ll probably destroy their friendship and possibly their business relationship, too, and Spencer will never forgive me for that.
No, he has to be the one to tell people. Not me. That is very clear to me.
As gracefully as I can, I get up, slide my chair under the table, and walk out of the room.
I’m standing in the studio, looking at the portrait of Spencer on the easel, when Dad knocks and comes in.
He stands next to me and looks at the portrait. It’s about two-thirds done, with Spencer’s face mostly complete. I’m working on the foliage now.
I shift from foot to foot, a little uncomfortable that he’s looking at it. I don’t like people seeing my unfinished work, but it’s not just that. This portrait feels very personal. It holds the memories of my time with Spencer, like a photograph that captures a precise moment.
“It’s very good,” Dad says.
“Thank you.”
“He doesn’t look as cynical as he normally does.”
I refrain from telling him it’s because Spencer was looking at me while I painted.
“Where’s the other one?” he asks.
I go cold, thinking he’s referring to the sketch I did of Spencer naked. “What other one?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
Oh, he means the exhibition piece. He’s seen the headline in Kōrero.
When he obviously realizes I’m not going to answer, he says, “Is he going to sit for you again?”
“I don’t think so.” I make sure to keep the sadness out of my voice and sound brisk and professional.
“Probably for the best,” he says.
I don’t reply. I stand there, rigid with resentment and fury at how everyone is determined to regulate my feelings.
But then he says, “Sometimes what we want and what’s best for us aren’t the same thing.”
I glance at him—he’s looking at the portrait. He’s talking about Spencer, not me.
My anger slowly dissipates. Of course, I’m coming at this from one hundred percent emotion.
Dad is looking at it from purely a business point of view.
He’s seen the headline, and he knows how the description of being tamed is going to humiliate Spencer.
It’s the last thing he needs in a world where he rules the roost by maintaining his reputation of being cutthroat and disciplined.
And I do understand the implications on Midnight and the Circle. They pride themselves on being beyond reproach. Their financial dealings have to be spotless—they’re regularly audited, and transparent with their accounts. Any glimmer of scandal reflects badly on all of them.
I clear my throat. “I’m going to get to work.”
“Yeah, okay.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to my brow. “Have a great day, kiddo. It’s good to have you here.”
He walks away, leaving me alone, and I give a big sigh. I take the portrait down, pick up the large piece I’m doing for the exhibition, and place it on the easel, then stand back and study it. The wolf at my feet, cowed by my magnificence.
I feel torn. I showed Genevieve this painting on Tuesday, and she was thrilled at the new composition.
She gave me a long speech, explaining the importance of platforming indigenous voices and women, and how my solo exhibition is going to get global attention.
It’s impossible not to be flattered by talk like that, and by the time we ended the call I was convinced I was doing the right thing.
I didn’t know she was going to go to the press with that headline. So far, there’s nothing about the painting that says explicitly that the wolf represents Spencer, but now she’s implied it, everyone’s going to think that’s who it symbolizes.
Why should I worry? He doesn’t want me anyway.
Not enough to make whatever we have public.
I have no doubt he’s flattered that I like him, and that he’s enjoyed our time together.
But he’s right—we could never be together openly.
His business, and our friends and family, would never allow it.
He’s a strong man, but the disapproval and mockery would be too much for him.
I feel suddenly tired, even though it’s only seven a.m. I feel as if I could go back to bed and sleep for several hours. There’s nothing stopping me. I don’t have any commitments today.
But I spent enough time with Connor, and observed his habits when he was depressed, to know it won’t be good for me. So I go and shower, get dressed and do my hair, make myself another coffee, then return to the studio, ready to put in a day’s work.
*
I spend the rest of the day painting. When I get going, I work fast, and by the end of the day I’ve finished the portrait. I leave it on the easel to dry—it’s acrylic paint, so it’ll be touch-dry in an hour or so, although it’ll take a little longer to completely harden.
I haven’t messaged Spencer, and he hasn’t messaged me.
I don’t hear from him on Thursday either.
Friday, I awake somewhat rejuvenated. It’s my birthday, and Dad waits for me to get up before leaving for work so he and Mum can give me my present.
I unwrap it and reveal the small box. I open it—it contains a set of keys. They exchange a smile. “Go on,” Mum says.
I walk to the window and part the curtains. Then, jaw dropping, I run to the front door and go outside.
Mum and Dad come with me, and they stand next to me as I stare at the Kombi van.
“It’s fully electric and retrofitted,” Dad says.
Stunned, I go up to it and open the side door.
It’s beautifully designed, making the most of every inch of space.
The sofa obviously converts to a bed, and it’s a proper campervan, with enough mod cons to enable me to live out of it.
But the far end has been turned into a tiny studio, with an easel, a fold-down stool, and a cupboard that I discover already contains a set of paints, brushes, and palettes, all ready should inspiration strike.
“You said you were thinking about traveling again,” Dad says. “This way you can go wherever you want and take your art with you.”
Touched by their hopeful and excited expressions, I tell them I love it and give them both a big hug.
“I’ll paint the outside,” I tell them. “Make it into a 1970s hippie van.”
Dad laughs. “Whatever you want, my love. I’m glad you like it.”
“We’ll leave you to explore it,” Mum says, and the two of them go back inside.
I climb into the van and spend a while opening drawers and cupboards and discovering all its nooks and crannies. Then I pull down the stool and sit, taking a moment to look around.
I’m trying not to be cynical. The van would have taken a while to sort out and refit, so maybe I’m being overly suspicious. But I know Dad well enough to suspect that part of this is him ‘encouraging’ me to leave. Sending me away, so I’m out of Spencer’s reach.
I run a finger over the pristine tubes of paint. I’m thirty now. Shouldn’t I be able to make my own decisions about my life? About what I do, who I see?
Thoughtfully, I get out and lock up the van, and go back into the house.
*
I meet some friends for brunch, then call in and see Kingi mid-afternoon at his office in the city.
“What are you up to tonight?” he asks after giving me a bearhug that nearly breaks my spine in two.
“Not sure yet.” I massage my back, then rub my neck. “Your beard is super itchy.”
He just laughs and strokes the long, wiry strands like a thoughtful wizard. “I wish you’d let us throw you a party. You’re not thirty every day.”
“Thank God.”
He smiles. “Feeling your age, sis?”
“Nah, not really. Just feeling a bit… constricted, maybe.”
He lifts a brow. “In what way?”
I tell him about the van. “It’s lovely,” I insist. “But I can’t shake the feeling that Dad’s trying to send me away.”
He leans back in his chair. “Is this about Spencer Cavendish?”
I scowl at him. “Don’t you start.”
“I can read, same as everyone else. That headline was pretty damning.”