The Last Love Note(23)
‘We want someone who’ll inspire stakeholders to be excited by our energy and vision.’
We are SO drained.
‘You’ll plan and deliver comprehensive fundraising campaigns.’
I don’t think I can fit a second car seat in the turn-of-the-century Mazda and still concertina the pram into the boot around the anchor strap. No, it’s worse. We’ll need a bigger pram.
Cam has been talking about dropping to part-time when I return to work, so we can share the childcare more equitably. He doesn’t want to miss out on Charlie’s preschool years. It’s always been family first for him. I can’t deny him that. I have to get this job. Have to.
I sit up straight, as an avalanche of fake confidence comes over me, like this is drama class and I’m in the leading role. ‘Thanks for that introduction, Hugh. I’m excited by the idea of contributing to the impact and reach of the university. I applied for this role because . . .’
I want to go to the toilet on my own.
I can’t face any more weeping widows at the heart institute.
I drive a 2001 Mazda.
‘. . . coming from a world-leading research institute that really has one broad objective, I’m attracted by the idea of building strong campaigns across diverse programs and helping advance one of the world’s top universities heading into one of the most challenging periods in human history.’
I don’t even know what I just said or where it came from, just that Angela is nodding and Hugh is staring at me as if he’s trying to reconcile Professional Kate with the klutz from the gym.
‘What would you say are the key barriers to higher education philanthropy?’ he asks.
I pause to gather my thoughts. ‘Well, there are the broad challenges facing fundraising in general – fierce competition for donors and dollars, trying to cut through excess noise in an exploding comms space.’
‘Mmm?’ He nods, shoving me towards a better answer.
‘We’re seeing global trends with higher education grappling with additional financial and enrolment challenges, cuts and reforms.’
Angela ticks a series of boxes, writes some notes and shuffles her page, ready to ask the next question.
‘What else?’ Hugh says, leaning in. He acts like he’s operating on personal curiosity now, as if the other three aren’t in the conversation.
His colleague looks surprised, and flicks back to the page before.
I dredge my mind for the ‘X-factor’ response he seems to be angling for. What would Cam say? ‘Well,’ I begin, an idea forming almost as it leaves my mouth, ‘a more nuanced theme that I think is worth considering in the broader tertiary sector is the decades-long culture war between arts and science, and the impact of an institution’s strategic research priorities on the potential further devaluation of the arts, specifically.’
His expression is inscrutable. ‘Our campaigns tend to be necessarily targeted and specific. Drawing funds to the university involves tough choices that make economic sense.’
I shrug. ‘I get that it’s a harder sell. Fifty years from now, we want to hope there’s sufficient scientific brilliance to reverse us out of the corner we’re painting ourselves into, climate-wise. But without developing sufficient artistic brilliance to capture the poetry of that human experience and make connections and meaning from it all – what are we fighting for?’
He hasn’t written a single point on the blank page in front of him. ‘Right,’ he says.
‘That’s a challenge facing tertiary-sector philanthropy,’ I go on. ‘Asking what you’re fighting for, strategically, and why. Looking beyond the low-hanging fruit and ensuring there are people on your team with the energy to reach higher. If you always go for the easy sell, you’ll shoot the Renaissance Man in the foot.’
We lock gazes and he narrows his eyes, impossible to read. Maybe all I’ve done is thrown a spanner into the works, but I suspect he likes the challenge.
As for the rest of their questions, a string of answers fall out of my mouth and I can’t be stumped. It’s like I’m channelling some god of desperate, potentially pregnant working mums. Hugh must find me totally unrecognisable. Technically irrelevant as it is, I feel like I’m holding out on them though, by not telling them about the unconfirmed baby. They know about Charlie – I was open about this being my return to work from parental leave. But they don’t know about this next one. Of course, nobody does. Not even Cam.
‘Do you have any final questions for us, Kate?’ Hugh asks. He’s been looking at me strangely since I painted the whole ‘Renaissance Man with a shot foot’ visual.
Probably wondering if he’s being pranked. Or was pranked, at the gym.
I know you’re meant to have a question prepared, but right now I can only think of one. ‘Could I be excused?’ I say, and I run out of the room with my hand over my mouth.
10
When I get home, Cam is lying on the living-room floor in front of the bookcase, reading Jane Eyre for Babies to Charlie. He’s got him the whole series – Pride and Prejudice, Moby-Dick, Wuthering Heights . . .
‘Look at Daddy, filling your head with all that nineteenth-century nonsense!’ I say to Charlie as I throw my bag on the couch and flop down on the floor with them.