Pandora (92 page)

Minsky took even longer to make up his mind than Lord Ditherer. So Rupert, as a sign to Jupiter, pointedly examined his fingernails. Catching Henry Wyndham’s eye, Jupiter nodded.

‘Twelve million, five hundred thousand at the back,’ called out Henry.

Everyone swung round, or stood up unashamedly to find out who had bid.

‘Jupiter Belvedon’s just bid for Rupert Campbell-Black,’ whispered David.

I hate that bastard, thought Kevin, plucking at David’s sleeve.

‘Go on,’ he hissed.

‘Thirteen million on the aisle,’ said Henry, as David raised his eyebrows, then, turning to the telephone bidders, ‘Thirteen million against you now, Natacha.’

Minsky Kraskov was watching the lights of Cannes rippling orange across the dark-blue waters of the Mediterranean.

‘Who is damned opponent beeding against me?’ he growled.

‘I can’t tell you,’ said Natacha, ‘but it’s thirteen million against you. Do you want to bid?’

‘I’d rather haf you against me. It is a dealer or a museum?’

‘Perhaps. You can’t keep them waiting.’

‘Ees it the Getty?’

‘D’you want to bid?’

‘Oh, OK.’

A gold pen glittered in Natacha’s waving white hand.

‘Thirteen million, five hundred thousand on the telephone and against you, sir, I’m sure there’s another bid in you.’ Henry Wyndham smiled at Kevin, who again plucked David’s sleeve.

There were audible groans from the Americans, the French and the Danes when, like favourites falling in the National, the big museums gradually dropped out.

Henry was stepping up the drama now, whipping the bidders to a frenzy of competition. He knew Kevin and Rupert detested each other and there was no love lost between David and the Belvedons. If he could get a dog fight going between the two sides, bidding could soar beyond the reach of astronauts.

David went up to £17 million, Jupiter to eighteen, Minsky to nineteen, and on it went.

A pale intense woman from the Abraham Lincoln Museum, who owned
La Smorfiosa, Pandora
’s companion picture, had been waiting to jump in at £20 million, but to her horror the bidding soared past her limit.

Gazing up at the window in the roof, Sienna was amazed it was still light. She longed to escape from this venal hell into one of those untroubled eighteenth-century landscapes and sleep for ever on a village green or wade into a reed-strewn river until the waters closed over her head. She was brought back to earth by a fracas.

Minsky’s yacht appeared to have gone under a bridge.

‘I’m afraid my client’s telephone has cut out . . . please wait a second,’ begged Natacha.

‘It’s twenty-four million against you, Natacha.’ There was a slight edge to the Chairman’s voice as the seconds ticked past.

‘Who’s running this sale?’ snapped David.

Seeing the tension was getting to him, Jupiter glanced at Rupert, who again examined his fingernails. Another million was only after all a two-bedroomed flat in Chelsea. Jupiter nodded.

‘Twenty-five million at the back.’

Behind the Chairman’s head, a flickering blackboard turned Rupert’s bid into dollars, euros, marks, lire and Swiss and French francs. It looked huge in whatever currency.

There goes the new roof, the children’s school fees, half the horses and probably Penscombe as well, thought Taggie in terror.

‘It’s an awful lot of money,’ she whispered.

‘Money isn’t everything,’ snapped Rupert.

David was poised to bid £26 million – nearly the top whack for Kevin, who was already looking green. Then suddenly David saw Rosemary fighting her way through the crowded doorway on his left. She was wearing a new, very becoming, slate-blue suit, her face lit by stunning diamond earrings. What in hell was she doing squandering the housekeeping at a time like this? Thank God, he and Geraldine were respectably divided by a Berlin Wall of Coleys.

David was so jolted he forgot to flicker his eyebrows at Henry Wyndham, and the Raphael nearly went to a reconnected Minsky, who’d actually been ringing his astrologer, who’d advised him it was a good day for shopping. Thus encouraged, Minsky had bid £26 million.

The hammer waits for no man. David nodded hastily.

‘Twenty-seven million on the aisle,’ said Henry jubilantly.

He was delighted to see an even more major player had just appeared at Rosemary Pulborough’s side. Such was the force of Si’s personality, as though a big bear had entered the forest, that all the jam-packed lesser animals breathed in, allowing him and Rosemary through to join Zac and his lawyers at the back.

‘Bloody monster,’ hissed Sienna to Somerford. ‘D’you remember him telling us how he longed to own a Raphael, the night of Emerald’s birthday party? And what’s Rosemary doing fratting with such a fiend?’

Jupiter went to £28 million.

I wouldn’t mind living in a council flat, thought Taggie in despair, but Rupert would hate it, and he couldn’t have any dogs.

David glanced round at Rupert, and thirty years fell away. He was back barring the way to Galena’s studio and this glittering blond bastard, as arrogant and glamorous as he was today, was loping up the stairs towards him, picking him up like a bollard.

‘Get out of my way, you little twerp.’

David felt equal rage against Jupiter, who had never made any secret of his contempt.

I was the one Galena loved, thought David.

A God-like feeling assailed him. Chucking reason aside like an overcoat in a storm, he lifted his head and gazing straight at Henry, raised his eyebrows.

‘Twenty-nine million on the aisle.’

As a ripple of excitement went through the room, Kevin plucked at David’s sleeve in horror.

‘What the fuck,’ he hissed, ‘you’ve passed my limit . . .’

‘I’m not bidding for you any more,’ hissed back David.

All the world would realize he was buying for stock and appreciate how dazzlingly the Pulborough was doing. He felt as if he’d scored a try at Twickenham.

This galvanized Abdul the Amorous, who, bored with pleasuring the finance director’s daughter, was chatting again to Patti with the ebony bob. Suddenly her face lit up as though a restorer had covered it in white spirit, her scarlet fingernails flashing as she waved a hand. Abdul would just have to sell a few oil wells.

‘Thirty million on the telephone,’ said Henry, having difficulty, like Patti, hiding his elation.

The room was boiling over, chat subsiding to total silence between bids.

David bid thirty-one and a half, Jupiter thirty-two. David thirty-three. It was no longer a question of money. Avarice had been overtaken by Pride, Envy and Wrath, as mutual loathing spurred on the two sides. They were greyhounds flat out after a hare. David could no longer hear the figures he was bidding.

‘Thirty-three million on the aisle.’

Jupiter glanced enquiringly at Rupert, who glanced across at Taggie. A drop of blood trickled down her chin, where she’d bitten her beautiful lip through in terror. Reality kicked in. Rupert shook his head. Thirty-four was his unlucky number, he’d have to win a lot of Derbies and put Taggie on the game to recoup it.

‘Are you sure, are you absolutely sure?’ drawled Henry, as if he was pressing another dry martini on Rupert rather than a £34-million bid.

Jupiter smiled and shook his head, just managing to hide his bitter disappointment. Bang went the generous cut Rupert would have given him. If only Raymond had let him sell the Raphael, in May ’99, long before Emerald’s birthday.

Taggie, dizzy with relief, reached across for Rupert’s hand. For a second he glared furiously into space, then he smiled wryly and lifted her fingers to his lips.

Abdul went to £35 million. Campbell-Blacks and Belvedons should stay out of the kitchen, thought David scornfully, then clutched himself in ecstasy: the Raphael was going to be his. He’d sell it on at once, but for a few days, it would hang in the drawing room at the Old Rectory and he and Rosemary would throw a grand party to show it off to the county.

As he once more raised his eyebrows at Henry, a great cheer went up. The entire room was caught up in the drama. David was very near the record.

‘I suppose he won’t have to fork out for Barney’s wedding,’ bitched Somerford to Sienna, who was reeling with horror that it was going to David. Patti, after more consultation, had ruefully shaken her gleaming ebony bob, Natacha her russet mane, which meant both Abdul and Minsky were out.

David has taken everything, both my father’s wives, he left my mother to die and now he’s going to get the Raphael . . . Sienna wanted to scream, to snatch up the NBC camera and hurl it at him. Glancing up the room, Zac caught sight of her anguished despairing face, and turned to Si, talking urgently.

‘Any advance on thirty-six million? Fair warning.’ As Henry lifted the hammer, his eyes swivelled intently over the crowd, as if searching for four-leaf clovers. It was so easy to miss a bid. To the right at one o’clock, Si Greenbridge lifted a gold-ringed hand.

‘Thirty-seven million in a new place,’ cried Henry in delighted surprise.

Another explosion of applause and a collective gasp of anticipation, as everyone cricked their necks jerking round to look.

That’s it, thought Sienna numbly, Si’s been hovering. Now he’s got her.

But the latent Guggenheim had been unleashed in David. All reason suspended, he bid again.

‘Thirty-eight million on the aisle.’

‘Have you gone raving mad?’ hissed Geraldine across the bows of the Coleys.

The press were going crazy, scribbling frantically, the cameramen all fretting to break the rule about not photographing punters. The Chairman looked down at his rostrum. On the right, where so many right-handed auctioneers had brought down the hammer, rings ran into each other like a rain shower on a pond. There were only a few rings on the left; he glanced up smiling at Si.

‘Thirty-eight million against you, Mr Greenbridge.’

Si went to thirty-nine, David to forty.

‘Si’s running the little shit up,’ muttered Jupiter, ‘going to leave him with ego on his face.’

The longest pause of all followed; not a mobile cheeped.

‘I’m selling now for forty million,’ said Henry Wyndham softly, ‘going for forty million on the aisle.’

I’ve thrashed the Belvedons and Rupert, thought David in ecstasy. Oh please, please God, prayed Sienna. Si Greenbridge glanced at Rosemary, who smiled and nodded.

There’s something going on between those two, thought a momentarily distracted Sienna.

There was another flash of big gold rings as Si lifted his hand.

‘Forty-one million at the back.’

A yell of ecstasy went up from the press office, the record had been smashed. Cheering, clapping and stamping rocked the room. The din brought David to his senses. With the buyer’s premium, that would be over £45 million. Reality asserted itself. Like Portly the baby otter at the Gates of Dawn, the moment of his glory faded and he felt alone, bewildered and rather cold.

As the hammer came down, Sienna gave such a howl of despair that, even amid the tumultuous applause, the pandemonium and euphoria, people turned uneasily in her direction and a Spanish dealer crossed himself. Zac by contrast was smiling, hugging Si and kissing Rosemary, then pumping the hands of his lawyers. Sienna had never seen him look so happy, as well the bastard might. The Raphael had more than quadrupled its reserve.

The press had erupted, surging through the hall towards Si and towards the rostrum.

‘Must get a shot of the Chairman handing over the picture to Mr Greenbridge.’

‘Give us five minutes,’ said Chris Proudlove, the press officer, totally failing to hide his euphoria. ‘We’re going to hang
Pandora
in a side gallery. There’ll be champagne and canapés on offer. You can get your pictures of the Chairman and Mr Greenbridge then.’

‘Should have told me you were going on bidding,’ said Kevin bullyingly, ‘nearly gave me a coronary. Who the fuck were you bidding for?’

‘For stock,’ said David.

‘Made me look a right tit.’

‘Again,’ snapped David. He was fed up with brown-nosing Kevin. He was the major player now.

But infuriatingly people were surging forward from all sides to commiserate with Kevin: dealers, buyers, Sotheby’s staff, looking at him with new respect. He must be loaded to underbid a lot like that.

Jupiter felt wiped out by anti-climax, as though he’d turned up at his own wedding and found Hanna married to someone else, and not even a bridesmaid on offer. It was always worse when you came down after champagne. All the same, seeing Taggie and Rupert together made him gladder than ever that he and Hanna had patched it up.

‘Shall we go and have dinner at Green’s?’ said Taggie. ‘To cheer ourselves up? It’s only eight-thirty. It seems like midnight.’

‘I’ve had a brilliant idea,’ said Rupert, putting a hand on Jupiter’s shoulder as they fought their way towards a side door. ‘You’re going to be the next Tory leader, and take the party out of the wilderness.’