Chapter Twenty-Three
Spencer
On Sunday morning, shortly after waking, I go for a run along Sentinel Beach Reserve. It’s a hidden gem—a secluded haven in the middle of the busy city, and the early sun glitters on the surface of the harbor like diamonds.
I push myself hard, wanting to wear out my body and rid myself of some of the sexual tension I’ve been feeling over the past few days.
Since Eleanor died, I’ve trained myself not to think about sex too much.
It’s not as if I met someone and made the conscious decision not to get involved.
For a good couple of years I wasn’t ready for someone new, and then after that I just got caught up in work and family, and the time was never right.
But now there’s someone in my life, and there shouldn’t be, and I want her and I can’t have her, and it’s tearing me apart.
I think about her twenty-four-seven. Like, literally, all the time.
I’m constantly fantasizing about what I’d do to her if I saw her again, and that gets me hard, and I spend hours trying to ignore my erection, growing exceedingly grumpy, until I get to the point where I get angry with myself and just want it to stop.
Then I growl and go off to the bathroom to alleviate the ache, which is both a relief and makes me feel slightly ashamed.
I’m a grown man, not a horny teenager. I should be able to control my lust. But I can’t. And it’s driving me mad.
So I run until I’m exhausted, then go back home and take a shower.
But when the water cascades over me, it makes me think about the way Marama’s breasts glistened beneath the stream, and how she washed off the word ‘mine’ from my chest—even though I can still feel it burned into my skin—and within minutes I’m hard again.
So I take myself in hand and jerk off angrily, coming with an aggressive roar, then lean my forehead on the glass, my fingers curling into fists with my frustration.
Afterward, I take my laptop out onto the deck with a cup of coffee, sit at the table with my feet propped on the opposite chair, and pull up the Kōrero news site.
My brain is in neutral; it’s what I do every morning, checking out the international and local business news.
I’m therefore completely unprepared when I scroll down to the city section and see another photo of myself.
I have no idea where it was taken, but I’m in one of my best business suits, and I’m glaring at the photographer, clearly unhappy at my picture being taken.
The headline reads: “Marama Davis is painting Spencer Cavendish as the beast—and she’s breaking him.”
What the fuck?
I read the article quickly. It takes me five seconds to guess it’s been fed to the website by Genevieve.
It talks about Marama’s new exhibition, the pièce de résistance of which is to be called Whakakōpaka, which means to restrain, or forceful repression.
It explains that the atua wāhine in this painting—Hina Marama, the goddess of female power and the moon, clearly representing Marama herself—is being portrayed as subjugating the wolf before her. The wolf, of course, being me.
It doesn’t state that we’re in a relationship, because they know I’d have them for libel. But it does heavily insinuate it.
It goes on: “Speculation is mounting that the Lumen CEO has quietly offered a prestigious new position—Curator of Light ( Tohunga o te Marama )—to the Māori artist. Sources close to Lumen suggest the role would place Davis at the forefront of selecting and curating future exhibitions, with a focus on local talent, indigenous storytelling, and emerging female voices in contemporary art. While Lumen has not yet confirmed the appointment, the move would align with its recent push for greater cultural diversity and empowerment of wāhine toa (strong women) within the elite arts community. Davis, known for her deeply personal and symbolic work, has yet to comment.”
I sit upright slowly, ice filtering through my veins.
It’s now clear to me what’s happening. Genevieve is trying to poach Marama the same way she stole my daughter.
She wants to punish, embarrass, and humiliate me, and at the same time make the Midnight Circle seem old-fashioned and out-of-date, despite us having both Māori and female members.
Feeling nauseous, I head inside to the bedroom. I change out of my track pants and tee, and into a pair of jeans and a casual navy shirt. Then I pick up my keys, go out to the Aston, and head for the ferry terminal.
It’s mid-morning by the time I pull up outside Rangi’s house. I get out of the car and head around the side, waving to Joe, who’s removing some dead leaves from the nearby palms.
I discover the family sitting on the deck having brunch together—Rangi, Huia, Kingi, and Marama. My heart skips a beat as I round the corner and see them all sitting there, but it’s too late to back out. Kingi sees me and says something, and they all look around, so I continue walking.
It’s only as I approach the table that I spot Marama’s red eyes, and Rangi and Kingi’s resentful glares. Oh shit. They’ve been talking about the article.
“Good morning,” I say. “I’m so sorry to interrupt. I should have rung first.”
“Of course not.” Huia lifts her chin. “Kingi, grab another chair will you? Join us for brunch, Spencer? There’s plenty to go around.”
I hold up a hand. “No, thank you.”
“No, I’m sure he’s far too busy.” Rangi’s voice is icy.
“Rangi,” Huia scolds. “Manners. Remember what we talked about.”
Rangi puts his serviette down with a bang, making them all jump as the cutlery rattles. “You don’t think him being here will add fuel to the fire?” he asks his wife.
“I think you’re determined to make something out of nothing,” she snaps back. “He’s your oldest friend. He wouldn’t do something like that to you.”
Ah, fuck. I curl up inside like a poked spider.
Kingi gets to his feet. “I think you should leave,” he states, fixing me with a hard stare.
I glance at Marama. I need to talk to her, but if she shows any sign of not wanting to see me, I’ll go.
She just looks tired, though. “Have you come to see me?” she asks.
“Yes please, if you have a minute.”
“No,” Rangi states, but Marama ignores him. Getting to her feet, she gestures with her head toward the bottom of the garden, and the steps leading down to the beach. “Come for a walk with me,” she says.
I hesitate, torn between wanting to talk to her and not wanting to upset my old friend.
Kingi is still standing, and he glances at his father like a mastiff waiting for his master to bark a command.
Rangi meets my gaze, his expression a mixture of fury and hurt.
But to my surprise, he doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he just looks down at the table, and slowly, Kingi sinks back into his chair.
Marama holds out a hand. “Come on.”
Without thinking, I slip mine into hers and let her lead me across the lawn.
After a few steps, I withdraw my hand gently and slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans, and she does the same. She’s wearing cut-downs and a bright pink tee, and she looks young, fresh, and beautiful.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” I say as we approach the bottom end of the lawn. “I’m guessing you were all discussing the article?”
She nods, opening the gate, and we go through and begin walking down the steps to the private beach. It’s breezy here, but not too cool.
“You need to understand that I didn’t know she was going to publish that,” Marama says quietly.
“You think Genevieve wrote it?”
She snorts and gives me an amused look.
“Yeah,” I say, “I thought so too.”
We get to the bottom of the steps and turn onto the sand.
It’s a small, crescent-shaped bay, with golden sand fringed with rocks and a grassy bank, the deep-blue Pacific Ocean sparkling in the sun.
Marama slips off her sandals, her toes sinking into the sand.
Without discussing it, we set off along the beach, Marama splashing in the shallows, following the curve of the bay toward the opposite end.
“Was the topic of the painting her idea too?” I ask.
She takes an elastic band from around her wrist and fastens her hair on top of her head in a loose bun. “It was my idea to paint a series of goddess pictures,” she says. “Hers and Hariata’s to show them taming men as wild beasts.”
I’d suspected as much. In that sense, being as it was a commission, Marama wouldn’t have had much choice.
“What about the position?” I ask. “Is that true?”
She nods. “She asked me on Friday. I didn’t tell you because I needed time to think about it.”
“ Tohunga o te Marama ? It sounds impressive.”
She just gives me a wry look.
“There were lots of buzz words in that article,” I point out.
“I know. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Are you going to take it?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“But it appeals to you?”
That earns me an impatient look. “Of course it appeals to me. I’m practically unknown. Where else do you think I’d get a position like that? Is Midnight going to offer me a job?”
Our eyes meet, and I feel a touch of shame. She’s right—it’s a hell of an opportunity for her. Can I really tell her she shouldn’t take it?
But that’s not the point here. “You’re being manipulated,” I tell her earnestly.
She needs to understand what Genevieve is like.
“She’s framing it as a cushy, high-status position, which sounds great, but it’s ambiguous and ephemeral.
You might think it feels like artistic freedom, but it’s not—it’s curated rebellion.
Your empowerment will become a trap. You might gain power, but you’re losing creative control.
Do you really want to paint pictures of women suppressing men? ”
Her eyes flare. “Men have held all the power for far too long.”
“Now you even sound like her. Your moko kauae has become a branding tool for her. She can market you without giving up control. It lets her play the long game and use you as a face and a symbol.”