25

The Auction Room

THURSDAY 25TH JUNE 2009

“Why have you brought me here?” Blaze asked Tony, looking around the auction house whose rooms were hung with works of art from all periods. A large marble statue of Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love and Beauty, was placed near a painting by Picasso of a priapic Minotaur. On another wall there was a drooling dog painted by a justifiably forgotten Victorian artist displayed next to a metallic Jeff Koons balloon rabbit.

“I thought you should leave the wilds of Cornwall and see a bit of real life,” Tony said. Even though it was lunchtime, a DJ with bulbous headphones stood by a deck in the centre of the room spinning vinyl records; rap music boomed out of huge speakers. A couple of sinewy women danced in front of a Damien Hirst spot painting and a reality TV star posed for photographers by an Andy Warhol screen-print of a soup can. The waiters and waitresses, all better-looking than the guests, handed out trays of bite-sized burgers and Bellinis.

“You call this real life?” Blaze laughed. It was the first time she’d been to London for many weeks and she’d been instantly overwhelmed by the cacophonous noises and malodorous smells. With only a month to go before the opening of the house, she and Jane were working around the clock. But Tony had been insistent and, as she hadn’t seen her uncle for a long time, she’d agreed to make the long journey.

“You should approve,” Tony told her. “The sale is in aid of those who were wiped out by the crash. All the works have been donated by hedge-fund billionaires.”

Blaze hadn’t heard about the event and wondered what else she had missed out on during the last few months of self-imposed purdah.

“I think it’s extremely bad taste, very Marie Antoinette ‘let them eat cake,’ ” he said. “Do they think they can salve their consciences and solve a problem by offloading art bought from the spoils of other people’s misery?”

“At least they’re trying to do something.” Blaze felt guilty; she hadn’t done anything.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” Tony said, taking his niece’s arm.

Finding a smaller room with a bar at one end, he helped himself to two glasses of champagne, handed one to Blaze and then groaned. “Alert at three o’clock: the Duke of Swindon with some new parlourmaid.”

“That’s one of his daughters,” Blaze said, recognising Lady Ophelia’s distinctive carrot-coloured hair and strawberry-tinted face.

“She looks like a parlourmaid.”

“You are such an odd mixture,” Blaze laughed. “A committed socialist one moment, a rampant snob the next.”

“Capriciousness is the preserve of the old. So marvellous to be able to let random thoughts pour from the mind to the tongue without pause or retribution.” He downed his champagne in one and, taking another full glass, scanned the room. “Where is she?”

“Who?” Blaze asked.

“Ayesha said she was coming.”

Blaze had also neglected her niece who, since the sale of Moonshot Wharf in March, had moved to a flat in Marylebone and refused all offers of financial assistance.

“Oh, no,” Tony said. “Here comes a frightful human hazard.” He tried to duck behind a Henry Moore sculpture, but a man, dressed in a white linen suit with orange shoes which matched his complexion, clapped a hand on his shoulder. The newcomer’s smile was disingenuous, his irritation palpable.

“Anthony, I hear you are trying to steal my client.”

“Maurice Sutchnot, meet my niece Blaze.” Tony smiled faintly.

Maurice nodded in Blaze’s direction and leaned in closer to Tony. “What’s your explanation?”

“Is Willoughby Bruff only allowed to buy works from you? I sold him a Monet sketch,” Tony said smoothly. “Where’s the harm in that?”

“You let him have it for well below the market value,” Maurice chided. “That kind of bargain-basement price fucks it up for the rest of us. Now he keeps asking for reductions in everything.”

Tony shrugged.

“It was so cheap I thought it must be a fake.” Maurice loosened the collar of his shirt and wiped his hand over a sweaty forehead.

“If you knew more about art, you’d know it is a great sketch and mentioned in all the catalogues raisonnés of Monet’s work.” Tony sipped his champagne with apparent nonchalance, but Blaze could tell her uncle was uncomfortable. “Besides, that sketch elevated your client’s portfolio.”

Maurice took a step closer to Tony and hissed, “I’ve put together a first-rate collection for him.”

“Poppycock and piffle. You’ve flogged him a mass of aspiring artists one has nearly but not quite heard of. The Monet adds cachet to that bunch of also-rans.”

Blaze thought Maurice might strike her uncle. His face turned pillar-box red and sweat bubbled from his nose and forehead. He straightened his shoulders and, in a voice loud enough for most of the room to hear, said, “How’s your Earls Court bedsit, Tony-boy? You must come and stay at one of my houses near St.-Tropez.”

Tony put his head to one side and thought for a minute. “The south of France had its best moment in the 1950s; now it’s full of the oleaginous in search of oligarchs—perfect for you!” Turning his back on Maurice, he led Blaze towards a minor Impressionist painting. Two small red spots had appeared on his cheeks. “Let’s get away from that horrible creature,” he said.

“Is the art world always this pleasant?” Blaze asked.

Tony didn’t answer immediately. “I’m too old for this game.” His voice quavered.

“I can see why: that man was the bitter end.” Blaze leaned over and gave her uncle a kiss on the cheek.

Tony stopped. “In any other era I would have been dead at least a decade ago. Instead, because of medical progress, I am condemned to a life of genteel poverty and decrepitude, permanently trying to get enough money together to pay the rent. Most of my friends are dead, and those that are living can’t remember who I am or hear what I’m saying. I’m too old to fuck or digest my food. I have to pee so many times during the night that I might as well sleep on the loo.”

Blaze had never heard her uncle speak like this before nor had any idea of the extent of his penury or desperation.

“You still give pleasure, make people laugh.”

“Like an old clown.” Tony pulled the corners of his mouth downwards.

“You only had to ask,” she said, knowing how feeble it sounded.

Tony patted her arm. “Pride is the only thing I have left.”

A gong sounded and a uniformed steward announced that luncheon was served.

Blaze groaned. “I thought you and I were eating alone.”

Tony didn’t answer and Blaze followed him to another room where two long tables were set.

“There she is,” Tony said delightedly, as Ayesha sashayed across the room towards them. As she moved, the crowds parted, conversation stopped. She was dressed in a white wool suit, nipped in sharply at the waist. The hem stopped halfway down her thighs and her slim bare legs were accentuated by four-inch stiletto heels, while her auburn hair, teased into thick burnished curls, bounced on her narrow shoulders. The total effect was expensive, elegant and highly provocative.

“We did it! We got them both here,” Ayesha pronounced. She and Tony exchanged happy glances.

“What are you plotting?” Blaze asked suspiciously.

“You’ll see.” Ayesha laughed. “Blaze, come with me.” She took her aunt by the arm and, leading her to the far table, pointed to an empty chair. Blaze’s heart sank. She knew that the next few hours would be torture: a slow death by polite and insincere conversation. She sat down and introduced herself to the man on her left, the head of a minor stockbroking firm who immediately started talking about his passion for golf. Blaze wondered how quickly she could escape. She was aware that the person on her right had arrived, but didn’t turn to introduce herself for a few minutes. When she did, she came face to face with Joshua Wolfe.

“Why are you here?” she asked, unable to think of anything else to say.

Wolfe laughed. “I’d forgotten how charming you could be!”

“I wasn’t expecting to see you.” She was flustered and knocked over her water. Wolfe leaned forward and righted the glass.

“I donated my William Nicholson painting.” Following his gaze to the opposite wall, Blaze saw the beautiful still life which had hung in his spare bedroom. Glancing along the table, she saw Ayesha and Tony watching her sheepishly. Blaze shot them a furious look.

“Are you interested?” Wolfe asked.

“In the painting?”

“That’s what I meant,” he said, smiling. “But I could extend the question.”

“I…um…I…” Words deserted her.

Wolfe put his hand on hers. “It’s worth selling it, just to sit next to you.”

“You didn’t return any of my calls,” she said, knowing how pathetic this must sound.

He leaned towards her and whispered something in her ear.

Later, on the train back to Cornwall, Blaze tried to remember what they had talked about. She knew they hadn’t mentioned investments, nor had they made any effort to talk to anyone else. After the first course, their knees had made contact and, somewhere between the main course and pudding, they pressed the sides of their bodies against each other. At quarter to four, long after most of the other guests, including her relations, had departed, they left the auction house, found her a taxi and he came with her to Paddington Station. They kissed on the platform until the guard blew the whistle, and then through the open window. He ran after the train, making her repeat the promise to meet again after the house opening.