The Boy Who Fooled the World

by Lisa Thompson

  Then I spotted Mason. He was standing next to Dad, his jaw dangling open as he stared at the painting. He looked at me, at the painting, and then at me again. Our eyes locked. His gaping mouth slowly closed and I read his lips across the crowd.

  “What. Have. You. Done?” he said, shaking his head.

  The Auction

  The applause was so loud I could feel it thundering inside my ribcage. As soon as it began to die down, the auctioneer started to speak.

  “So, there we have it, everybody,” she said. “ ‘Catch’ by Cole Miller. Set to be one of the most celebrated early works of our time. Now, who wants to start the bidding at ten thousand pounds? I have ten thousand, can I see eleven?”

  What?! Ten thousand pounds already? I stared at a man who was waving his pamphlet in the air.

  “Eleven thousand to the gentleman … do we have twelve?”

  I looked over at Dad as the money kept climbing. He gave me a thumbs-up, his eyes wide. Mason had his arms folded.

  “… so that’s seventeen thousand; do I see eighteen?”

  Eighteen thousand?! The bidding was going up really, really fast. I was getting hot under the spotlights and I edged to one side to get out of the glare. I saw Mabel in Mum’s arms; she was trying to say something, but Mum was shaking her head. Mabel was having none of it.

  “Do I see twenty-six thousand anywhere?” continued the auctioneer. “Twenty-six thousand for this wonderful—”

  “Forty thousand!” shouted a man at the back.

  A few people laughed and cheered. The auctioneer looked shocked. I don’t think it was supposed to work like that.

  “OK. Well, if you want to jump ahead with a higher bid, sir, then do be my guest. Ladies and gentlemen, we are now at forty thousand for this wonderful painting ‘Catch’, by Cole Miller. Do I see forty-five? I must say, this is an incredible sum…”

  I couldn’t believe it! Forty-five thousand? This was life-changing! As the price went up, I kept an eye on Mum and Mabel. Mabel had her arm stretched out, pointing towards the painting behind me on the wall. Her face was bright red and streaked with tears and snot.

  “I have fifty thousand. Do I have fifty-five? Fifty-five thousand, thank you. Sixty thousand. Sixty-five thousand. Seventy thousand.”

  Across the crowd hands shot up as people bid. I spotted Jeremy, the large man who had been rude to Dad, waving his pamphlet, but he stopped at sixty thousand. In the corner was a man on a computer who was taking bids via the internet, and beside him were three people on the phone, bidding on behalf of people at the other end of the line. It was hectic and loud and fast and absolutely incredible.

  “… we are at seventy thousand pounds, ladies and gentlemen. Seventy thousand pounds. Do I see seventy-five?”

  I felt shaky. The bidding was going up and up but I wanted it to stop. This was all too much. Marika looked over at me, her hands pressed together at her lips. I looked away and tried to find Mum again; she was jiggling Mabel up and down on her hip, but Mabel was sobbing. She held on to Mum’s face with both hands and as she cried she shouted something at her. I saw the whites of Mum’s eyes as she began to get really angry. She snapped something back and my little sister’s face crumpled and she dropped her forehead on to Mum’s shoulder.

  “Ninety thousand pounds! Well, this is incredible, I must say,” said the auctioneer. “Did you ever dream that your work would be in such huge demand, Cole?” I shook my head, unable to speak. The audience laughed.

  “Do I have ninety-five thousand?”

  There were fewer people bidding now. It appeared to be down to someone on the internet, a man at the very back, and a lady who was holding two glasses of champagne and appeared to be a bit unsteady on her feet. The man on the computer who was monitoring the online bids raised his hand.

  “Ninety-five!” he called. The audience gasped.

  “Ninety-five thousand pounds! My goodness,” said the auctioneer.

  I couldn’t believe it. We could get a car! A holiday! The whole house decorated!

  “Do I have one hundred thousand pounds? Madam?” The lady at the front with the drinks shook her head, but then the man at the back suddenly shot his hand up into the air and waved his leaflet.

  “ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS to the gentleman at the back of the room!” cried the auctioneer.

  “That’s one hundred thousand pounds, ladies and gentlemen. One hundred thousand. Do we have one hundred and ten?” She looked around the room. The man on the computer turned around and shook his head.

  “One hundred thousand, then. Are we all done? Going once, going twice, and SOLD to you, sir, for one hundred thousand pounds!”

  BANG!

  The auctioneer slammed the wooden gavel on to the lectern.

  That was it. It was all over. The room erupted into cheers and whoops. People crowded around me and I felt hundreds of hands patting me on the back.

  “Well done!” said Marika, holding me by my shoulders. “It’s an incredible piece of work. Incredible.”

  “That was amazing!” said Declan, giving me a squeeze on the arm. “My phone is going crazy already. Everyone wants you! The TV news team want to do a live interview from your house next week. Isn’t that great?”

  Live TV? I still couldn’t speak. My legs felt like jelly and I was trying hard to keep upright. Was this actually happening? My ears were still ringing from the sound of the wooden hammer banging down as the painting sold. The crowd around me began to chatter about how it had been the most exciting auction they’d ever seen. And then, for the first time that evening, I turned to take a proper look at the painting behind me.

  The painting I’d titled ‘Catch’. But this wasn’t my picture of a wonky chair and a tennis ball.

  On this canvas were two rectangular shapes, one red and one grey. The shapes both had a triangle beside them, and dots had been speckled all around. Dots made by fingertips much smaller than mine. In the bottom left-hand corner was a dark-blue, curly C. A signature that said that this piece of artwork had been created by me. Cole Miller.

  But it hadn’t.

  It had been painted by my three-year-old sister in my bedroom just days ago. The one of me and her playing the butterfly game.

  And someone had just bought it for one hundred thousand pounds.

  Going Home

  I pressed my forehead against the cold car window. It was dark and drizzling in London, but there were still plenty of people scurrying around the streets as we passed by. Dad was in the front of the car, talking to Nick, the driver. He kept saying, “I can’t believe it. All that money!” over and over again. I think he was in shock.

  Mum was scrolling through her phone. She turned around.

  “Cole! You’re all over Twitter and Instagram!”

  I smiled but my face dropped when she turned back.

  Mabel was asleep, her head resting on the side of the car seat as she breathed gently. Her cheeks were red and blotchy from all of her crying earlier. By the time I saw my family after the auction had finished, Mabel had calmed down and was more interested in eating a pastry than saying anything about her painting causing all that fuss. Mum and Dad had thrown their arms around me as I looked at Mason over their shoulders. He just shook his head.

  “The first thing we’ll do is get the whole house decorated,” said Mum, turning around again. “Does that sound OK, Cole? And Mabel desperately needs some new clothes; she’s growing out of hers so fast. And maybe we could even look at taking a holiday. Wouldn’t that be great? I can’t remember the last time we all went away.”

  “That’ll be nice,” I said quietly. She turned back to her phone. Mason thumped me on the arm.

  “I saw your painting and the one they just sold was definitely not yours,” he hissed. “That was Mabel’s painting!”

  “Shhhhh. Keep your voice down,” I said. He leant closer to me.

  “It’s fraud!” said Mason. “Whoever bought that painting believed it was by you and it’s not. It was bad
enough to pay a ton of money for something you’ve done, but now they’ve ended up with one by a three-year-old! Can you imagine how much trouble you’re going to be in when they find out?”

  Mason looked really worried and it made me feel even more sick.

  “I panicked!” I said. “And anyway, it was YOU who put the idea into my head by saying Mabel’s picture was better than mine! I sent a photo to Declan and I didn’t think they’d like it, but they did!’

  He was about to say something else when Nick called out from the front of the car. “Listen up, everyone!” He turned the volume up on the radio.

  “There was huge excitement this evening at the Marika Loft Gallery when twelve-year-old artist Cole Miller sold a painting for one hundred thousand pounds. The auction has attracted worldwide attention and has provoked a question amongst critics and the public alike – what makes something a piece of art? Marika Loft spoke after the auction, defending the artist’s young age and stressing that important works can be produced by anybody. The painting sold to an anonymous bidder, believed to be a private collector.”

  Dad gave a little clap as Nick turned the radio down.

  “Did you hear that, Cole?” whispered Mason, his eyes growing bigger. “Worldwide attention. Worldwide. It isn’t just the people in the gallery that you’ve lied to. Or the man who bought the picture. Or your mum and dad. Or Mabel. It’s everyone.”

  We stared at each other and I took a deep breath. He was right.

  Somehow, I’d just managed to fool the entire world.

  Shopping Spree

  I woke the next day to the sound of Mum shouting from the lounge.

  “COLE! YOU’RE ON THE TELLY!”

  I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs. Mum was on her knees in front of the TV and Dad was leaning forward in the armchair. There was a picture of ‘Catch’ next to a photo of me.

  “…the identity of the bidder has not been confirmed, but what we do know is that it sold for an extraordinary sum for a new artist. One hundred thousand pounds. The story has been receiving attention from around the world …”

  “Amazing,” said Dad. He was still in a daze.

  Mabel suddenly scooted into the lounge and I quickly scooped her up before she could see her painting on the TV.

  “Shall we go and find some breakfast, Mabel?” I said. She stared at me, a bit bewildered. I wasn’t usually this happy to see her.

  I trotted to the kitchen and put Mabel on the floor. All the fuss would die down soon; I just needed to get through the next couple of days without her being reminded of the painting and giving the game away. Mum came into the kitchen.

  “Declan said we should have the money in our account by Wednesday – isn’t that great?”

  I tipped some cereal into a bowl and Mabel opened the drawer and helped herself to a yellow plastic spoon.

  “Me and your dad were thinking we could all go to the retail park today and look for a new sofa.”

  “I don’t have to come, do I?” I said, putting some cereal into a bowl for myself.

  “You don’t have to, but I’d like you to,” said Mum. That was her way of telling me I had to. “Oh, and Declan messaged me this morning asking about your next painting. Did he text you too?”

  “I haven’t looked at my phone yet,” I lied.

  I’d seen the text as soon as I’d woken up. He’d asked if I could get my next painting finished as soon as possible as he had a waiting list of buyers. The text had made me feel sick so I deleted it without replying.

  “So, how does it feel to be famous, son?” said Dad, coming into the kitchen and flicking the switch on the kettle.

  I shrugged and shoved a great spoonful of cereal into my mouth. The dry, sharp edges scratched at my throat and it hurt as I tried to swallow them down.

  “Jenny, I was thinking we could take the kids for lunch at that new bistro on the edge of the retail park. How about it?”

  I looked at Mum. I couldn’t remember us ever going out for lunch before.

  Mum frowned. “It’s a bit expensive in there, isn’t it?” she said.

  “But we’ve got some money left over from the first painting and more to come. I think we’re allowed a little celebration, don’t you, Mabel?”

  Mabel waved her spoon in the air when she heard her name, shooting cereal pieces everywhere. Mum and Dad laughed.

  *

  The bus to the retail park was busy, and me and Dad had to stand for most of the journey. I really wasn’t in the mood to be dragged around a furniture shop and thought about asking if I could wait outside, but I knew Mum wouldn’t let me.

  We headed straight to Furniture Unlimited and Mum and Dad kept giggling and oohing and ahhing over boring things like lamps and cushions. We got to the sofa section and Mum ran around practically squealing. It was so embarrassing.

  “Look at this one, Doug! It reclines!” said Mum. She sat on a grey sofa and pulled a handle down by her side, and her legs shot up into the air. Dad laughed and tried the armchair. Mabel had discovered a swivel chair beside a desk and was busy spinning herself round and round. I stood next to her and pretended that the two grown adults getting excited about soft furnishings didn’t belong to me.

  “Come and try it, Cole! It’s so much more comfortable than our old one,” called Mum, patting the seat beside her.

  Mabel and I sat down next to her. I sank backwards against the cushions. The material was soft and the sofa didn’t sink in the middle like the one at home.

  “What do you think, Cole?” said Dad. “Do you think it’ll look nice in our lounge? We’ll probably get the whole house redecorated at some point; we definitely need a new carpet and curtains.”

  I sat forward.

  “It’s nice but I don’t understand why you’re doing all this shopping when you haven’t even got the money yet?” I said.

  Mum put her hand on my arm.

  “It’s fine, Cole. We can just pay a deposit for the sofa today and the rest will be due in monthly instalments. You don’t need to worry.”

  Mabel pointed towards some colourful beanbags that were scattered on a big, fluffy rug. She pulled on my hand and we both went over and flopped down on the squishy bags.

  Mum and Dad walked around the shop for ages until eventually deciding on the very first sofa, and then they started talking to one of the shop assistants.

  “Cole? Can we do more painting soon?” said Mabel. My stomach sank. I ignored her and pretended to pick at something on my jeans

  “Cole?” she said again, tapping on my arm. “Mabel likes painting.”

  I spun around to her.

  “No, Mabel. We are not doing any more painting. And if you say anything to Mum or Dad about your picture then they are going to be really, really angry with you for touching my paints. OK? They’ll probably be so angry they’ll throw your butterfly game in the bin!”

  Her big eyes blinked at me.

  “Butterfly game?” she said, her forehead crinkling.

  “Yes! You won’t be able to play it ever, ever again.”

  Mabel’s bottom lip curled up over the top and then she screwed up her face and tears began to squeeze out of her eyes, like a tap had been turned on. Mum and Dad appeared.

  “What’s all this?” said Mum, scooping Mabel into her arms. “Why is she crying, Cole?”

  I shrugged.

  “I dunno,” I said. “I think she needs a nap or something.”

  “You don’t need a nap, do you, Mabel?” said Mum. “You’ve only just got up.”

  I climbed out of the beanbag.

  “Is there anything you want to look at while we’re here, Cole?” said Dad. “There’s a sports shop next door. How about we go and check out some trainers?”

  My heart leapt. Trainers!

  “OK!” I said brightly. Mum said she’d take Mabel to the big toy shop and we arranged to meet at the restaurant for lunch. As we walked, Dad asked me what trainers I might like. He mentioned some brands that were probably fa
shionable when he was young in the 1990s, but I’d never heard of them.

  “I think XT50s are quite nice,” I said, remembering Mason’s white pair.

  We walked into the sports shop and up a big escalator to get to the trainer section. It was really busy. There were cardboard boxes and tissue paper everywhere and I spotted a small boy whose foot was being rammed into a trainer by a man kneeling down in front of him. The two of them were wearing matching black leather jackets.

  “Come on, Oakley! Put a bit of effort into it, son. Push!”

  The boy didn’t appear to be making any attempt to get his white, fluffy-socked toes into the shoe.

  “But I don’t like ’em, Dad!” said Oakley. “They’re ’orrible!”

  “Ah, mate. You’re killing me, you are,” said the dad. He tossed the shoe towards the shop assistant, who caught it with one hand. Oakley picked up his own perfectly new-looking trainer and put it on. His dad muttered under his breath about what a waste of time it had all been and how he was gagging for a Big Mac.

  Dad smirked at me, then got the assistant’s attention. He was wearing a badge that said his name was Will.

  “Excuse me, do you have any XT50s in a size seven for my son?”

  Will stared at Dad and then at me.

  “Yeah. But they’re, like, really expensive,” he said, looking us both up and down and settling his eyes on my feet. “He can’t try them on unless you’re serious about buying them. We get a lot of time-wasters.”

  I felt myself going red. The assistant obviously thought we didn’t look like the kind of people who could afford the most expensive trainers in the shop.

  “We’re serious,” said Dad, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Size seven. XT50s.”

  Will huffed.

  “Black or white?” he said to me.

  “Black, please,” I said. I didn’t want to get the same as Mason.