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For a moment, Fraser stares at his coffee. Then, finally, he admits, “This is a bit embarrassing.”
Oh God. Here we go.
He takes his glasses off his hair and lowers them to the table. Mmm, why’s that so sexy? Maybe because I can imagine him doing that before he kisses a girl…
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pass on what I’m about to tell you,” he says.
I pretend to zip my mouth shut.
He gives a small smile. “I’m only telling you because Whina and I need your help.”
I’m flattered. But what does this have to do with Friday evening? “Okay…” I say slowly.
“The museum’s in a bit of trouble,” he says. “And it’s my fault.”
It doesn’t sound as if it’s anything to do with my flirting with him at all. Talk about a guilty conscience.
“What’s happened?” I ask, caught between relief and concern. For the first time, I notice the deep frown lines on his forehead and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He looks tired and worried.
He runs a hand through his hair, which sticks up at the front as a result. “You know the new building project?”
“Yes, of course.” Before Christmas, Fraser gave the go ahead for the ambitious rebuilding of the west wing of the museum. I’ve seen the plans, and it’s going to be amazing, preserving the look of the current Edwardian building, but with new high windows that will bring in more light. They’ve already started work, and the hope was that it would be completed by the end of the year. “I thought it was going well,” I add.
“It is. But we’ve run into some money troubles.”
Fraser was the Director of Development and Fundraising before he became Museum Director. His job was to secure funding through donations, grants, and partnerships, and look after donor relations. He was extremely good at it, and he wasalmost single-handedly responsible for turning the museum’s fortunes around. So it’s surprising to hear he’s having trouble.
“I thought we had lots of grants coming in,” I say.
“We did.”
“There was a substantial one from the Penguin Community Trust, wasn’t there?” The Trust supports arts, culture, and heritage projects.
He nods. “It fell through due to budget cuts.”
I blink. “Well what about the cultural and art endowment from The New Zealand Creative Arts Association?” It provides funding for museum and arts projects. Fraser applied for the upcoming Valentine’s Day exhibit for which I’m supposed to be sourcing an artifact.
“There was a scandal around the organization and their financial status,” he says. “Someone’s been embezzling funds, and they withdrew their grant as a result.”
“Shit.”
He gives a humorless laugh. “Yeah.”
I search my brain furiously. “We’ve still got the grant from Taonga, though, right?” It’s a Maori organization which has been keen to support a new display of artifacts.
“It fell through,” he states flatly. “Localiwidiscovered that the artifacts were removed from a site of ancestral significance. The land needs protection, and the press is using the exhibit for a wider, mostly negative discussion about environmental and cultural preservation.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur. “That must be very worrying for you.”
“The controversy completely threw me,” he admits. “You know how much we pride ourselves on honoring our cultural relationships here.”
I nod. I can see he’s hurt and a little angry that the media are challenging his principles. “Anyway,” he continues, “then wehad that storm in December. A leaking ceiling in the basement damaged one of the collections, and I had to divert some funds for the restoration.”
“None of this is your fault, though,” I tell him. “It’s just a run of bad luck, surely.”
“Partly. But I gave the go ahead for the rebuilding of the west wing before the money was in the bank. And now the museum is in debt.” He leans back and looks out of the window.
I don’t say anything for a moment. I can see how horrified he is to be in this position. It must have taken him a lot of courage to admit it.