Page 105 of Midnight Enemy

“You should ask her out,” Helen says.

“She’s in her twenties,” Spencer says, in a voice that suggests she should change the subject.

“She’s twenty-nine,” she scoffs. “Nearly thirty.”

“Still too young for me,” he says. “And she’s also the daughter of my business associate.”

“And Kingi’s sister,” Orson points out.

“Kingi wouldn’t mind if Dad dated his sister,” Helen says, “would you?”

Kingi looks startled. “Er…”

“Enough.” Spencer throws her a glare, then picks up his glass. “Have a great evening.” He gets up and walks off.

Helen giggles. “Oops. I probably shouldn’t have teased him.”

Marama comes back with a cloth and starts mopping up Kingi’s spilled drink. She glances around and says, “What?”

“Nothing,” Helen says innocently. She meets my eyes and winks.

Orson snorts and changes the subject, and the conversation moves on. But I spot Marama’s glance drifting across the pool several times to where Spencer is sitting talking to a couple of men his own age. He doesn’t look back, though. He’s obviously very aware of their age difference and her family, and I can’t imagine he’d be interested in a romantic relationship with her.

*

It turns out to be a great evening. Orson introduces me to lots of people whose names I soon forget, most of whom are business associates. But it’s clear that some are good friends too, especially the two couples who join us at our table early in the evening. I soon realize the two guys are part of the Midnight Circle.

The first of his friends is called Mack Hart, a dark-haired, intense kinda guy with very unusual eyes that are blue speckled with green, like planet Earth. It turns out he’s the inventor of the fastest supercomputer in the country. I find it more than a little intimidating to be surrounded by all these smart guys, and I wouldn’t have said a word all evening if it wasn’t for his wife—a beautiful, curly-haired beauty called Sidnie, who seems very normal and is determined to include me in the conversation as often as possible.

Orson introduces the other guy as Oliver Huxley, although everyone seems to call him by his surname. He tells me that Huxley runs a business club in Auckland, and I remember then that this was the guy who approached Orson with the idea of setting up the first Midnight Club. He’s about Orson’s height and build, a bit stockier maybe, and incredibly affable, clearly used to putting people at ease.

His wife, Elizabeth, is around my height with dark hair in a sharp bob. It turns out that she runs some kind of company that does drug research, and they’ve won awards for the work they’ve done with IVF.

“What do you do?” Elizabeth asks me politely when Orson introduces us.

It’s impossible not to feel daunted by all these powerful people. But I’m proud of my work, so I lift my chin and say, “I help run the retreat at Kahukura.”

Her eyebrows rise. “For abused women, right? Part of Women’s Refuge?”

I nod, pleased she’s heard of it. “Yes. My father created it. I hold yoga and art classes there. We believe in the healing power of creativity.”

I wait for them to exchange mocking glances, but they don’t, and Huxley says, “Incredibly worthwhile work,” while Elizabeth adds, “I can only imagine how that helps them to rediscover their equilibrium.”

“That’s it exactly,” I say, pleased. “I like that description.”

“Important for them to regain power over their own lives, I would think,” Huxley says.

“Yes, very much so.” I relax after that, and Orson squeezes my hand, obviously recognizing that I feel better.

We eat, and drink, and after a while we have a swim, during which Orson lifts me in his arms and threatens to dunk me, but he ends up kissing me, prompting Kingi to yell from the table, “No petting in the pool,” to which Orson yells back, “You’re just jealous.”

After that, there’s more champagne, and Orson feeds me a variety of sumptuous desserts. I sit and listen to him and his friends and family chatting around the table, thinking about what a different life we lead. I really like everyone present—Kingi, Mack, Sidnie, Huxley, Elizabeth, Helen, Marama, and even Spencer, when he comes over for a while, as he’s very like Orson—quick-witted, smart, and warm when he chooses to be.

But I’m not sure I can ever see myself existing in their world. It’s impossible to change your core philosophy, and mine is so at odds with Orson’s. I look around at all this wealth—the women’s jewelry, their designer clothes even though they’re wearing shorts and tees, the sumptuous food and the expensive champagne, the numerous staff waiting on their every whim… And it’s so different from my life, where you’re encouraged to do everything yourself, where everyone is considered equal, and where extravagance is frowned on, because every extra cent spent on something opulent is money that could be used to help someone less fortunate than yourself.

I’m not saying it’s not attractive… There’s something wonderful about being waited on hand on foot, and not having to do your own cooking and cleaning and washing. Imagine being able to buy any piece of clothing or jewelry or household item that you liked the look of. And not having to worry whether your car was going to break down because yours was brand new and you’d just take it back to the garage and get them to mend it. Of being able to buy a huge house or an exquisite apartment. Of having the freedom to travel without having to backpack or scrimp and scrape and not worrying about health insurance or running out of money in a foreign country.

I feel a bit differently about the Cavendishes too now I know that Spencer is a self-made man. I don’t know why it makes a difference, but it does. He’s obviously decided his family isn’t going to suffer the way he did—and I can’t blame him for that—while at the same time attempting to instill values in his children so they appreciate their wealth and don’t take it for granted. Orson told me he works fourteenhours a day sometimes, and so even if he doesn’t quite appreciate the difficulties we go through at the commune trying to make ends meet, he isn’t a playboy.

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