Chapter Twenty-Five
Spencer
It’s been a helluva week.
I haven’t contacted Marama, and she hasn’t contacted me. She’s made it clear that if I refuse to go public with her, she doesn’t want me involved with the baby, and so even though I’ve missed her terribly, now, more than ever, I need to keep my distance.
I think about her all the time, though. I’m sure the memory of her previous miscarriage must be weighing on her mind, and it pains me to think she’s worried about it happening again.
The pregnancy might be extremely inconvenient, and she might even be considering a termination, but that doesn’t make a miscarriage any less of a tragedy.
After growling my way through meetings and biting the heads off most people in the office all week, I’m supposed to head a meeting about a new property development in the CBD on Friday lunchtime, but one of my colleagues tactfully suggests that I might be feeling under the weather and that he runs the meeting instead, and I can’t concentrate anyway, so I reluctantly agree.
I have a heap of work to do, but I haven’t been sleeping well, and I’m tired and dispirited.
I feel claustrophobic and enclosed, even though my office has a great view across the harbor.
I’m tired of high-rise buildings, steel and concrete and glass.
I miss the biophilic nature of my suite at the Midnight Club, the view across the Pacific, the palms and ferns, and the fresh country air.
I could go for a walk down to the Waiora and see how the work is coming along, maybe even have a swim.
Anything has to be better than staying here and moping in my office.
So I tell my PA I’ll be out for the rest of the afternoon and take the Aston down to the ferry.
When I arrive on Waiheke, I drive the short distance to the club. It’s not as sunny as I’d hoped, and in fact it starts spattering with rain as I pull up, putting paid to the idea of going for a walk, unless I want to get soaked. I guess I’ll go to my suite until it lets up.
I get out of the Aston, and I’m about to run inside when my gaze falls on a Range Rover parked a short distance away.
There are several in the car park, most of which are either black or gray, so it doesn’t particularly stand out.
But it’s the number plate that draws my attention.
It just says LUM3N. It’s Genevieve’s car.
I run my gaze along the line of VIP parking spaces. All the other members of the Circle are here. On a Friday afternoon?
I was about to cross the complex to the hotel, but, gritting my teeth, I go into the main block and march up to the receptionist.
“Is Genevieve Beaumont here?” I bark at her.
She blinks and stutters, “Y-yes sir. She’s in a meeting in the boardroom.”
“With whom?”
“Th-the other members of the Circle, sir.”
I feel as if I’ve been punched in the stomach.
Leaving the receptionist red-faced and flustered, I walk along the corridor, past the offices to the boardroom at the end.
As I near, I can see them all through the glass wall, seated around the table.
Huxley’s at the head as usual, with the Circle on one side of the long table, and on the other, Genevieve and two other women.
Without stopping, I walk up to the glass door, push it open, and go in.
Genevieve is currently talking, but she stops as I enter, her eyes widening. When the others see her looking, they all turn to follow her gaze. Most of them wince or frown when they see me.
I stop at the bottom end of the table. “What’s going on?” I demand.
Huxley leans forward on the table. “We’re having a discussion, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“About the new club that Lumen is planning,” Huxley says.
I look at Genevieve, who gives me a nasty smile.
I glance around the table, glaring at each of the members of the Circle in turn, ending with my son.
“It’s just a preliminary discussion,” Orson states carefully. “We’re not making any decisions. We wanted to find out about the location, design, and launch timeline of the new club.”
“Why wasn’t I invited?” I demand.
“I was going to report back to you,” he says. “I just didn’t think you’d want to be here for this.”
“You had no right to meet with a rival club without me,” I state to them all. “If no other reason than that Midnight is built on my land.”
Huxley has the grace to look regretful. “You’re right,” he says carefully. “And I apologize for how it looks. We just thought we’d get the lie of the land before we brought you in.”
I understand—of course I do. They’ve obviously seen the headlines about Marama’s painting, and they would probably have heard rumors about my deteriorating relationship with Rangi.
They might even have heard about Kingi decking me last weekend, as it’s impossible to keep things like that secret—someone would have witnessed it and enjoyed telling everyone else, or he might have told them himself.
But I’m angry from a professional standpoint, and hurt from a personal one. “You’re letting the fox into the henhouse,” I snap. “How dare you bring her here?” I turn my glare on Genevieve, and she lifts her chin. “You’re just doing this to piss me off,” I snap at her.
She gives a short laugh and glances around the table.
“See what I mean?” she says. She looks back at me.
“Talk about arrogant. Not everything is about you, Spencer. We have every right to open another club on Waiheke. It’s the perfect location—close to the city but with the atmosphere for a more relaxed resort. ”
“You just want to poach our clientele,” I point out.
“We’re discussing a non-compete agreement,” Huxley says cautiously.
“She’ll never agree to that,” I say incredulously.
“We don’t have to,” Genevieve replies. “We’ll be going after different clientele.
Lumen is the… ah… next generation of luxury, shall we say?
You can have all the old white guys and we’ll take the young, dynamic business people.
There’s a market for both.” Her eyes dance as they meet mine, while the women sitting beside her both stifle their laughter.
“We might even display Marama’s exhibition in our new foyer,” she adds.
“I think your girlfriend would like that, wouldn’t she? ”
I’m not looking at Rangi, but I hear his sharp intake of breath, and in my peripheral vision I see the way Kingi stiffens and Orson covers his eyes.
I hold Genevieve’s gaze, and her smile slowly fades.
“I never meant to hurt you personally, Genevieve,” I say quietly.
“And I’m sorry that what’s taken place—or, rather, what didn’t take place between us—has led to this.
These are good people,” and I gesture around the table.
“They spend their money helping others less fortunate than themselves, and you’re being vindictive and spiteful and selfish by threatening to siphon off the profits from Midnight for your own benefit.
Only the charities that benefit from our generosity will suffer, not us, so think about that when you gleefully plot our demise. ”
Her jaw drops, and her face flushes. Obviously, she’s not used to being spoken to like that.
Huxley clears his throat. “Clearly, tempers are running hot at the moment. Maybe, Genevieve, you and your colleagues could give us ten minutes to discuss the matter, and—”
“No need,” I state. “I’ll leave you to it, as I’m clearly not wanted here.” I turn on my heel, go through the door, and head along the corridor.
I go outside, cross to the Aston, get in, and reverse out of the parking space. As I do, I see Orson come striding out, but I don’t stop. I go down the drive, and before long I’m on the open road.
Blind with fury, I don’t even think about where I’m going.
I pass the turnoff for the ferry and just keep driving, my wipers do their best to keep the rain off the windscreen.
I bang the steering wheel and curse out loud as I drive.
I can’t believe the Circle met with Genevieve without me, and it hurts even more that they met at Midnight.
Rangi would have known I was due to be in a meeting, and he must have thought they’d be safer there.
Fuck them. Fuck them all. Fucking Judases. Motherfucking arseholes, all of them.
But my fury gradually dissipates as I drive along the winding roads through the vineyards and olive groves, leaving me feeling oddly upset and alone. When I finally realize I’m on the road to my family’s farmhouse, I don’t know whether I’m surprised or not.
My brother and his family live in the farmhouse with my mother now, but he and his wife will be out working, and the kids will be at school.
My mother used to work in the vineyard too, but now she’s in her seventies my brother has talked her into taking life a little easier, and she’s slowed down a bit.
The house sits on the far side of Waiheke, looking out to the Pacific.
It’s not as grandiose as Rangi’s mansion, but it’s not tiny either—an updated farmhouse, comfortable and sprawling.
I pull up out the front, sit there for a minute, then get out and walk around to the side door that leads to the kitchen.
Sure enough, I discover her in there, cleaning up after finishing some baking.
Joyce Cavendish is slender and wiry, her skin tanned and lined from years of working outside.
She wears her gray hair in a simple long braid.
She only ever buys clothes in earth tones, and sure enough today she’s wearing brown slacks and an olive-green top; I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in blues or pinks.
“Spencer!” Her face lights up as she sees me.
“Honey! I didn’t know you were coming.” She knows I’m not normally a hugger, and so when she comes over to me, she goes to kiss my cheek, but I surprise her by pulling her into my arms. “Oh!” She stiffens, then slides her arms around me, and we exchange a big hug.
“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you for a while,” I say, my voice husky with emotion.