by Mike Hockney
Now my life has gone in a whole new direction. I’ve stopped being an entertainment consultant, given up my Mayfair apartment and moved to a small rented flat in Clapham. I’ve managed to pay off my entire debt to Far Havens Financial Services thanks to a number of lucrative appearances on prime-time American TV chat shows. Now I have a job at Sotheby’s, courtesy of Francis Hamlin. The company has sponsored me to do a part-time degree in History of Art at university. I never thought I’d be a student, but I’m loving every second.
I even received a letter from my mum after years of silence. She and dad were no longer watching my career with dismay, she said, but with hope and optimism. If I could keep it up, they’d be glad to see me again. I’d like that so much.
I read that Zara and Leddington both graduated with starred firsts in Politics, Philosophy and Economics. I think the newspaper that predicted they were the people most likely to succeed was right. Already, they were well on their way.
*****
One day, I was at work at Sotheby’s main auction house in New Bond Street. I was nervous because, for the first time, I was taking charge of an auction unsupervised. I had been assigned a low-value auction of a number of trinkets from early twentieth century, pre-revolutionary Russia. Few people were in attendance, just a handful of collectors of Tsarist memorabilia. I noticed that all of the front seats were reserved, but no one was sitting there.
The auction began and went on uneventfully for an hour. The last item to be auctioned was a Russian Doll that may or may not have belonged to Anastasia, one of the daughters of the last Tsar. Its suggested price in the catalogue was a modest £400.
As I was getting ready to present it to the bidders, the doors of the hall swung open. I peered in disbelief. The Top Table marched to the front of the hall, all of the men in dinner jackets, the women in beautiful white ball gowns, just as I’d seen so many times before. Their faces were chalked white, apart from Leddington and Zara’s. Zara wore the same gorgeous blood-red dress and black choker that she had in her picture in the National Portrait Gallery and in the photograph at the Oxford Union with Jez. Every one of the Top Tablers was carrying a black motorcycle helmet with black visor. As soon as I saw those helmets I realised something I guess I’d long suspected – Zara was the statuesque motorbike courier in Trafalgar Square last summer who gave me that gold envelope that started this whole thing.
All of the men sat on the left-hand row of seats, with Leddington beside the aisle. On the other side was Zara, with the women to her right. All of them stared at me. Flustered, I reached out for a jug of iced water and poured myself a glass. I took a long sip then, speaking into my microphone, read out the catalogue entry describing the Russian Doll.
‘Can anyone get us started with a bid of three hundred and fifty pounds,’ I said and glanced around the hall, praying I would get this wrapped up fast. There was no reaction from any of the collectors. None of them took their eyes off the Top Table. I saw myself reflected in a mirror at the back of the hall. I was sweating profusely. I took a tissue from my handbag and dabbed my brow. All the time, the Top Table gazed at me as though they were trying to burn holes through me.
There were no bids for the Russian Doll, not one. I stood there, baffled. I could declare the auction over, but I knew that would be like admitting defeat.
‘One penny,’ Leddington declared without warning.
I tried not to look rattled. Jesus, they were messing with my mind again.
‘We have a bid of one penny at the front of the room,’ I mumbled. I wondered if I should say Leddington’s bid wasn’t a serious one, but I suspected that’s what he wanted. ‘I’m sure you’ll agree that this item is worth considerably more.’
The room was unnaturally quiet.
‘Ten thousand pounds,’ Zara said.
Whaaaaat???
‘A new bidder,’ I stated hesitantly. ‘Uh, any advance on ten thousand pounds?’ I felt so idiotic saying that. ‘All done?’ I asked, after taking another long sip of water, trying to buy time. What a futile question. I was so angry with myself. Yet again I was letting her humiliate me. Had I learned nothing?
‘Selling for ten thousand pounds, then.’ I tried to sound assertive as I held my gavel at the ready, pathetically praying some miracle would happen and someone might outbid Zara. Of course, no one did. I brought the gavel crashing down, much harder than normal.
‘Sold,’ I said, though I felt that the only thing that had been sold was me.
Zara came over to my table with one of her male minions. The man placed a slim silver attaché case on the table and flicked it open. It was full of crisp, brand new fifty-pound notes.
‘Do you want to count it?’ Zara asked.
‘I’m sure it’s all there.’ I shakily handed her the Russian Doll.
She opened it there and then, revealing one figure after another. When she reached the smallest figure, she lined it up next to the others. ‘You just can’t get to the bottom of things, Sophie, can you?’ She signalled to the rest of the Top Table and they all stood up and began to leave. As I watched her follow the others up the aisle towards the exit, I felt as much of a victim as ever. She’d even left the Russian Doll behind to mock me.
I rushed after her and grabbed her arm. ‘Listen to me, Zara.’ She turned round and we stood face to face. ‘Have you ever listened to anyone in your life?’ I scarcely knew what I was saying but, somehow, I had to settle things right here and now.
‘One or two,’ she replied in that appallingly arrogant way of hers.
‘Well, you should try it more often. You might learn something.’
‘That depends on to whom I’m listening, don’t you think?’
‘This isn’t over.’ I was becoming desperate. I had to do something to turn this around, but I couldn’t think of anything clever. I needed more time.
‘You’ve had your chance,’ she said as though she knew what I was thinking. ‘You’re a fan of F Scott Fitzgerald, aren’t you? Then you ought to know he said there are no second acts in American lives. What makes you think you’re any different?’
‘I’m not American.’
‘Touché,’ she said with a wry smile.
Jesus, I’d scored a point. ‘Wait there,’ I said, ‘I want to give you something.’ I darted back to my table. Making sure that Zara couldn’t see what I was doing, I thrust my hand into the iced-water jug and grabbed several ice cubes.
All of the Top Table had stopped in front of the exit. Zara was gazing at me curiously, with Leddington a few steps behind her.
I hurried back to her and asked her to hold out her hand. ‘I have a memento for you.’ She looked at me expectantly, no doubt wondering if poor, simple Sophie could ever surprise her.
I thrust my right hand against hers, pushing the ice cubes hard into her flesh. This was absurd – I was giving ice to the Ice Queen.
She instantly tried to pull away but I swung my left hand across to reinforce my grip and stood there clutching her hand as tightly as I could.
‘To remind you of Sam,’ I said, staring directly into her eyes. I was shocked by what I saw there – a terrible blankness, a deadness. After a moment, light flickered inside them and her pupils began to dilate. Something amazing happened. I could tell she was seeing me for the first time, seeing me. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile crept over her face.
When the ice cubes had melted, I let go of her hand.
‘Thanks, Sophie,’ she said. Unfazed, she waved her hand to dry it then went over to Leddington and whispered something. They both turned and, simultaneously, gave me the slightest of nods.
The other members of the Top Table filed out, followed by Leddington. As Zara reached the exit, she stopped, turned and gave me the most vibrant, gorgeous smile. Then she was gone.
I wrapped things up in the auction room as fast as I could, locking the money and the Russian Doll in my safe. I’d never been so elated in my life. I rushed out into the street, hardly knowing what I was doing. It
was a beautiful sunny day without a single cloud in the sky. I was intoxicated. The way Zara had smiled at me was unmistakable. She had acknowledged me, approved of me, shown me respect.
Dizzy, exhilarated, I raced up New Bond Street without a clue where I was going. An open-topped red double-decker tourist bus came towards me. It was called ‘The Magic Bus.’ I gaped at in amazement then started waving like a crazy person at the tourists on the top deck. As it drove past, I saw a huge advert on its side. ‘Straight in at Number One: Sophie’s Smile, the fantastic new single from The Bleak Morts’ brilliant debut album Always Follow Your Heart.’ The girl pictured in the advert looked exactly like me.
I started laughing and I couldn’t stop. I’d give Ligger a call and let him know that the thing that had been holding me back was well and truly over. I might even tell him that if I’d been honest with myself, I’d fallen in love with him the very first time we met. Isn’t it strange how we run from what we really want to chase dreams that have no connection with who we truly are?
I ran after the bus and jumped on at the next stop. ‘How far ya goin’?’ the driver asked.
When I heard that, my smile was one hundred percent authentic. I realised the fake feeling I used to get had vanished completely. My reply was the only one it could be.
‘All the way,’ I said.