“Thanks!” says Milla. “See you later!” The three girls trip off into the melee, and I hear one of them saying, “I really need a good belt…”
“Becky!” says Tarquin, suddenly coming up behind me. “Here’s some wine. And let me introduce Caspar, my chum from Christie’s.”
“Oh hello!” I say, turning round to see a guy with floppy blond hair, a blue shirt, and an enormous gold signet ring. “Thank you so much for doing this! I’m really grateful.”
“Not at all, not at all,” says Caspar. “Now, I’ve been through the catalogue and it all seems fairly straightforward. Do you have a list of reserve prices?”
“No,” I say without pausing. “No reserves. Everything must go.”
“Fine.” He smiles at me. “Well, I’ll go and get set up.”
As he walks off I take a sip of my wine. Suze has gone off to look round some of the tables, so I stand alone for a while, watching as the crowd grows. Fenella arrives at the door, and I give her a wave — but she’s immediately swallowed up in a group of shrieking friends.
“Hi, Becky,” comes a hesitant voice behind me. I wheel round in shock, and find myself staring up at Tom Webster.
“Tom!” I exclaim in shock. “What are you doing here? How do you know about this?” He takes a sip from his glass and gives a little grin.
“Suze called your mum, and she told me all about it. She and my mum have put in some orders, actually.” He pulls a list out of his pocket. “Your mum wants your cappuccino maker. If it’s for sale.”
“Oh, it’s for sale,” I say. “I’ll tell the auctioneer to make sure you get it.”
“And my mum wants that pink hat you wore to our wedding.”
“Right. No problem.” At the reminder of his wedding, I feel myself growing slightly warm.
“So — how’s married life?” I say, examining one of my nails.
“Oh… it’s all right,” he says after a pause.
“Is it as blissful as you expected?” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.
“Well, you know…” He stares into his glass, a slightly hunted look in his eye. “It would be unrealistic to expect everything to be perfect straight off. Wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
There’s an awkward silence between us. In the distance I can hear someone saying, “Kate Spade! Look, brand new!”
“Becky, I’m really sorry,” says Tom in a rush. “The way we behaved toward you at the wedding.”
“That’s all right!” I say, a little too brightly.
“It’s not all right.” He shakes his head. “Your mum was bang on. You’re one of my oldest friends. I’ve been feeling really bad, ever since.”
“Honestly, Tom. It was my fault, too. I mean, I should have just admitted Luke wasn’t there!” I smile ruefully. “It would have been a lot simpler.”
“But if Lucy was giving you a hard time, I can really understand why you felt you just had to… to…” He breaks off, and takes a deep swig of his drink. “Anyway. Luke seemed like a nice guy. Is he coming tonight?”
“No,” I say after a pause, and force a smile. “No, he isn’t.”
After half an hour or so, people begin to take their seats on the rows of plastic chairs. At the back of the room are five or six friends of Tarquin’s holding mobile phones, and Caspar explains to me that they’re on the line to telephone bidders.
“They’re people who heard about it but couldn’t come, for whatever reason. We’ve been circulating the catalogues fairly widely, and a lot of people are interested. The Vera Wang dress alone attracted a great deal of attention.”
“Yes,” I say, feeling a sudden lurch of emotion, “I expect it did.” I look around the room, at the bright, expectant faces, at the people still taking a last look at the tables. A girl is leafing through a pile of jeans; someone else is trying out the clasp on my dinky little white case. I can’t quite believe that after tonight, none of these things will be mine anymore. They’ll be in other people’s wardrobes. Other people’s rooms.
“Are you all right?” says Caspar, following my gaze.
“Yes!” I say brightly. “Why shouldn’t I be all right?”
“I’ve done a lot of house sales,” he says kindly. “I know what it’s like. One gets very attached to one’s possessions. Whether it’s an eighteenth-century chiffonier, or…” He glances at the catalogue. “A pink leopard-print coat.”
“Actually — I never much liked that coat.” I gave him a resolute smile. “And anyway, that’s not the point. I want to start again and I think — I know — this is the best way.” I smile at him. “Come on. Let’s get going, shall we?”
“Absolutely.” He raps on his lectern and raises his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen! First, on behalf of Becky Bloomwood, I’d like to welcome you all here this evening. We’ve got quite a lot to get through, so I won’t delay you — except to remind you that 25 percent of everything raised tonight is going to a range of charities — plus any remainder of the proceeds after Becky has paid off all her outstanding accounts.”
“I hope they’re not holding their breath,” says a dry voice from the back, and everyone laughs. I peer through the crowd to see who it is — and I don’t believe it. It’s Derek Smeath, standing there with a pint in one hand, a catalogue in the other. He gives me a little smile, and I give a shy wave back.
“How did he know about this?” I hiss to Suze, who has come to join me on the platform.
“I told him, of course!” she says. “He said he thought it was a marvelous idea. He said when you use your brain, no one comes near you for ingenuity.”
“Really?” I glance at Derek Smeath again and flush slightly.
“So,” says Caspar. “I present Lot One. A pair of clementine sandals, very good condition, hardly worn.” He lifts them onto the table and Suze squeezes my hand sympathetically. “Do I have any bids?”
“I bid ?15,000,” says Tarquin, sticking up his hand at once.
“Fifteen thousand pounds,” says Caspar, sounding a bit taken aback. “I have a bid of ?15,000—”
“No, you don’t!” I interrupt. “Tarquin, you can’t bid ?15,000!”
“Why not?”
“You have to bid realistic prices.” I give him a stern look. “Otherwise you’ll be banned from the bidding.”
“OK… ?1,000.”
“No! You can bid… ?10,” I say firmly.
“All right, then. Ten pounds.” He puts his hand down meekly.
“Fifteen pounds,” comes a voice from the back.
“Twenty!” cries a girl near the front.
“Twenty-five,” says Tarquin.
“Thirty!”
“Thirt—” Tarquin catches my eye, blushes, and stops.
“Thirty pounds. Any further bids on 30…” Caspar looks around the room, his eyes suddenly like a hawk’s. “Going… going… gone! To the girl in the green velvet coat.” He grins at me, scribbles something on a piece of paper, and hands the shoes to Fenella, who is in charge of distributing sold items.
“Your first ?30!” whispers Suze in my ear.
“Lot Two!” says Caspar. “Three embroidered cardigans from Jigsaw, unworn, with price tags still attached. Can I start the bidding at…”
“Twenty pounds!” says a girl in pink.
“Twenty-five!” cries another girl.
“I have a telephone bid of 30,” says a guy raising his hand at the back.
“Thirty pounds from one of our telephone bidders… Any advance on 30? Remember, ladies and gentlemen, this will be raising funds for charity…”
“Thirty-five!” cries the girl in pink, and turns to her neighbor. “I mean, they’d be more than that each in the shop, wouldn’t they? And they’ve never even been worn!”
God, she’s right. I mean, thirty-five quid for three cardigans is nothing. Nothing!
