by Jilly Cooper
Facing them on the rostrum, Sotheby’s charming, outwardly languid chairman, Henry Wyndham, a shaggier much taller Hugh Grant, a giraffe crossed with Michelangelo’s David, was flipping through his ring-binder. This gave him the number, name, reserve of each lot and the commission bids from people who couldn’t make the sale. The Raphael, the star lot at eighty-nine, would be the last to be sold, but there was an El Greco, a speculative Rembrandt and two stunning Canalettos along the way to keep people interested.
Against the right wall, a mass of photographers and television cameramen were lined up. Forbidden to film the actual punters, who might prefer to remain anonymous, they concentrated on Sotheby’s team of telephone bidders. Confined like Rupert’s thoroughbreds to a big mahogany pen with only their shoulders and tossing heads of newly washed hair on show, these beauties of both sexes were busy laughing and speaking in every language as they alerted clients in jet, boardroom, Lamborghini or in Abdul Karamagi’s case on top of his finance director’s daughter, that the picture they wanted would be coming up for sale in a few lots’ time.
David eyed them with pleasure, hailing the prettiest by name, and sat down in his favourite place, halfway up the room, on the edge of the central aisle, next to bloody Kevin, who kept nudging and plucking his sleeve and asking to be introduced to everyone. Beyond Kevin, Enid Coley, massive as a hippo in grey satin, had spread over three-quarters of snake-hipped Geraldine’s chair.
‘Did you fly back from the States in the Lear?’ asked Geraldine, who liked to show off her familiarity with jets.
‘No, no,’ said Enid crushingly. ‘The Lear is for the servants.’
At the back of the hall, Rupert Campbell-Black, in an increasingly bad mood, was watching Wimbledon on a pocket television, and wondering why the hell he’d allowed himself to be hemmed in by these popinjays.
‘That shit’ – he scowled at the back of Kevin Coley’s thatched grey head – ‘nearly broke up my best friend’s marriage. I’ve always wanted to bury him.’
‘You’ll have the perfect opportunity when he bids against us for the Raphael,’ murmured Jupiter, who believed in firing up his clients.
The El Greco went for £8 million, followed by a somewhat sugary Fragonard of a girl with a puppy which sold for £1.5 million.
‘Puppies always add ten per cent in England,’ observed Jupiter.
David was now boasting to Kevin that he was intending to bid for lot sixty-one, an exquisite van de Velde of sailing ships on a choppy grey sea.
‘A new good friend, Mr Justice Caradoc Willoughby Evans actually’ – David gave a light laugh – ‘asked me to keep an eye out.’
Bidding was brisk, hitting the van de Velde’s lower estimate right away and soaring up to £1,200,000 offered by a museum. Was David going any higher? asked Henry Wyndham.
David shook his head.
Everyone swung round, trying to read the thoughts of the dispassionate thin-faced man beside Rupert. After a long pause, Jupiter nodded.
‘One million, four hundred thousand at the back.’ Henry Wyndham looked round with polite incredulity. Was no-one going to bid further?
As the hammer crashed down, Jupiter switched on his mobile.
‘Hi, Caradoc,’ he murmured. ‘I got it. One point four million. Once it’s been cleaned, it’ll blow your mind. Talk to you later.’
Smirking slightly, ever machiavellian, Jupiter went back to firing up Rupert.
‘Did you realize that David Pulborough used to be Mum’s lover?’ he said softly. ‘And almost certainly fathered my brother Jonathan?’
‘What?’ roared Rupert, then, lowering his voice, ‘When, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Summer of 1970.’
‘Jesus,’ exploded Rupert, ‘I was in there—’ Then, remembering Taggie on his right: ‘And Casey Andrews and Etienne as well. That little toerag screwed Galena? She must have been four-timing the lot of us.’
Standing up to glare at David, Rupert nearly bid by mistake for Five Wise Virgins by Rubens, who were showing no sign of making their £300,000 reserve.
‘Galena and that self-regarding little tosser. I do not believe it.’
A still life of strawberries went for £50,000, making everyone realize how hungry they were. It had gone eight o’clock, only a handful of lots before the Raphael.
‘Trust that little shit Pulborough to get into cahoots with that bastard Kevin Coley,’ muttered Rupert furiously. ‘Kev probably got into Galena’s knickers as well. Jesus!’
‘Where’s Sienna?’ whispered Taggie, unsure of the cause of her husband’s wrath.
Jupiter glanced round. ‘Can’t see her anywhere.’
‘Got a boyfriend yet?’ asked Rupert.
Jupiter shook his head. ‘Difficult day for her. Jonathan getting married, she was always a bit too crazy about him.’
‘Thank Christ, I never had a sister,’ said Rupert. ‘If she’d been as pretty as my brother Adrian, I’m sure I’d have shagged her.’ Then, as a frightful picture of a courtier having his head cut off sold for £20,000: ‘That should have happened to bloody Pulborough.’
Sienna had taken refuge against the wall between a bulky NBC cameraman and an even bulkier Somerford Keynes.
To the back of the hall, on the right-hand side, half hidden from her by NBC’s camera and tripod, stood Zac. He was flanked by two of the sharp-suited lawyers who had hammered out the contract, and who now told everyone who tried to approach him to piss off. Zac quivered with the same tension – the tiger poised for the kill – that she remembered from Foxes Court.
Oh, why wasn’t she the white shirt clinging to his divine, hard body, or the cranberry-red wall against which his head had fallen back with such deceptive languor? Surreptitiously, he seemed to be searching for someone. Then, like two tiny total eclipses, his dark glasses focused on her. Perhaps she was imagining things? Perhaps he knew the NBC cameraman? But he started violently, then instantly jerked his head away, his face totally expressionless.
‘What are you working on?’ asked Somerford, bringing her back to earth.
‘A big animal rights project. It’s nearly finished, but I can’t like work out how to portray God.’
‘Like Rupert Campbell-Black?’ suggested Somerford.
Sienna laughed then moaned in despair as to loud cheers a young porter wearing a blue apron and white gloves, aware that this was his finest hour, carried in the Raphael and placed it reverently on the easel by the rostrum.
‘A lot to be desired,’ wrote Somerford in his notebook. ‘Far more ravishing in the flesh – like yourself,’ he murmured. Then seeing how dishcloth-grey she had gone, he added with rare kindness, ‘This must be hell for you.’
‘Pandora looks so small and defenceless,’ mumbled Sienna. ‘Like a gorgeous little filly that’s been dragged away from her mother at Tattersalls. I just want to take her home.’
‘Lot eighty-nine, Raphael’s Pandora.’ The Chairman of Sotheby’s smiled down at his excited audience, a conductor on the brink of a symphony. ‘I am starting the bidding at ten million pounds.’
Hope beamed out of the little painting.
‘You could all buy me if you tried.’
There was a long pause when all you could hear was a woodland cheeping of mobiles, and the atmosphere crackling with electricity. Then two anonymous punters started pushing the bidding up. These were actually Minsky Kraskov in a yacht off Cannes and Abdul the Amorous, who’d just rolled off his finance director’s daughter in Dubai.
Both men were barking instructions in broken English over the telephone: Minsky to russet-haired Natacha, Abdul to Patti with the ebony bob – two Sotheby’s beauties in the mahogany pen.
‘Ten million. Ten million five hundred thousand, eleven million, eleven million five hundred thousand,’ called out Henry Wyndham, his sleepy come-to-bid eyes scanning the room in case he missed anyone.
‘Eleven million, five hundred thousand on the telephone,’ he repeated. Then, noticing that the man from the Get
ty had removed his spectacles, indicating a bid, he turned back to beautiful Natacha in the mahogany pen, who was still gabbling away to Minsky on his yacht, saying: ‘Twelve million against you now, Natacha. At twelve million.’
Minsky took even longer to make up his mind than Lord Ditherer. So Rupert, as a sign to Jupiter, pointedly examined his fingernails. Catching Henry Wyndham’s eye, Jupiter nodded.
‘Twelve million, five hundred thousand at the back,’ called out Henry.
Everyone swung round, or stood up unashamedly to find out who had bid.
‘Jupiter Belvedon’s just bid for Rupert Campbell-Black,’ whispered David.
I hate that bastard, thought Kevin, plucking at David’s sleeve.
‘Go on,’ he hissed.
‘Thirteen million on the aisle,’ said Henry, as David raised his eyebrows, then, turning to the telephone bidders, ‘Thirteen million against you now, Natacha.’
Minsky Kraskov was watching the lights of Cannes rippling orange across the dark-blue waters of the Mediterranean.
‘Who is damned opponent beeding against me?’ he growled.
‘I can’t tell you,’ said Natacha, ‘but it’s thirteen million against you. Do you want to bid?’
‘I’d rather haf you against me. It is a dealer or a museum?’
‘Perhaps. You can’t keep them waiting.’
‘Ees it the Getty?’
‘D’you want to bid?’
‘Oh, OK.’
A gold pen glittered in Natacha’s waving white hand.
‘Thirteen million, five hundred thousand on the telephone and against you, sir, I’m sure there’s another bid in you.’ Henry Wyndham smiled at Kevin, who again plucked David’s sleeve.
There were audible groans from the Americans, the French and the Danes when, like favourites falling in the National, the big museums gradually dropped out.
Henry was stepping up the drama now, whipping the bidders to a frenzy of competition. He knew Kevin and Rupert detested each other and there was no love lost between David and the Belvedons. If he could get a dog fight going between the two sides, bidding could soar beyond the reach of astronauts.
David went up to £17 million, Jupiter to eighteen, Minsky to nineteen, and on it went.
A pale intense woman from the Abraham Lincoln Museum, who owned La Smorfiosa, Pandora’s companion picture, had been waiting to jump in at £20 million, but to her horror the bidding soared past her limit.
Gazing up at the window in the roof, Sienna was amazed it was still light. She longed to escape from this venal hell into one of those untroubled eighteenth-century landscapes and sleep for ever on a village green or wade into a reed-strewn river until the waters closed over her head. She was brought back to earth by a fracas.
Minsky’s yacht appeared to have gone under a bridge.
‘I’m afraid my client’s telephone has cut out . . . please wait a second,’ begged Natacha.
‘It’s twenty-four million against you, Natacha.’ There was a slight edge to the Chairman’s voice as the seconds ticked past.
‘Who’s running this sale?’ snapped David.
Seeing the tension was getting to him, Jupiter glanced at Rupert, who again examined his fingernails. Another million was only after all a two-bedroomed flat in Chelsea. Jupiter nodded.
‘Twenty-five million at the back.’
Behind the Chairman’s head, a flickering blackboard turned Rupert’s bid into dollars, euros, marks, lire and Swiss and French francs. It looked huge in whatever currency.
There goes the new roof, the children’s school fees, half the horses and probably Penscombe as well, thought Taggie in terror.
‘It’s an awful lot of money,’ she whispered.
‘Money isn’t everything,’ snapped Rupert.
David was poised to bid £26 million – nearly the top whack for Kevin, who was already looking green. Then suddenly David saw Rosemary fighting her way through the crowded doorway on his left. She was wearing a new, very becoming, slate-blue suit, her face lit by stunning diamond earrings. What in hell was she doing squandering the housekeeping at a time like this? Thank God, he and Geraldine were respectably divided by a Berlin Wall of Coleys.
David was so jolted he forgot to flicker his eyebrows at Henry Wyndham, and the Raphael nearly went to a reconnected Minsky, who’d actually been ringing his astrologer, who’d advised him it was a good day for shopping. Thus encouraged, Minsky had bid £26 million.
The hammer waits for no man. David nodded hastily.
‘Twenty-seven million on the aisle,’ said Henry jubilantly.
He was delighted to see an even more major player had just appeared at Rosemary Pulborough’s side. Such was the force of Si’s personality, as though a big bear had entered the forest, that all the jam-packed lesser animals breathed in, allowing him and Rosemary through to join Zac and his lawyers at the back.
‘Bloody monster,’ hissed Sienna to Somerford. ‘D’you remember him telling us how he longed to own a Raphael, the night of Emerald’s birthday party? And what’s Rosemary doing fratting with such a fiend?’
Jupiter went to £28 million.
I wouldn’t mind living in a council flat, thought Taggie in despair, but Rupert would hate it, and he couldn’t have any dogs.
David glanced round at Rupert, and thirty years fell away. He was back barring the way to Galena’s studio and this glittering blond bastard, as arrogant and glamorous as he was today, was loping up the stairs towards him, picking him up like a bollard.
‘Get out of my way, you little twerp.’
David felt equal rage against Jupiter, who had never made any secret of his contempt.
I was the one Galena loved, thought David.
A God-like feeling assailed him. Chucking reason aside like an overcoat in a storm, he lifted his head and gazing straight at Henry, raised his eyebrows.
‘Twenty-nine million on the aisle.’
As a ripple of excitement went through the room, Kevin plucked at David’s sleeve in horror.
‘What the fuck,’ he hissed, ‘you’ve passed my limit . . .’
‘I’m not bidding for you any more,’ hissed back David.
All the world would realize he was buying for stock and appreciate how dazzlingly the Pulborough was doing. He felt as if he’d scored a try at Twickenham.
This galvanized Abdul the Amorous, who, bored with pleasuring the finance director’s daughter, was chatting again to Patti with the ebony bob. Suddenly her face lit up as though a restorer had covered it in white spirit, her scarlet fingernails flashing as she waved a hand. Abdul would just have to sell a few oil wells.
‘Thirty million on the telephone,’ said Henry, having difficulty, like Patti, hiding his elation.
The room was boiling over, chat subsiding to total silence between bids.
David bid thirty-one and a half, Jupiter thirty-two. David thirty-three. It was no longer a question of money. Avarice had been overtaken by Pride, Envy and Wrath, as mutual loathing spurred on the two sides. They were greyhounds flat out after a hare. David could no longer hear the figures he was bidding.
‘Thirty-three million on the aisle.’
Jupiter glanced enquiringly at Rupert, who glanced across at Taggie. A drop of blood trickled down her chin, where she’d bitten her beautiful lip through in terror. Reality kicked in. Rupert shook his head. Thirty-four was his unlucky number, he’d have to win a lot of Derbies and put Taggie on the game to recoup it.
‘Are you sure, are you absolutely sure?’ drawled Henry, as if he was pressing another dry martini on Rupert rather than a £34-million bid.
Jupiter smiled and shook his head, just managing to hide his bitter disappointment. Bang went the generous cut Rupert would have given him. If only Raymond had let him sell the Raphael, in May ’99, long before Emerald’s birthday.
Taggie, dizzy with relief, reached across for Rupert’s hand. For a second he glared furiously into space, then he smiled wryly and lifted her fingers t
o his lips.
Abdul went to £35 million. Campbell-Blacks and Belvedons should stay out of the kitchen, thought David scornfully, then clutched himself in ecstasy: the Raphael was going to be his. He’d sell it on at once, but for a few days, it would hang in the drawing room at the Old Rectory and he and Rosemary would throw a grand party to show it off to the county.
As he once more raised his eyebrows at Henry, a great cheer went up. The entire room was caught up in the drama. David was very near the record.
‘I suppose he won’t have to fork out for Barney’s wedding,’ bitched Somerford to Sienna, who was reeling with horror that it was going to David. Patti, after more consultation, had ruefully shaken her gleaming ebony bob, Natacha her russet mane, which meant both Abdul and Minsky were out.
David has taken everything, both my father’s wives, he left my mother to die and now he’s going to get the Raphael . . . Sienna wanted to scream, to snatch up the NBC camera and hurl it at him. Glancing up the room, Zac caught sight of her anguished despairing face, and turned to Si, talking urgently.
‘Any advance on thirty-six million? Fair warning.’ As Henry lifted the hammer, his eyes swivelled intently over the crowd, as if searching for four-leaf clovers. It was so easy to miss a bid. To the right at one o’clock, Si Greenbridge lifted a gold-ringed hand.
‘Thirty-seven million in a new place,’ cried Henry in delighted surprise.
Another explosion of applause and a collective gasp of anticipation, as everyone cricked their necks jerking round to look.
That’s it, thought Sienna numbly, Si’s been hovering. Now he’s got her.
But the latent Guggenheim had been unleashed in David. All reason suspended, he bid again.
‘Thirty-eight million on the aisle.’
‘Have you gone raving mad?’ hissed Geraldine across the bows of the Coleys.
The press were going crazy, scribbling frantically, the cameramen all fretting to break the rule about not photographing punters. The Chairman looked down at his rostrum. On the right, where so many right-handed auctioneers had brought down the hammer, rings ran into each other like a rain shower on a pond. There were only a few rings on the left; he glanced up smiling at Si.
