A Rather Curious Engagement

by C. A. Belmond

  “I have three-fifty, do I have four?” asked the auctioneer politely.

  “Four,” said a firm masculine voice, calm and clear. That was Jeremy. He held up his paddle to show the auctioneer his bidding number. I was so thrilled that I froze like a deer—didn’t blink, didn’t move a muscle for fear of betraying our hopes, because now people were twisting around in their seats to stare at us. This was far, far worse than playing poker or betting at a casino. It took all my willpower to keep a blank face.

  “I have four to the tall man in the room,” the auctioneer said. “Do I hear four-fifty?”

  “Four hundred and ten thousand euros!” cried a man a few rows ahead of us. He had a scraggly moustache, and his clothes, though fine, looked a bit shabby. To my surprise, the auctioneer ignored him, until the man repeated his bid.

  “I’m asking four-fifty,” the auctioneer said rather snippily.

  “Four twenty-five,” the little man suggested.

  “Four-fifty!” the woman with the beehive hairdo shouted impatiently.

  “Four-fifty to madame . . . do I hear five?” The auctioneer aimed his gavel at each bidder like a circus lion-tamer managing the lions—one here, one there. Somebody from the front row of online bidders murmured something, and the auctioneer picked him off with a triumphant, “I have five, to the front of the room. Do I hear five-fifty?”

  There was a sudden drop, a moment of silence. “Five going once,” the auctioneer said. More silence. “Going twice—”

  Wordlessly, Jeremy held up his paddle. The auctioneer practically winked at him.

  “Five-fifty to you, sir,” he said respectfully. Holy cow, I thought. Jeremy had set his limit for 800,000 euros. Now I could swear that the two of us were breathing in tandem, in-out, in-out, be-cool, hang-on.

  “Five-sixty,” said the little man in the shabby suit.

  The auctioneer shook his head patronizingly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t accept bids in smaller denominations,” he said, as if the poor guy was trying to pay with pennies. “The bid stands at five-fifty. Do I hear six hundred?”

  A young Asian man in a sharply cut suit nodded to him from the phone bank. “Six!” the auctioneer cried out triumphantly. “Looking for six-fifty . . .” he said swiftly.

  Jeremy lifted his paddle. I felt dizzy, as if we’d just parachuted out of an airplane and I was in free-fall, doing that agonizing count before you’re allowed to open your chute. Not that I ever sky-dived. But my stomach was surely doing something like it, right now.

  “Six-fifty!” the auctioneer said, accepting his bid. “I have—”

  “Seven!” said the beehive-bun woman crossly.

  “I have seven! Do I hear seven-fifty—?” The auctioneer was pirouetting on his toes now, to keep up with the bidding. The shabby man, seeing how fast the bidding was going and how he’d been shoved out of the competition, got up in a huff and charged down the center aisle, his feelings hurt. I saw Laurent, the Frenchman who was organizing the event, go out after him, and they went into the hotel’s glass corridor. From their gestures it was obvious that Laurent was soothingly smoothing the guy’s ruffled feathers, and it must have worked, because in the end they exchanged business cards and shook hands.

  Jeremy held up his paddle.

  “Seven-fifty to you, sir!” said the auctioneer. He raised his gavel like a music conductor bringing on the finale. “Fair warning! The bid is seven-fifty, going once . . . Go-ing twi-i-ice . . .” he said, drawing out his words like taffy to elasticize the last moment. “Do I hear eight-t-t?” he drawled. He was deliberately playing the comedian now; I’d seen him do it before, skillfully, to break the tension and embolden someone to bid. I’d found it mildly amusing then, but now I was thinking, Oh, shut up, shut up, just take Jeremy’s bid and let’s swing on outa here, okay?

  “Seven-fifty . . . for the last time . . .” the auctioneer conceded. Yet even as the gavel descended with the weight of inevitability, I could hear a ruckus in the back. At first, I didn’t know what it was, but it sounded fairly violent and dangerous. A last-minute bidder was trying to fight his way in, and some hotel bouncers were struggling to keep him out and quiet him down.

  But he was too late. Wham! The gavel came down in a sharp rap of finality.

  “. . . sold to the tall gentleman! Please pay the cashier on your way out!” the auctioneer cried.

  Now I let out my breath all at once, no longer needing to hide my emotion. I turned to Jeremy. He gave me the sweetest smile, which, I instantly realized, was not about the boat. It was about a dream of the future for the two of us. “Let’s go,” he whispered, and we got up as people in the crowd gave us the bright, encouraging smiles they reserve for young people who’ve won something that nobody thought they would.

  Well. Except the beehive lady, who followed us out. I was careful not to catch her eye and give her any openings, but I could feel her gaze boring holes into my back, and I knew she was going to say something, I just didn’t know what.

  We stepped into the cool, air-conditioned glassed-in hallway that led to the hotel conference room where the cashiers were busily taking payments from bidders, when the woman suddenly grabbed my arm in a pinch that felt as if a lobster had seized me, and she spat out, in a spiteful hiss, “It’s not that great a yacht, it doesn’t even have a Jacuzzi!”

  She gave me a triumphant smirk before stalking off, as if she thought she’d just ruined my day. That, apparently, took away the sting of defeat for her.

  Jeremy had reached the booth where cashiers were cheerily collecting the money from successful bidders. “Congratulations, sir!” said the man who accepted Jeremy’s check. Two other female cashiers looked up and beamed at him, too. At our right, there was a guy in a black suit and dark sunglasses, his face impassive, standing with his hands folded over his crotch in that strange way that security people sometimes do.

  As Jeremy dealt with the necessary paperwork, I glanced ahead and saw that a little reception had been set up, outdoors, just beyond the auction tent. There was a bar-cart that resembled an ice-cream stand, with a small yellow canopy of its own, attended by five bartenders; and lots of people were milling around, drinking cocktails and nibbling on canapés. A few had the look of happy winners, but many were simply curious, admiring charity-benefit attendees, and some were hoping to spot famous people.

  When we stepped out into the sunlight, I said “Phew! I’m glad we don’t do this sort of thing every day. My nerves can’t take it.”

  There was, undeniably, a certain high that came from chucking a ton of money out the window. For the first time in my life I began to understand how gambling could become addictive, and I thought of all the stories I’d heard about fortunes made and fortunes lost, all in one night, at casinos here on the Côte d’Azur. I looked at Jeremy, proud of the amazing self-control he’d displayed.

  “Congratulations!” I cried. “You handled yourself beautifully. ”

  “What say we have a drink to celebrate?” Jeremy said happily.

  But before Jeremy could even take a step toward the bar-cart, a big tall guy swooped down on us, carrying a giant bottle of champagne. He was a very broad-shouldered man, dressed in a black leather jacket despite the mild weather. He wore a black shirt, a grey tie, and the biggest gold wristwatch I’ve ever seen in my life. I recognized him as the guy who’d tried in vain to fight his way into the auction just before the gavel went down on our yacht.

  I noticed now that he was flanked by three Amazon-sized women—one blonde, one brunette, and one red-haired, all with yards and yards of flowing locks, and all of them long-waisted and long-limbed, like fashion models, with sharply chiseled facial bones that made them look like Nordic goddesses. They wore staggeringly high heels, and their bodies were decked in blindingly bright jewelry. All three of them smiled at us with dazzling white teeth, turning on the charm full-wattage.

  Behind them were three tough guys in dark suits and dark reflecting sunglasses, and I realized that one of these wa
s the thuggy-looking man who’d been watching us at the cashiers’ booth. I had assumed that he was with hotel security, but now I could see that he’d been planted there to stake out and identify whoever had won the yacht. Us.

  The main man in leather stepped ahead of his entourage, moving deliberately toward us in a smooth, sleek way.

  “Jeremy,” I whispered warningly. “He’s the guy who . . .”

  “I know, I know,” Jeremy said. The guy extended a hand to Jeremy to shake.

  “Congratulations,” he said in a Russian accent. “It’s a marvellous little boat.” He was still holding the champagne bottle, which I could see was frosty-cold. He snapped his fingers, and a waiter appeared as if by magic. “Glasses,” the Russian said. The waiter signalled another waiter, who speedily arrived with a tray of empty champagne flutes.

  “Let us drink a toast to Liesl’s Dream,” the man said, handing the bottle to the waiter, who swiftly wrapped a towel around it and popped it open, then began to pour. As each glass was filled, the Russian handed them out, and he gave the first glass to me, and the second to Jeremy. Then the Goddesses.

  Something floating in my glass, glinting in the sunlight, caught my eye. It was bigger than the bubbles. I peered closer. There was more than one funny flake tumbling around in my glass, like tiny glimmering fish. “What’s in there?” I asked Jeremy in a low voice. The Russian heard me, and he laughed with delight.

  “Gold, darling!” he said. “32 carats. Don’t worry, it’s fine to eat.”

  Edible gold flakes. Well. I found it hard to believe that you could really drink it without dying of poison or setting off some metal detector somewhere in the distant future. But the Goddesses were tilting back their long necks and quaffing it down. Cautiously I sipped, just to say I’d done it. I’m not sure I swallowed any. Frankly, I hope not.

  “I am so disappointed that I miss the bidding!” the Big Guy exclaimed. “My ladies kept me waiting today, but I thought we’d make it on time except for this peculiar change to the schedule. Something very unusual happened today, did it not?”

  I glanced at the Goddesses, and I wondered if the guy meant that they’d all been—well, in bed together this morning—or if it was something as mundane as waiting for three women to finish dressing and primping for an event. I was even a little afraid for them, as if he might later have them whipped for ruining his shot at the yacht. But the Goddesses looked blank, unworried, untroubled, and just stood there glancing away vaguely, smiling when they caught the eye of another admiring male (if he looked rich and handsome and powerful enough, that is.)

  Jeremy took one polite sip, then set his glass down definitely on a table, so I followed his lead and did the same. I saw that the Big Guy had been studying Jeremy, perhaps to figure out if we’d deliberately tinkered with the auction schedule to make the yacht come up earlier. Something in the Russian’s lean, handsome face revealed that he decided we weren’t clever enough or connected enough, and he relaxed a bit. Jeremy had quickly signalled the valet who stood at the front driveway of the hotel. Within minutes they brought his Dragonetta around. Laurent, who’d given us the original tour of the yacht, now strode up smilingly to Jeremy, gave him some information about the crew, and handed him the key.

  As Jeremy took it, I saw the Russian fellow’s gaze pick up the glint of gold sunlight that reflected off the key. Then the guy caught me watching him, and he stepped up to me in a powerful, commanding way, murmuring with hot breath in my ear, in a way that tickled the hair on my neck.

  “Tell your boyfriend I will give him three times what he paid for it,” he said in a rich, deep voice. “Then you can come and sail away with me on it. I take you all around the world and show you all the wonders.” I found myself involuntarily shivering from the expert way he aimed his breath—and seductive words—at my neck.

  “Um,” I said. “That’s very nice, thanks, but—my boyfriend and I are already booked on a different sort of cruise. Together.”

  This was one of those little bits of movie dialogue that I must have heard while nodding off to sleep at night in front of the TV’s late-late-late show. These arcane expressions just pop out of my mouth from time to time, usually when I’m in tricky situations with men.

  “But I’ll be sure to give him your message,” I added meaningfully, as if to imply that he’d better back off or Jeremy would have thugs of his own beat him up. The Russian stared at me to see if I could possibly be so innocent, then he laughed good-naturedly.

  Jeremy returned, took my hand firmly, said to the Russian, “Cheers, thanks,” and yanked me away toward the car. We had scarcely roared off when Jeremy said to me, not without a slight accusing tone, “So. How much did he offer you?”

  “For the boat, or for me?” I countered.

  Jeremy said, “Hah. Both!”

  “For the boat, three times what you paid for it,” I admitted. Jeremy made a snort of derision. “For me,” I added loftily, “he ’vants to sail me around the world and show me all its vonders.’ ”

  “And what did you say to him?” Jeremy asked.

  “I told him I’d meet him down by Pier Six,” I said with a straight face. “I said I’d have the keys to the yacht between my teeth.”

  “This Riviera is having a mighty bad influence on you,” Jeremy scolded. “I suppose I’m lucky you weren’t carried off by an Arab prince.”

  I reached into my pocketbook for my sunglasses. The purse had come unsnapped, I noticed. And sitting there, right on top, was a cream-colored business card with only one line of text on it: Andrei Gaspar. “Huh,” I said, reading the words aloud. “How did this get here—?”

  Jeremy whistled. “So that’s who he was,” he said. “You almost got shanghaied by one of the richest blokes in Russia. Out of Russia, actually. Lives in London now.”

  “That guy?” I asked, astonished. “Wow. When did he manage to drop his card in my . . . ?” Then, remembering his hot breath tickling my neck, I blushed. I felt indignant, and quickly rummaged through my purse to make sure nothing was missing. It wasn’t.

  “Well, darling,” Jeremy said with a sideways smirk, “you’ve met your first oligarch.”

  Chapter Eleven

  In the next few days, Jeremy and I became absorbed in all things nautical. I couldn’t believe how much there was to learn about a boat. And instead of experiencing "buyer’s remorse,” I found that everything we learned about the yacht made us happier" I and happier, with pleasant surprises about how lovely it was. Jeremy had contacted Claude, the captain, who in turn would arrange to reassemble the crew, which included Brice, the first mate; Gerard, an engineer; and François, the steward who would do a little cooking.

  The captain met with us at the yacht to go over some preliminary details. Claude was an attractive, athletic-looking Frenchman in his mid-fifties, with neatly clipped salt-and-pepper hair, a rugged tan, and a taut, muscular body beneath his impeccably pressed clothes. He possessed a skillful combination of both nautical authority, and deference to Jeremy, the new owner. All of this inspired confidence in having him as the man who would literally steer our ship.

  He shook hands with Jeremy, and nodded respectfully to me with the kind of politely approving smile that Frenchmen, regardless of their age, give to a woman to acknowledge her female presence.

  He told us that a boat, no matter how beautiful, was only as good as its upkeep. Fortunately, this one had been well cared-for, and operated every summer until very recently when it sat through a few seasons and then was suddenly, unexpectedly taken out in stormy weather.

  Although he would not recommend a major refitting, he would still like to hire some day workers to paint, repair, and give the cabins and salons a thorough cleaning. He would also advise putting some of the modern safety and security equipment aboard. He suggested I select some bed linens and bath towels from a store that catered to yachts, and would monogram everything for us. He thought we should pick out a monogram for the crew’s uniforms, too.

 
“See?” I told Jeremy. “Another reason to select fonts. I’m a pro by now.”

  “And you said you wished to change the name, sir?” the captain inquired, consulting his notes. “You wish to call her Penelope’s Dream, is that correct?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Jeremy said firmly.

  “Very well, sir. It shall be done.” The captain smiled at me, because Jeremy had already introduced me as “Mademoiselle Penelope Nichols.”

  I couldn’t even trust myself to speak until we had clambered down the gangway. My eyes misted over when I said, “Who did you name that boat for?”

  “You, of course, you fool,” Jeremy said.

  “Well,” I said, “it could have been for Aunt Pen.”

  “Sure, her, too,” Jeremy said. “Claude says we should come back in a week and look over the boat. He says we can christen her and take a couple of friends out on a trial run which he would do anyway to see what needs to be done on her engine. Then he’ll need another few weeks to put in all the modern equipment and finish spiffing her up.”

  “Jeremy,” I said, bursting with enthusiasm, “why don’t we hold a little cocktail party when we go for our test run? You know, invite our parents and maybe a few close friends.”

  “Sure!” he said. “I’ll stock the yacht’s wine cabinet, too.”

  Well. If you buy a fancy boat, there is no such thing as a private little party. Because apparently, it was big news among the yachting set that Liesl’s Dream had changed hands. The original owner, it turned out, had cut a dapper figure and was beloved by many, and had raced her and won trophies, so people were curious about who the new owner was. News items showed up in papers with names like The Yachting Gazette.

  People who weren’t involved in yachting were also interested, because, I soon realized, it’s very common for onlookers to gather round marinas whenever a new boat pulls into port or gets christened; everyone’s hoping to spot a famous guest, like a rock musician or a fashion model or a Hollywood actor or sports hero or some international tycoon. Even if it’s just plain folks like us, the photographers snap away anyhow, in case we turn out to be more important than they guessed . . . or if we crash the boat on a drunken spree and drown in the deep . . . thereby becoming news-worthy after all.