Chapter Twenty-Two #2
The house has extensive grounds and also a private beach, and I spend a lot of time walking. The sea has healing properties, and I wait for the quiet rattle of the waves on the pebbles to bring me the peace and serenity I crave.
But it doesn’t. Maybe I’d be able to start healing if Spencer had completely abandoned me. Eventually my resentment would kick in and I’d probably end up like Genevieve, craving revenge and wanting to hurt him.
But even though we don’t see each other physically, he still messages me constantly.
Not in a needy way—just photos of his day, or little messages to say he’s thinking of me, and I discover that I can’t keep away.
I crave the dopamine buzz of seeing something from him, and I think he feels the same.
He isn’t refusing to see me because he doesn’t want to.
He’s trying to do what’s best for both of us. How can I criticize him for that?
I know my parents are worried about me because I’m isolating myself.
Dad checks on me every evening when he gets home, and Mum is constantly popping in to bring me a treat—a muffin or cookie or something else she’s baked for one of her women’s groups.
But the truth is I’m happy on my own, listening to music, either walking or painting.
I’m therefore surprised and a little nervous when on Friday morning, Genevieve emails me and asks whether she can come and see my work in progress.
“I have something I’d like to discuss with you,” she adds at the end.
I reply that of course, she’s welcome to call in, because I can’t very well tell her I’m not receiving callers or I’ll sound like a character out of a Jane Austen novel.
I don’t tell Spencer she’s coming, though.
She arrives at two p.m., pulling up outside in a gunmetal-gray Range Rover, the perfect car for a woman who walks into boardrooms and takes no prisoners.
She’s wearing a light-gray pantsuit and black high-heeled stilettos that I’d never be able to walk in.
Her hair looks as if she’s just walked out of the stylists, and her makeup is immaculate.
I open the door, relieved that my parents are out. I don’t think Dad likes her any more than Spencer does.
“Hello!” She gives me a bright smile. “Beautiful location.”
“Yes.” I move back to let her in and close the door behind her. “My grandfather built the house.”
“It’s amazing. Do you want me to take off my shoes?”
“No, please, don’t worry about it.” I cross my fingers, hoping her heels don’t mark Mum’s beautiful kauri-wood floorboards. “Can I get you a drink? Tea, coffee, soft drink?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you, I’ve just had lunch.”
She’s so thin, I can’t imagine anything more than a lettuce leaf passing her lips. “This way, then.”
I lead her into the studio and over to the window. I’ve leaned the six canvases against the glass, and we stop in front of them. I’ve sketched out all six paintings in charcoal, but I’ve only started painting the first—Spencer’s one.
“Ohhh…” She walks slowly along them, bending to look at each. They feature a variety of goddesses, each with a large wild animal at their feet. The goddesses are only roughly sketched.
“I mentioned to you and Hariata about featuring modern-day atua wāhine —important women in our community—and thought maybe you’d like to give me a list of those you feel it would be good to feature. I could then visit them for some sketches.”
“Good idea. I’ll talk to Hariata.” She stops by the first painting and slowly lowers down to her haunches to examine it. “This is spectacular,” she says breathlessly. “You’ve done exactly what I’d hoped for. He looks completely cowed.” She laughs.
I suck my bottom lip, shifting uncomfortably. That’s not what I was going for. I’d hoped that it looked as if the wolf was bowing his head to her, acknowledging her presence, but I can see how it could be interpreted as if she’s pushing him down.
She gets to her feet. “This is going to be a spectacular exhibition.”
“Well, wait until they’re finished,” I say nervously.
“Marama, you need to be confident with your talent. Lift your chin and believe in yourself, girl.”
“It doesn’t come easily.”
“It does to men, and we need to start not just following in their footsteps, but leading the way.”
I nod, more than a little intimidated by this striking, assertive woman.
She smiles. “Can we sit for a moment?”
“Of course.” Surprised, I lead her over to the chairs that surrounded the coffee table.
She perches on the edge of one and surveys me with a direct gaze. “I’d like to offer you a job,” she says, eyes gleaming.
My jaw drops. “What?”
“I’d like you to be Lumen’s Tohunga o te Marama .”
It’s an ambiguous term that I would interpret as ‘expert of the moon’ or ‘expert of enlightenment’. But Genevieve then clarifies, “You would be our Curator of Light. An Artist-in-Residence with an Advisory Role.”
I’m still not sure what it means, but it sounds interesting. “What would it involve?”
“You’d have a public profile. You’d lead talks or panels, and have a say in Lumen’s artistic direction.”
My heart rate increases. It’s impossible not to feel excited by the offer. Tohunga o te Marama . Now I think about it, it’s a very clever play on words, echoing my name and feeding into the Lumen branding at the same time.
“You’d be the face and symbol of all indigenous creative women in the city,” Genevieve promises.
I’m not stupid; I know that my presence would be great PR for her company. My moko kauae would be a branding tool, announcing to everyone that Lumen is serious about promoting diversity, and my new exhibition will feed into her intention to elevate women and show them as being better than men.
I’m not particularly comfortable with being the figurehead for her modern version of feminism. That’s not how my mother brought me up. I have lots of male friends who aren’t dicks, and I don’t feel the need to crush them to lift myself higher.
But—and it’s a big but, and I cannot lie—I can’t imagine being offered this kind of platform anywhere else, including at Midnight. It’s incredibly tempting.
Would it be insulting to ask if I can have some time to think about it?
Luckily, Genevieve says, “You don’t have to answer now.
I know you’re thinking about traveling and seeing more of the country.
I will say that I’m sure we could combine that with your role.
Your van could be the Lumen Bus! You could exhibit the works you do as you travel under the Lumen brand.
Anyway, think about it and let me know, okay? ”
“I will,” I tell her, “thank you so much for considering me, though.”
“You are a national taonga , Marama.” It means treasure. “We’d be honored to have you. Anyway, I’d better get going. Lots to do before the weekend.”
I see her to the door and wave as she returns to her Range Rover and heads back along the drive to the ferry. I close the door and walk slowly through to the kitchen, where I make myself a coffee. It’s a long way to come to visit me. I wonder why she didn’t ask me to come to her office?
It’s impossible not to feel flattered by her personal visit, or the position she’s suggesting.
Carrying my coffee, I return to the studio. I stand in front of the first painting. Should I tell Spencer about her offer?
I don’t think I will just yet. There’s no point until I’ve decided whether I’m going to take it. I need time to think about it.
I lift the painting and place it on the easel, looking at the way the woman—me—is pushing down the head of the wolf.
Thoughtfully, I pull up my stool and sit there looking at it while I drink my coffee.