by Jo Carnegie
Cheers resounded around the room as Belvedere pulled a spotless white handkerchief from his pocket and swiped at his brow dramatically. Then he raised his hammer aloft and cried, ‘Let the auction begin!’
Brochures listing each item had been left on each guest’s chair and now they studied them intently, remarking to their neighbours and pulling faces at some of the guide prices. A door opened to the side of the dance floor and four men in dark suits and shiny black shoes emerged, carrying between them a large, ornately patterned rug.
‘Lot 1, a Tabriz carpet from north-west Persia, early twentieth century,’ Belvedere informed the crowd. ‘Approximately twenty-two feet by nineteen feet, original flat woven end finishes. Bidding starts at £71,000. £71,000 do I have anyone?’
Things did not start well. Belvedere’s worst prediction seemed to have come true: the crowd were not in a buying mood and showed little interest in the items displayed before them. The eye-catching Persian rug went for barely above the reserve price, while the early Louis XV table and chairs donated by the Frasers was sold for £125,000, half the price the set was really worth. An oil painting by a seventeenth-century landscape artist went for a scandalously low £23,000. One of Babs Sax’s more successful paintings, a murky grey and brown affair called A Vagina’s View of Berlin Pavements, didn’t get one bid. ‘At least people here have got good taste,’ Calypso tried to console Clementine. Afterwards, the highly offended Ms Sax stormed out, leaving a trail of yellow feathers in her wake.
‘That’s the problem with these things, one has just seen it all before,’ the sour-faced wife of one of Sebastian’s friends announced loudly. Caro winced as several people on the nearby tables turned around. This wasn’t going to help the situation! As she glanced around nervously, she noticed an over-made-up blonde woman in a very short pink dress hovering by their table, and staring directly at her. Caro wondered if they had met, and smiled at her. But the woman shot her a dirty look and walked away, making a great show of squeezing past Sebastian’s chair as she did so. Sebastian didn’t even look up from his brochure, but something about the way his shoulders tensed made Caro feel as though an icy droplet had fallen into the middle of her heart. She quickly took a large glug of her wine.
On the Fox-Titts’ table, worry was etched across Freddie and Angie’s faces. They were swiftly realizing that if it carried on like this, they’d barely be able to buy one square foot of the Meadows.
A few tables away, Clementine looked so stricken her companions were left feeling utterly helpless, unsure of what to say.
Meanwhile, a huge, ten foot by fifteen foot canvas was wheeled out. A mixture of schizophrenic green, purple and yellow streaks, Clementine thought it looked like the work of a two-year-old child in the midst of a tantrum. Her heart sank further; there was no way anyone was going to buy this rubbish. They were finished!
Then, something wonderful happened. As the canvas was put in place, a buzz broke out in several parts of the room. Belvedere quickly put his reading glasses back on. ‘Lot 5. Urbane Jungle by Ezru.’
The chatter was growing louder now, some people standing up from their chairs to get a better look.
‘Oh, I’ve heard about this!’ Johnnie said excitedly. ‘Ezru is a 43-year-old African elephant from Zimbabwe. He’s been doing the most extraordinary self-portraits from his zoo pen. Apparently the old boy suffered from dreadful depression for years. Nothing was making him better until his trainer read something about animals expressing themselves through art. He gave him a paintbrush and easel and old big ears hasn’t looked back since. Experts reckon he’s the best since Dali!’
‘Looks like a load of rubbish to me,’ remarked Jed wryly. Johnnie burst out laughing. In spite of Camilla’s earlier fears, Jed and her parents were getting on like a house on fire, and Jed’s good looks were certainly wowing the other ladies at the table.
‘I agree, old boy!’ cried Johnnie. ‘Not my cup of tea at all. But ever since Ezru trampled Robert Mugabe on a state visit to the zoo two years ago, the damn creature has become some kind of national hero. There were furious calls to have Ezru put down, but someone influential in the Mugabe camp turned out to be an animal lover and the elephant was saved. Now the paintings are going for ten times as much!’
The noise from the audience had almost reached fever pitch by this point. Clearly there were a few serious art collectors amongst them.
‘Can I start at seventy thousand pounds, a snip at seventy thousand!’ cried Belvedere. A well-fleshed man on Elizabeth Hurley’s table put up his hand, signet ring glittering in the candlelight.
‘Eighty thousand, do I have eighty thousand pounds?’ asked the auctioneer. This time a flurry of hands shot up in the air. One forty-something Swedish woman in an opulent ruby necklace already had her chequebook out, the tall, thin man sitting on her right bidding on her behalf.
And so it went on. Clementine had never seen anything like it. When bids reached five hundred thousand pounds she could barely continue to look. Urbane Jungle eventually sold for a whopping £1.7 million pounds, to a small, shabby-looking man with an unkempt grey beard and moth-bitten dinner jacket. She later learned that he was one of the richest men in Europe.
The appearance of the painting seemed to awaken a thirst in the crowd. Soon after, the two week work-placement with the uber-cool designer went for £56,000, while a meet-and-greet with George Clooney, one week’s hire of the Bahamas island and ten sessions with Madonna’s personal trainer reached a staggering £1.25 million between them.
The more lots there were, the more frantic the bidding became. One could almost smell the testosterone dripping from some men in the crowd as they tried to outdo each other. When a tortoiseshell hairbrush owned by Marilyn Monroe, and with a few of her blonde hairs still stuck in it, went for £169,000, Johnnie nearly had to get the smelling salts out to revive his mother.
Finally, it was over. Everyone slumped back in their chairs, suddenly exhausted by the tension and drama that had been coursing through the room for the last ninety minutes. Clementine was still trying to take it all in when an exuberant Angie Fox-Titt flew across the room.
‘Oh Clementine, I think we’ve done it!’ Overwhelmed with emotion and alcohol she burst into tears.
‘There, there,’ said Clementine soothingly and handed Angie her napkin, but she too could feel the hope and excitement bubbling up. ‘We’ve got to get it all added up, but, what with all the other donations and fundraising we’ve done . . .’ She broke off, not daring to say it out loud.
Angie promptly burst into floods of happy tears again.
There was a short break while the auction paraphernalia was cleared away and the stage prepared for Devon. A number of harassed-looking men with long hair and Def Leppard T-shirts began running around doing last-minute sound and lighting checks. The star attraction was nowhere to be seen, having spent the last thirty minutes throwing up in the toilet.
Nigel eventually found him, looking pale and weak, by a stairwell at the back of the house.
‘Devon, what on earth are you doing here?’ he gasped. ‘You’re on in five minutes. The Three Ts are screaming blue murder, thinking you’ve run off or something.’
‘I was seriously thinking about it, Nige,’ Devon said, not managing to meet his eyes. ‘Was all set to slip out the back and take off across the fields. But I dunno, at the last minute I bottled it.’
Nigel had to sit down on the bottom step. ‘Well, I am extremely relieved you didn’t,’ he said weakly. His voice became firm. ‘Devon, no matter how many times Frances and I say you can do it, it’s no use if you don’t believe it yourself.’
‘I know, I know,’ Devon told him. He looked at his friend earnestly. ‘Nige, I do know I’ve got it in me. It’s just been a long time coming.’
Nigel smiled at him and put on a very bad American accent. ‘Just a walk in the park, buddy!’
‘You doughnut,’ Devon told him, punching his arm affectionately. ‘What would I do without you?�
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‘I dread to think,’ Nigel replied, quickly turning all businesslike. ‘Right! Mick’s PA just called me, the helicopter has been fixed. Mick took off a few minutes ago and is heading our way.’
A look of determination came into Devon’s eyes. ‘Well then, let’s get this show on the road!’
Back in the ballroom, fuelled by alcohol and sheer anticipation, the crowd were becoming restless.
‘Where’s Devon?’ a woman called out.
‘Fuck that, where’s Jagger?’ shouted one of her male companions. Cheers and heckles rose up from some of the younger guests.
‘What is keeping the man?’ Clementine asked worriedly. ‘People are going to start walking out in a minute!’
‘Chill, Granny Clem,’ Calypso told her from across the table. ‘Devon’s probably just—’
She never had the chance to finish her sentence as an ear-splitting drum-roll reverberated around the room. The stage lit up with what seemed like a thousand lights to reveal the Three Ts in their trademark black T-shirts and drainpipe jeans, brandishing their respective instruments. The audience began cheering loudly. Another loud drum-roll faded away into silence, and as the audience quietened down all that could be heard was the faint crackle of the amplifiers.
Just as Tink wondered if she might wet herself from the suspense, the black curtains across the stage were slowly drawn back and there, looking like a total rock god in a white, billowing shirt and tight black leather trousers, was Devon Cornwall. All trace of fears and nerves had been eradicated as he stood before them with the stance and supreme confidence of a born superstar. Across the room, Frances felt all of eighteen years old again.
‘Well, folks, I hear there’s a bit of a party going on tonight,’ Devon said into the microphone in front of him. He smiled knowingly, sharing a secret joke with the hundreds of guests, making each one feel he was speaking to them directly. ‘I’m not too late, am I?’
That was it. The whole place went off. A few women started shrieking, while some of the men were up on their feet, clapping. Gradually the whole room joined in, with one thunderous round of applause. Devon Cornwall was back!
Nigel, watching from the stage wings, was quite overcome and had to fight to swallow the proud, emotional lump in his throat. After all these years Devon could still turn an audience to putty in his hands.
People gradually settled back into their seats and Devon waited until there was total silence before speaking again.
‘As some of you might know, I’ve been away recuperating for a few years.’ He smiled wryly and the audience did, too. ‘But like they say, you can’t keep an old dog down.’
‘I love you, Devon!’ shrieked a rather matronly middle-aged woman in a mustard ball-gown.
Devon looked out at her lazily, sexily. ‘Fancy a drink later then, darlin’?’ Everyone laughed as the woman shrieked and pretended to faint, a man next to her joining in the charade and frantically fanning her with his auction brochure. Watching the scene unfold, Nigel had to smile. Devon was in full-on performer mode now and it was a joy to watch.
‘So you want to hear some songs, then?’ Devon asked the room.
‘Play “Pistol Nation”,’ one man shouted.
Devon nodded his head. ‘All in good time me old mucker. I’ve got a bit of a mixture tonight.’ He bent one knee forward, leaning into the microphone as if they were friends. ‘This is a new one, a racy little number called “Upstreet Girl”. Get up and dance if you feel like it. Lads?’ He looked to his backing band, poised ready for Devon’s cue.
‘One, two, three!’
The next thirty minutes passed like a dream for Devon. He’d never felt so at home on the stage, and the audience had never been so responsive. During the faster, up-tempo songs everyone was dancing. A white-haired old man with a handlebar moustache even put his back out trying to copy one of Devon’s snake-hipped moves and had to be carted out by two St John ambulancemen.
Devon had just finished his most heart-rending version of ‘Heart Catcher’ yet, leaving many women sobbing in abandon, when a distant, whirring noise could be heard. It grew louder and louder until it was a deafening roar, and bright lights streamed in from the garden. Devon looked towards the window and smiled. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mick Jagger is about to enter the building!’
The crowd went wild. Ambrose jumped to his feet, shouting frantically. ‘The heliport is on the other side of the house!’ Too late, the helicopter squatted above the grass like a giant insect, and lowered carefully. Frances, pulling her husband back into his seat, thought of the thousands of pounds they’d spent on reseeding and planting that spring, and winced.
Moments later, the double doors at the back of the hall were flung open and Mick Jagger strode in. Dressed in black, his hair fashionably messy, and wearing sunglasses, charisma simply radiated off him. Everyone was on their feet cheering as the rock legend moved through the crowds like a champion boxer, kissing the women and shaking hands with the men. He leapt up on to the stage and embraced Devon.
‘It’s good to see you, matey,’ Devon told him over the din of the crowd, overcome with gratitude and emotion.
Mick stayed to do three songs with Devon before leaving for another charity function. Between them, the stars had put on the performance of their lives. As Devon came to the end of ‘This Heart’s for the Takin’ Not the Breakin’ ’ there was a standing ovation that continued for ten minutes. Afterwards, several music-industry bigwigs who had been dotted around the room almost came to blows trying to sign him up.
For now, Devon wasn’t interested in thinking about his future. He was trying to take in what had just happened, revelling in the moment. Nigel found him backstage, soaked in sweat, happiness oozing from every pore.
‘That was fucking amazing!’ he shouted, throwing his arms around Nigel ecstatically. ‘I’m back, baby!’
By midnight the dance floor was heaving. A few of the older committee members had been seriously concerned that DJ Dawg would play awful robotic music and drive people away in hordes, but Calypso had managed to persuade them the DJ would be a sure-fire hit. Looking around now, Clementine could see her granddaughter had been right. Dawg was playing a surprisingly eclectic mix of music, with lots of disco and Motown classics thrown in. Clementine watched the young man bopping around behind his decks, bunches jiggling, and a beatific expression plastered on his face. Despite her earlier reservations, she smiled. DJ Dawg had such energy and enthusiasm, it was hard not to be affected by it.
In front of her Lucinda Reinard was being twirled around by Nico. She looked fantastic in a floaty midnight-blue dress, and Clementine watched as Nico pulled his wife in close and whispered something in her ear. Lucinda threw back her head and laughed. How different she is to the stressed, neurotic woman of a few months ago, thought Clementine. She had heard from Brenda that Fit 4 U was up for sale, as Henry had got a new job in Australia; but from the look of things Lucinda wasn’t missing her lover too much. Clementine smiled wryly. She would never condone infidelity, but in these circumstances it seemed to have worked wonders for Lucinda’s self-esteem, and her marriage, too. Clementine had never seen Nico so attentive.
Sebastian and Caro were still seated at their table. He had been telling yet another story of his skiing prowess, while the City wives sipped their wine and cast him coquettish sidelong glances.
Caro was sick of these people, with their ostentatious greed and self-centred, superficial lives. As the evening wore on, she had become steadily quieter, finding solace in the bottom of her wine glass instead. After one and a half bottles, her bladder was fit to burst, so she quietly excused herself. Sebastian, deep in the middle of an anecdote about how he’d been told he had the same speed and agility as an Olympic skier, didn’t even notice her go. Still smarting from the way she had disobeyed his orders earlier, he’d barely said two words to her all evening.
Slightly unsteadily, Caro made her way out of the ballroom into the main hall. Most guests were danci
ng now, apart from the odd canoodling couple, heads pressed together as they flirted drunkenly. The ladies’ powder room was half-way down a corridor to the left. Caro pushed the door open wearily, smiled at the female attendant who was sitting in a chair by the sinks, and went into the cubicle at the end.
She pulled her dress up and sat down on the loo, her head in her hands. God, her life was a mess! She was so desperately unhappy in her marriage, yet somehow couldn’t see a way out of it. Milo needed a father, and she needed to be part of a family unit that actually felt important to her. She laughed derisively at her inability to do anything, even to walk out of a relationship that was utter misery. Some family I’ve made, she thought bitterly.
The door swung open, bringing a blast of cold air and a snatch of distant music with it. Two women chatted as they stood in front of the mirror applying make-up. Their voices sounded vaguely familiar to Caro.
‘I can’t believe she’s bloody turned up, the sheer cheek of it,’ one said.
‘I know! If any of the little floozies Tarquin takes up with showed their faces at a party we were at, I’d give him bloody what for!’ replied her companion. ‘I don’t care what he does when he’s away from home but I’ve told him, if he dares bring any of those little whores within five miles of me, I’ll take him for every penny he’s got.’ She paused. ‘Not that I’m not doing that already!’ The two broke into thin, malicious laughter.
‘What horrible creatures,’ Caro thought. ‘I wonder which poor woman’s life they’re going to pick apart?’
She heard the squirt of a perfume bottle and moments later the musky, heavy scent of Thierry Mugler’s Angel floated over the cubicle door. Then the first voice spoke again, and Caro froze.
‘Of course, Sebastian can get away with pulling this sort of crap because his wife is such a wet fish.’
