‘Lot number two,’ declared the auctioneer. ‘A watercolour by . . .’
‘I was hoping that Sasha might be joining us,’ said Mr Dangerfield. ‘But he did warn me that he had a party booking at the restaurant and wasn’t sure if he’d be able to get away in time.’
The countess made no comment as she turned the page of her catalogue to lot three, which didn’t make the low estimate. Mr Dangerfield glanced around, to see that the ring was celebrating its first killing. He looked back to find the countess tapping her fingers agitatedly on her catalogue, which surprised him, because he’d never known her to show any emotion.
‘That picture belonged to an old family friend,’ she explained. ‘He needed the money.’
When the auctioneer offered the next painting, Mr Dangerfield noted that the countess was becoming more and more nervous as each lot was offered up for sale. He even thought he spotted a bead of sweat on her forehead by the time the auctioneer had reached lot sixteen.
‘A pair of Russian dolls. Shall I open the bidding at ten thousand?’ No one responded. The auctioneer stared down at the impassive sea of faces and suggested, ‘Twelve thousand,’ but Mr Dangerfield knew he was plucking bids off the wall. ‘Fourteen thousand,’ he said, trying not to sound desperate. But there was still no response, so he brought down his hammer and mumbled, ‘Bought in.’
‘What does that mean?’ whispered the countess.
‘There was never a bidder in the first place,’ said Mr Dangerfield.
‘Lot number seventeen,’ said the auctioneer. ‘An important portrait by the distinguished Russian artist Vladimir Borovikovsky. Do I see a bid of twenty thousand?’ No one responded until a member of the ring shouted, ‘Ten thousand!’
‘Do I see twelve thousand?’ asked the auctioneer, but still no one else took any interest, so he reluctantly brought down his hammer and said, ‘Sold, for ten thousand pounds, to the gentleman at the back,’ although he wasn’t entirely sure which gentleman.
Dangerfield felt this didn’t bode well for his client, but he didn’t proffer an opinion.
‘Lot number eighteen.’ The auctioneer paused to allow a porter to enter the room carrying the egg on a velvet cushion. He placed it on a stand beside the podium, and withdrew. The auctioneer smiled benevolently down at his attentive audience, and was about to suggest an opening price of ￡50,000 when a voice from the back of the room shouted, ‘One thousand pounds,’ which was followed by laughter and a gasp of disbelief.
‘Two thousand,’ said another voice, before the auctioneer could recover.
‘Ten thousand,’ said someone two rows behind the countess. The bewildered auctioneer looked hopefully around the room, and was just about to bring his hammer down and say, ‘Sold to the Russian Ambassador,’ when out of the corner of his eye he saw the hand of one of the assistants on the platform to his left shoot up. He turned to face a young woman on the phone, who said firmly, ‘Twenty thousand.’
‘Twenty-one thousand,’ said the first voice from the back of the room.
The auctioneer looked back at the young woman, who appeared to be deep in conversation with her telephone client.
‘Thirty thousand,’ she said after a few seconds, which had felt like a lifetime to the countess.
‘Thirty-one thousand.’ The same voice from the back.
‘Forty thousand,’ said the assistant on the phone.
‘Forty-one thousand,’ came back the immediate response.
‘Fifty thousand,’ the assistant.
‘Fifty-one thousand,’ the man at the back.
There was another long silence as everyone in the room turned towards the young woman on the phone.
‘One hundred thousand,’ she said, causing a loud outbreak of chattering, which the auctioneer studiously ignored.
‘I have a bid of one hundred thousand pounds,’ he said. ‘Do I see one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds?’ the auctioneer enquired as his eye returned to the leader of the ring, who stared back at him in sullen silence.
‘Do I see one hundred and twenty-five thousand?’ the auctioneer asked a second time. ‘Then I’ll let it go to the phone bidder for one hundred thousand pounds.’ He was just about to bring down his hammer, when a hand in the fifth row rose reluctantly. Clearly the Russian Ambassador now accepted that his press statement had failed to achieve the desired result.
A flurry of bids followed, once the ambassador had acknowledged the egg had indeed been crafted by Carl Fabergé, and was not a fake. When the price reached half a million, Mr Dangerfield noticed that the young woman on the phone was having an intense conversation with her client.
‘The next bid will be six hundred thousand,’ she whispered. ‘Do you want me to continue bidding on your behalf, sir?’
‘How many bidders are left?’ he asked.
‘The Russian Ambassador is still bidding, and I’m fairly sure the deputy director of the Metropolitan Museum in New York is showing an interest. And a dealer from Asprey is tapping his right foot, always a sign that he’s about to join in.’
‘Fine, then I’ll wait until you think we’re down to the final bidder.’
When the bidding reached one million, the young woman whispered into the phone, ‘We’re down to the last two, the Russian Ambassador and the deputy director of the Met.’
‘One million, one hundred thousand pounds,’ said the auctioneer, turning his attention back to the Russian Ambassador, who sullenly folded his arms and lowered his head.
‘We’re down to one,’ she whispered over the phone.
‘What was the last bid?’
‘One million one.’
‘Then bid one million two.’ Her right hand shot up.
‘I have one million two on the phone,’ said the auctioneer, looking back down at the deputy director of the Met.
‘What’s happening?’ asked the voice on the other end of the line. He sounded quite anxious.
‘I think you’ve got it. Congratulations.’
But she was wrong, because the hand of the Met’s representative rose once again, if somewhat tentatively.
‘No, wait. There’s a bid of one million three. But I’m confident it would be yours if you were to bid one four.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said the voice on the other end of the line, ‘but I’m afraid I’ve reached my limit. Thanks anyway,’ he said before he put the phone down. He stepped out of the telephone box, and dodged in and out of the traffic as he crossed Bond Street.
The auctioneer continued to stare hopefully at the young assistant, but she shook her head and put the phone down. The auctioneer brought down his hammer with a thud, and said, ‘Sold, for one million three hundred thousand pounds to the Metropolitan Museum in New York.’
The audience burst into spontaneous applause, and even the countess allowed herself a smile as Sasha came dashing into the room. He walked quickly down the aisle and took the only empty seat, next to his father-in-law.
‘I’m afraid you’ve missed all the drama,’ said Mr Dangerfield.
‘Yes, I know. Sorry, I got held up.’
Sasha leant across and congratulated the countess. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and said, ‘Thank you, Sasha,’ as she turned to the next page of her catalogue.
‘Lot number nineteen,’ said the auctioneer once the audience had settled. ‘A fine marble bust of Tsar Nicholas II. I have an opening bid of ten thousand pounds.’
‘Eleven,’ said a familiar voice from the back of the room. The countess didn’t bother to turn round, but simply raised her gloved hand slowly. When she caught the attention of the auctioneer she said, almost in a whisper, ‘Fifty thousand,’ which was followed by a gasp from all those around her. But then she considered it a small price to pay for a masterpiece she’d last seen on the desk in her father’s study. She also knew which member of the family had put it up for sale, and accepted that he needed the money even more than she did.
26
SASHA
London
‘You’re looking very smart, Mama,’ said Sasha. ‘Is that a new suit?’