Page 98 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
Chapter Eighteen
The buzz in the auction room was electric. Every seat was occupied and the bidding for the previous lots had been lively, with prices for all the paintings exceeding expectations.
Vicky was sitting at the end of the front row with Tom, unconsciously gripping his hand as the auctioneer announced the next lot — the five charcoal sketches Juan-Jorge had made of his neighbours in Sturcombe.
They were to be sold as a single lot. The porters in their white coats and gloves paraded solemnly across the front of the room to prop them on the display easels, and their images flashed up on the two big screens beside the auctioneer’s head.
Bez’s blog, with the story of the portraits and Juan-Jorge’s final years in a quiet seaside village in South Devon, and Molly’s amazing life, had gone viral. It had caught the interest of the media — the news of the sale had even made some of the national papers. Which was amazing for an artist who wasn’t well known in the UK.
“This is it,” she whispered to Tom as the bidding started. “I hope they get a decent amount.”
The bids were clocking up on the screen beside the images of the sketches, showing the running tally in half a dozen currencies. Along each side of the auditorium, the raised walkways were lined with assistants taking phone bids and internet bids.
The auctioneer had started the bidding at ten thousand pounds. Vicky had been staggered when Mr Loughton had suggested that sum, but he had been proved right — the numbers were mounting rapidly by the thousands. Forty thousand... Forty-five...
“How on earth does he keep up with it?” She was swivelling her head, trying to see who was bidding. “Just don’t sneeze or we could find ourselves buying them back!”
Tom laughed. “It doesn’t work like that. You don’t even have a bidding paddle.”
“Is it the same as how livestock auctions work?”
“Pretty much. Though livestock auctions are smellier.”
She bit back a bubble of laughter. This was like some crazy dream — she felt as if she was drunk. The bidding had passed fifty-five thousand, but at last it was slowing.
“To you, sir. Fifty-eight thousand? Thank you.”
A woman in a smart scarlet blazer sitting in the second row raised her numbered paddle — Vicky had noticed that she had just watched until the bidding passed forty-five thousand before joining in.
The auctioneer pointed at her. “Fifty-nine thousand — it’s with you.” He glanced back at the previous bidder. “Do you want to raise, sir? I’ll take five hundred.”
The man hesitated briefly, then shook his head.
“Very well. Are there any more bids? Then once . . . twice . . .”
The gavel came down with a sharp clack, and Vicky let go her breath.
“Oh, wow! That’s going to be... heavens, nearly ten thousand pounds each after commission. Debbie’s mum’s going to be able to buy a very big freezer!”
The room relaxed, with a general buzz of conversation, rustling of papers, a few people leaving their seats, more crowding into the back. The porters came in to remove the sketches from their easels and convey them through to the back room.
Slowly the noise subsided into a silence filled with anticipation. The porters returned, carrying Molly’s portrait as if it was a goblet of pure gold. They set it up on the easel, and itsimage appeared on the screens to a collective, “Oooh,” around the room.
“I can’t believe this,” Vicky whispered. “I never thought it could be worth much.” She laughed edgily. “Goes to show how much I know about art.”
Tom squeezed her hand. “Well, you’re about to find out how much it’s worth.”
“I know. I’m going to have to close my eyes — I can’t watch.”
He laughed softly. “That’s no good. You’ll still be able to hear.”
The auctioneer raised his hands for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to present our final lot of the day. This was the last piece that Juan-Jorge Conejero painted before his death — a portrait of his lover, Meline Marston. Unknown for over forty years, it has a full provenance and has been fully authenticated by three experts. I have online bids and can start the bidding at three million pounds.”
Vicky drew in a sharp breath. “That’s more than the reserve!” she whispered to Tom.
The elegant room, with its pale-grey walls and crystal chandeliers swinging from the high ceiling, seemed to be swaying like a ship at sea. The bids were racking up even faster than for the sketches. Paddles were being raised all round the room, the heat and the electric tension were soaring. The numbers the auctioneer was calling sounded like a jumble in her ears...
She flinched when the gavel came down.
