As he walks off, Suze and I turn to survey the room. There are tables set out round the room, and people are milling around, looking at neatly folded piles of clothes, shoes, CDs, and assorted bits of bric-a-brac. On one table is a pile of typed, photocopied catalogues, and people are marking them as they wander round.
I can hear a girl in leather jeans saying, “Look at this coat! Ooh, and these Hobbs boots! I'm definitely going to bid for those!” On the other side of the room, two girls are trying pairs of trousers up against themselves while their boyfriends patiently hold their drinks.
“Who are all these people?” I say disbelievingly. “Did you invite them all?”
“Well, I went down my address book,” says Suze. “And Tarquin's address book. And Fenny's . . .”
“Oh well,” I say with a laugh. “That explains it.”
“Hi, Becky!” says a bright voice behind me—and I swivel round to see Fenella's friend Milla, with a pair of girls I half-recognize. “I'm going to bid for your purple cardigan! And Tory's going to go for that dress with the fur, and Annabel's seen about six thousand things she wants! We were just wondering, is there an accessories section?”
“Over there,” says Suze, pointing to the corner of the room.
“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 t
he 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!
“Forty!” I hear myself crying, before I can stop myself. The whole room turns to look at me, and I feel myself furiously blushing. “I mean . . . does anyone want to bid 40?”
The bidding goes on and on, and I can't believe how much money is being raised. My shoe collection raises at least £1,000, a set of Dinny Hall jewelry goes for £200—and Tom Webster bids £600 for my computer.
“Tom,” I say anxiously, as he comes up to the platform to fill in his slip. “Tom, you shouldn't have bid all that money.”
“For a brand-new Apple Mac?” says Tom. “It's worth it. Besides, Lucy's been saying she wants her own computer for a while.” He gives a half-smile. “I'm kind of looking forward to telling her she's got your castoff.”
“Lot Seventy-three,” says Caspar beside me. “And one which I know is going to attract a great deal of interest. A Vera Wang cocktail dress.” He slowly holds up the inky purple dress, and there's an appreciative gasp from the crowd.
But actually—I don't think I can watch this go. This is too painful, too recent. My beautiful glittering movie-star dress. I can't even look at it without remembering it all, like a slow-motion cine-film. Dancing with Luke in New York; drinking cocktails; that heady, happy excitement. And then waking up and seeing everything crash around me.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, and get to my feet. I head quickly out of the room, down the stairs, and into the fresh evening air. I lean against the side of the pub, listening to the laughter and chatter inside, and take a few deep breaths, trying to focus on all the good reasons why I'm doing this.
A few moments later, Suze appears beside me.
“Are you OK?” she says, and hands me a glass of wine. “Here. Have some of this.”
“Thanks,” I say gratefully, and take a deep gulp. “I'm fine, really. It's just . . . I suppose it's just hitting me. What I'm doing.”
“Bex . . .” She pauses and rubs her face awkwardly. “Bex, you could always change your mind. You could always stay. I mean—after tonight, with any luck, all your debts will be paid off! You could get a job, stay in the flat with me . . .”
I look at her for a few silent moments, feeling a temptation so strong, it almost hurts. It would be so easy to agree. Go home with her, have a cup of tea, and fall back into my old life.
But then I shake my head.
“No. I'm not going to fall into anything again. I've found something I really want to do, Suze, and I'm going to do it.”
“Rebecca.” A voice interrupts us, and we both look up to see Derek Smeath coming out of the door of the pub. He's holding the wooden bowl, one of Suze's photograph frames, and a big hard-backed atlas which I remember buying once when I thought I might give up my Western life and go traveling.
“Hi!” I say, and nod at his haul. “You did well.”
“Very well.” He holds the bowl up. “This is a very handsome piece.”
“It was in Elle Decoration once,” I tell him. “Very cool.”
“Really? I'll tell my daughter.” He puts it slightly awkwardly under his arm. “So you're off to America tomorrow.”
“Yes. Tomorrow afternoon. After I've paid a small trip to your friend John Gavin.”
A wry smile passes over Derek Smeath's face.
“I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you.” He extends his hand as best he can to shake mine. “Well, good luck, Becky. Do let me know how you get on.”
“I will,” I say, smiling warmly. “And thanks for . . . You know. Everything.”
He nods, and then walks off into the night.
I stay outside with Suze for quite a time. People are leaving now, carrying their loot, and telling each other how much they got it all for. A guy walks by clutching the mini paper shredder, a girl drags a bin liner full of clothes, someone else has got the invitations with the twinkly pizza slices. Just as I'm starting to get cold, a voice hails us from the stairs.
“Hey,” calls Tarquin. “It's the last lot. D'you want to come and see?”
“Come on,” says Suze, stubbing out her cigarette. “You've got to see the last thing go. What is it?”
“I don't know,” I say as we mount the stairs. “The fencing mask, perhaps?”
But as we walk back into the room, I feel a jolt of shock. Caspar's holding up my Denny and George scarf. My precious Denny and George scarf. Shimmering blue, silky velvet, overprinted in a paler blue, and dotted with iridescent beading.
I stand staring at it, with a growing tightness in my throat, remembering with a painful vividness the day I bought it. How desperately I wanted it. How Luke lent me the twenty quid I needed. The way I told him I was buying it for my aunt.
The way he used to look at me whenever I wore it.
My eyes are going blurry, and I blink hard, trying to keep control of myself.
“Bex . . . don't sell your scarf,” says Suze, looking at it in distress. “Keep one thing, at least.”
“Lot 126,” says Caspar. “A very attractive silk and velvet scarf.”
“Bex, tell them you've changed your mind!”
“I haven't changed my mind,” I say, staring fixedly ahead. “There's no point hanging on to it now.”
“What am I bid for this fine designer accessory by Denny and George?”
“Denny and George!” says the girl in pink, looking up. She's got the hugest pile of clothes around her, and I've no idea how she's going to get them all home. “I collect Denny and George! Thirty pounds!”
“I have a bid at £30,” says Caspar. He looks around the room—but it's swiftly emptying. People are queueing up to collect their items, or buy drinks at the bar, and the very few left sitting on the chairs are mostly chatting.
“Any further bids for this Denny and George scarf?”
“Yes!” says a voice at the back, and I see a girl in black raising a hand. “I have a telephone bid of £35.”
“Forty pounds,” says the girl in pink promptly.
“Fifty,” says the girl in black.
“Fifty?” says the pink girl, swiveling on her chair. “Who is it bidding? Is it Miggy Sloane?”
“The bidder wishes to remain anonymous,” says the girl in black after a pause. She catches my eye and for an instant my heart stops still.
“I bet it's Miggy,” says the girl, turning back. “Well, she's not going to beat me. Sixty pounds.”
“Sixty pounds?” says the chap next to her, who's been eyeing her pile of stuff with slight alarm. “For a scarf?”
“A Denny and George scarf, stupid!” says the pink girl, and takes a swig of wine. “It would be at least two hundred in a shop. Seventy! Ooh, silly. It's not my turn, is it?”
The girl in black has been murmuring quietly into the phone. Now she looks up at Caspar. “A hundred.”
“A hundred?” The pink girl swivels on her chair again. “Really?”
“The bidding stands at one hundred,” says Caspar calmly. “I am bid £100 for this Denny and George scarf. Any fu
rther bids?”
“A hundred and twenty,” says the pink girl. There are a few moments' silence, and the girl in black talks quietly into the phone again. Then she looks up and says, “A hundred and fifty.”
There's an interested murmuring around the room, and people who had been chatting at the bar all turn toward the auction floor again.
“One hundred and fifty pounds,” says Caspar. “I am bid £150 for Lot 126, a Denny and George scarf.”
“That's more than I paid for it!” I whisper to Suze.
“Bidding rests with the telephone buyer. At £150. One hundred and fifty pounds, ladies and gentlemen.”
There's a tense silence—and suddenly I realize I'm digging my nails into the flesh of my hands.
“Two hundred,” says the girl in pink defiantly, and there's a gasp around the room. “And tell your so-called anonymous bidder, Miss Miggy Sloane, that whatever she bids, I can bid.”
Everyone turns to look at the girl in black, who mutters something into the receiver, then nods her head.
“My bidder withdraws,” she says, looking up. I feel an inexplicable pang of disappointment, and quickly smile to cover it.
“Two hundred pounds!” I say to Suze. “That's pretty good!”
“Going . . . going . . . gone,” says Caspar, and raps his gavel. “To the lady in pink.”
There's a round of applause, and Caspar beams happily around. He picks up the scarf, and is about to hand it to Fenella, when I stop him.
“Wait,” I say. “I'd like to give it to her. If that's all right.”
I take the scarf from Caspar and hold it quite still for a few moments, feeling its familiar gossamer texture. I can still smell my scent on it. I can feel Luke tying it round my neck.
The Girl in the Denny and George Scarf.
Then I take a deep breath and walk down, off the platform, toward the girl in pink. I smile at her and hand it over to her.
“Enjoy it,” I say. “It's quite special.”
“Oh, I know,” she says quietly. “I know it is.” And just for a moment, as we look at each other, I think she understands completely. Then she turns and lifts it high into the air in triumph, like a trophy. “Sucks to you, Miggy!”
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