Chapter Twenty-One #2
“What are you saying?” Joanna asks. “That she’s doing this purely out of spite?”
Elizabeth nods. “You saw the headline?”
“About the painting and Spencer being tamed? Yeah.”
“That was one hundred percent Genevieve behind that.”
Joanna looks at me. She’s a good person—hardworking and generous, but she hasn’t got where she is by refusing to pull her punches. “A personal attack is one thing,” she says. “But this is starting to have an impact on Midnight, and that means we have to do something.”
I grit my teeth. “We should just ignore her. Giving her attention is playing into her hands—it’s what she wants.”
Joanna shakes her head. “She’s not a toddler, Spencer. We can’t just step over her while she has a tantrum. Another club on the island would have a real, physical knock-on effect for us.”
“Unfortunately, I think she’s right,” Huxley says.
“I don’t know that there’s anything we can do about it,” I say hotly.
“Maybe you should talk to her—” Orson begins.
I cut him off. “No. I’m not giving that woman a second of my time.”
Huxley looks at Rangi. “What do you think?”
He studies the table quietly, thinking. Then he says, “My first priority has to be Marama. The exhibition at Lumen is a real opportunity for her. And honestly? Part of me understands Genevieve’s angle, and her desire to bring men down a peg or two.”
“That’s easy for you to say.” I glare at him. “It’s not your name being splashed all over the Internet.”
“No, because I have the sense not to bid a million pounds on a woman half my age.”
Fury flares inside me. “I’m not sixty.” I’m close to yelling. It’s the first time I’ve shown emotion, and everyone’s eyes widen.
“I was being metaphorical,” Rangi says. He’s half amused and half annoyed.
Huxley clears his throat. “Let’s try to put aside our personal feelings and concentrate on the Circle.
It’s clear that another club here would be bad for us, especially one oriented toward women.
Any publicity that Lumen gets now is going to reflect badly on us.
Journalists love the light and dark analogy, and the male/female competition. ”
“Maybe we should take on more female board members,” Mack suggests.
“You want to bring Genevieve on board?” Elizabeth snaps.
He gives her a sarcastic look. “No. I was thinking about Victoria.”
“I asked her, remember?” Huxley says. “She wasn’t interested. She’s got enough on her plate.”
“Neither Joanna nor I believe in tokenism,” Elizabeth says. “If we decide to enlarge the board, we’ll accept the best person for the job, no matter their gender, color, or sexual preferences.
“We do need to try to placate Genevieve somehow,” Huxley states.
“No.” I bang my hand on the table. “We don’t move an inch for that woman. We don’t talk to her, we don’t issue press releases, we don’t do anything that implies we’ve even noticed she exists. There’s more at stake here than my personal pride.”
“Like what?” Joanna asks.
“Like Marama’s career,” I reply heatedly. “She doesn’t fully appreciate Genevieve’s motivation behind the exhibition. But nevertheless it is an exceptional opportunity for her, and I don’t want to be the one to take that away from her.”
“I understand,” Joanna says, “but your personal connection is adding fuel to the fire.”
“There is no personal connection,” I snap.
“I appreciate that this is a delicate issue. But Spencer, you bid a million dollars on her.”
“For her father,” I say irritably.
She looks from me to Rangi, then back at me. “I don’t think any of us believes that.” She looks at me over the top of her glasses. “Do you?”
I get to my feet. “I’m not going to listen to this. It’s exactly what Genevieve wants—to drive a wedge between us.”
“I don’t think it’s Genevieve who’s doing that,” Joanna says.
“We’ve all noticed that you’re distracted, Spencer.
You’re making mistakes you would never normally make.
And you’re acting oddly. In the past, if someone posted a headline like that one about you being tamed, you’d have ripped them a new one.
You’d never have stood for someone threatening the Circle’s legacy.
But now your suggested action is to… what?
Do nothing? To let this woman think she has you on a leash?
” Her gaze turns curious. “Is this all because of Marama? Maybe she is taming you, after all?”
Rangi slams his hand down on the table, but before he has a chance to speak, I shove my chair under the table, then turn and walk out before I say something I regret.
I stride across the lobby and go outside.
The sun has set, and the solar lights around the building are all on, giving it a warm, welcoming glow.
I should head for the Club—everyone will be gathering there ready to celebrate Mack and Sidnie’s good news.
But I don’t feel like celebrating. And I don’t feel like being sociable.
Equally, I’m not ready to get in the Aston and head home while I’m still angry. So instead, I turn toward the main hotel and head for my suite.
Once I’m inside, I turn on a single lamp, then pace the floor, trying to calm down. I really should go to the party or it will only spread the rumor that I’m not myself. But the thing is… I am distracted. Joanna was absolutely right. I am making mistakes, and I’m acting out of character.
Marama might have been the catalyst for it, but she’s not the cause.
I think it’s been coming for some while, building up inside me like steam in a kettle.
It started with Eleanor’s illness and death and continued with Blake’s passing, turning forty, becoming a grandfather, and watching my son fall in love with a girl and realizing that I don’t think I’ve ever been in love, or been loved in return, the way he currently is.
Add to that a growing understanding that my job doesn’t fulfil me the way it used to, and it’s left me with a deep unease and dissatisfaction with life that won’t go away.
Being with Marama triggered my current restlessness because it’s made me aware of what life could have been like if things had been different.
If my wife had been open and affectionate.
If she’d wanted me the way I wanted her.
Of course the endo wasn’t her fault, and I understood why sex wasn’t always as enjoyable for her, and blamed it for her lack of enthusiasm.
But I also read a great deal about it, and other women’s experiences, and there were many who insisted that with a gentle, caring partner who had plenty of patience, they could still enjoy sex.
I was prepared to be patient. I would have done anything to please her.
But now that I’ve been intimate with Marama, I’m starting to realize the problem went much deeper than the physical.
I don’t know what psychological problems caused Eleanor to be the way she was, and to be honest, I don’t really care now.
I stop pacing and stand by the window, tired and dispirited.
I spent a lifetime with her, trying to make her love me.
I think she did, in her own way. At least, I don’t think she was unfaithful.
I think she loved me as much as she was able. It just wasn’t enough for me.
Now I’ve met someone warm and full of life who is affectionate and loving the way I’ve always wanted. And I’m not allowed to be with her because our relationship wouldn’t fit what society sees as the norm.
I realize I’m deeply angry about it. I have a knot in my stomach, formed from resentment and guilt and frustration, and I don’t know what to do about it, or how to get rid of it.
I need to ignore it and just keep on carrying on, as they say. But I’m not sure I can. I’m not a passive man. If there’s a change to be made, I’m going to be the one to make it. I don’t like just letting things happen to me. I don’t think things can stay the same, though. But what can I do?
There’s a knock at the door.
Frowning, I turn and stare at it. Has Rangi come to have it out?
Or maybe it’s Orson. I’m sure the Circle had a conversation when I left about placating Genevieve, and maybe they’ve sent him to put me straight and insist I go and see her.
I’m not going to do that, and I don’t want to argue with him about it.
But the knock sounds again. I’m not a coward, and I’m not going to pretend not to be in to avoid confrontation. So I huff a sigh, go over to the door, and wrench it open.
It’s Marama.
“I saw you in the lobby,” she says. “You looked angry. I was worried about you. Is everything okay?”
“This isn’t a good time,” I reply, relieved to see her, nevertheless.
She observes me calmly. “You want to talk to me about it?”
“No.”
“I’m a good listener,” she says as if I haven’t spoken.
She ducks under my arm and goes into the room. Unless I physically propel her out, it looks as if she’s here to stay.
“Did anyone see you come up here?” I ask her, closing the door behind her.
She frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t think I was followed.
” Then her expression turns wry. She’s teasing me.
“You’re my friend,” she says, lifting her chin.
“I’m allowed to come and make sure you’re okay.
” Her expression turns kind then. “ Are you okay? Kingi told me that Huxley had asked you all to come in earlier for a meeting. I’m guessing it was something to do with you? ”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “There are rumors that Genevieve is opening another club on Waiheke as a direct rival to Midnight. Apparently it’s going to have celebrity investors and a feminist focus.”
She exhales and studies the carpet. Tonight she’s wearing a long green skirt and a pretty white top.
She’s pinned up her hair with a clip but, as usual, long strands curl around her cheeks.
Sparkly green eyeshadow matches the skirt.
She’s also wearing a dark-red lip gloss that makes her look older and more sophisticated.
She’s so fucking beautiful, it makes me ache.
Lifting her gaze to mine again, she says, “And they’re blaming you for it?”
“It’s revenge on her part, pure and simple. Toward me and the rest of the Circle. They know that, but they also accused me of being distracted and not challenging her.”
“Why aren’t you?” she asks. I hesitate, and her eyebrows rise. “Because of me?” she asks, surprised.
“The exhibition is an exceptional opportunity for you. It should have been us who offered it. I know that. And I’m not going to be the one to take it away from you.”
Her expression softens. “That’s very sweet of you. But I don’t want you to get into trouble with the others because of me.”
“I don’t care about the others. I only care…” I pause, then think fuck it. “About you.”
She moves closer to me and rests her hands on my chest. Her eyes glow in the lamplight. “You care about me?”
I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Of course I care about you. How could you even ask that?”
“I love you,” she says.
My lips part, but no words come out. I can’t bring myself to say it.
“It’s okay,” she says, “you don’t have to say it back. I just wanted you to know.” Then she lifts up and presses her lips to mine.
My arms automatically wrap around her, and I groan as I pull her against me. The frustration, resentment, and guilt tighten in my stomach, but now there’s an added reaction: shock.
Because, although I don’t have the courage to tell her, I know now. I do love her.