Chapter Twenty-Six
Marama
I park my Alfa in the car park next to Lumen, turn off the engine, and blow out a relieved breath. Friday at four p.m. means heavy traffic in the city, and for a while I thought I was going to be late, but I made it just in time.
I get out of the car and retrieve the painting that I slotted behind the front seats and that only just about fits.
I’ve been painting solidly, hardly sleeping at all, and finished it last night.
I used acrylics so it’s mostly dry, although it’ll take a few days to properly cure.
I lift the sheet that’s covering it, crossing my fingers that the paint hasn’t smudged, but it’s fine.
Leaving the sheet on because it’s raining lightly, I lock the car, cross the car park, and head through Lumen’s front doors.
I go straight to the reception desk and announce that I’m here to see Genevieve Beaumont.
They tell me to take a seat, but I’ve literally just rested my butt on the edge when I see her walk into the foyer.
“Marama.” She comes over and holds out a hand, and I shake it. Her gaze goes immediately to the canvas resting beside me. “That’s it?”
I nod. “Can we go to your office?”
“Yes, of course, come on.”
She leads the way along the corridor and into a large office, closing the door behind me.
A neat desk sits at an angle to one side of the room, fronted by two chairs.
On the other side, a cream leather sofa and armchairs surround a glass coffee table.
Several pieces of artwork hang on the walls.
The color scheme and furnishings all look classy and of quality.
This woman knows how to project success.
A month ago, I would have felt intimidated sitting here. I was desperate for her approval. I wanted to be like her. But I no longer feel that way. I already know this will be the last time I’ll set foot in Lumen, and that gives me the confidence to believe in myself.
She gestures to the suite, and I sit on the sofa, leaning the canvas next to me.
“Can I get you a tea or coffee?” she asks. “Or a cold drink? Maybe even a glass of champagne to celebrate?” She smiles, gesturing at the canvas.
“I think you should see it before you offer me a drink,” I tell her.
Her smile fades, and she lowers slowly onto one of the chairs. “Why so?”
I’ve prepared my speech, but my words falter as I look at her properly for the first time. Her skin—always pale—looks wan. She leans back in the armchair, lacking some of her usual composure. She looks tired and somewhat beaten.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Long day,” she replies. “I had a meeting…” She looks away, out of the window toward the view of the inner courtyard beyond. She opens her mouth as if she’s about to confide something. Then her gaze comes back to me, and she closes it again. “Never mind,” she says. “So, you finished the piece?”
“Last night,” I confirm. “And… it’s not what we discussed, I’m afraid.” I take a deep breath. “I decided that I couldn’t paint what you and Hariata were asking.”
Her face remains expressionless. “Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?”
“Both, actually. I do want to lift up women, but not at the cost of pushing down men. Yes, most of them are major pains in my ass, but I just don’t feel that way about them.
I… I know what this means. I understand that I’ve lost the commission.
I want you to know that I’m disappointed because I really admire what you’ve done here, and the way you’re empowering women, especially women of color.
I wanted to be a part of that. But I can’t do it at the expense of men because I don’t see them as the enemy. ”
I have to fight not to rest my hand on my stomach as I think about Spencer and the child he’s put inside me. My throat tightens, and I want to burst into tears, but I clench my jaw until the wave of emotion subsides.
I know she’s seen it, because she frowns, but she doesn’t say anything.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, I brought it to show you because I thought you deserved to see it. If you were to like it, even though it doesn’t do what you asked, I would be very glad to gift it to Lumen, and you could hang it in the bathroom or something…
” I joke, but she doesn’t laugh. “But of course,” I mumble, “I’m sure you won’t, and I’ll just take it with me…
” Dammit, I wish I hadn’t come now. I shouldn’t have brought the painting.
I should have just called her and told her I wasn’t going to do the exhibition.
But it’s too late now. I’m here, so I might as well get on with it.
I get to my feet, remove the cloth, and turn the canvas to face her.
She studies it silently, her eyebrows slowly rising. My mouth gradually goes dry as the seconds pass. She blinks a few times, and I can see her gaze passing over various parts of the painting before they return to the male figure on the right.
Eventually, her eyes lift to mine. “You’re missing a great opportunity to make a statement,” she says.
I shrug. “I feel as if I am. It’s just that the statement is mine, not someone else’s.” I smile to soften it.
She stares at me. Then, to my surprise, she smiles back. “Good. That’s what I wanted to see.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
She rises to face me. “There’s nothing more powerful than a woman asserting her own artistic voice and philosophy.
Not by being defiant, but because she’s grown in confidence and now believes in herself.
” She looks down at the painting, then drops to her haunches in front of it to look at it more closely.
“We asked for a piece of art that empowered women. We wanted you to be bold and confrontational in your art, and to see themes of female power and sexual agency. And that’s what you’ve produced.
I love it, Marama.” She rises again, bringing the canvas with her.
“It’s exciting and full of energy. It will have pride of place at the exhibition, and I’m sure it’ll look amazing among the other pieces you’re going to produce. ”
My heart lifts. “You still want me to do the exhibition?”
“I do.” She rests the canvas on the sofa, leaning it against the back, and retreats to look at it again.
“I have an idea,” she says. “Tomorrow we’re having an open day—we’ve sent hundreds of invitations to encourage women to come to Lumen and have a look around, and to network.
I think we’ll hang this in the foyer as a teaser for the Maramataka exhibition that will be coming at Matariki. What do you think?”
I press my fingers to my mouth as emotion swells inside me. “Really?”
This time she gives a genuine smile. “Really.” She looks back at the painting, tipping her head to the side. “Has he seen it?”
I shake my head.
“It is him, I take it?” she asks.
I just smile.
“Fair enough,” she says softly. “Okay, leave it with me. I’ll get Carly to hang it. Will you come for the unveiling tomorrow? Say, one p.m.?”
“Of course.” Oh my God, I still have the commission? “Will Hariata agree?”
“Leave Hariata with me. She’ll be fine. Neither of us minds being challenged if it leads to something better.
We’re big enough to understand that sometimes we make the wrong decisions.
” She looks away again, suggesting that she’s thinking about something other than the painting, but then she smiles at me.
“So you have more paintings to do! What about after that, have you thought about what comes next?”
Spencer, the baby, my art… my head spins. “Not really. The future is a scary place.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Are you religious?”
“No, not really.”
“Me either, but my father always used to quote Matthew 6:34, ‘Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.’ At the time I thought it was nonsense, but I can see the wisdom in it now.”
Her words hold a whole heap of meaning; they suggest she had a father who used the Bible to keep her in line, and no doubt that formed her present low opinion of men.
I wonder if her father is still alive, maybe over in France.
Does she ever see him? I’m too shy to ask, but it does show me that people sometimes act the way they do because of holes in their past. It’s not easy to understand who we would be if our experiences and memories hadn’t shaped us.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” Genevieve says. “I look forward to the unveiling tomorrow.”
She leads me out of her office, and we part ways. I head across the foyer, then out of the doors and into the blustery day.
I can’t believe what’s just happened. I’d steeled myself for her to be angry, even furious, and at the very least to throw me out on my ear because I hadn’t bent to her will. Instead, she was gracious and forgiving, and that’s shocked me more than anything.
God, these baby hormones… I press my fingers to my lips. I feel emotional all the time, although I suppose that might be something to do with what’s been happening with Spencer too.
I get in the Alfa and sit there, thinking about him. I haven’t heard from him since I told him I was pregnant. It hurts… but then I was the one who told him that if he wouldn’t acknowledge the child as his, I didn’t want him in our lives, so I can’t be surprised that he’s kept away.
Might he change his mind and want to be a part of the baby’s life? He was shocked and angry at being blindsided, so it’s possible that might happen. But even as I think it, I know what it would lead to: scandal and shame, and I don’t think he could live with that. I shouldn’t expect him to, either.
I have lots of things to think about, including the five other pictures I have to paint for the exhibition, as well as the more obvious conundrum of whether to keep the baby.
If I do, I can hardly travel around the country in my van; I’d need to decide where I’m going to settle, and things like where the kid would go to school.
I’d probably be more likely to stay up here near my parents…
which would in itself bring more problems, but would also mean I’d have Mum around to help, and it would be cool for them to have regular access to their first grandchild, especially as Kingi doesn’t look like he’s going to settle down anytime soon.
But do I want to live up here? No doubt I’d see Spencer from time to time… and how would that play out?
Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. Wise words indeed, Matthew.
I start the engine, back out of the parking space, and head out into the autumn afternoon, glad to see that the rain has stopped and the clouds are starting to lift.