It would go perfectly with my thrift-store patchwork quilt and Ikea coffee table.
“There better be some dope nudes!”
A guy is walking in front of me, wearing sneakers and a hoodie. I recognize him as Andrew Tate, a tech billionaire who has a reputation for being a total ass.
“Be careful what you wish for,” his friend says. “Lots of dicks in these European paintings and sculptures. I, for one, can do with less dick.”
“That’s what she said!” Andrew guffaws at his own joke as he and his friend take their seats. “Seriously though,” Andrew says. “There are never enough breasts on display at these things. Show me the boobs and I’ll show you the money.”
“You need to save that money for the surprise lot at the end. The rumor is that it’s a true masterpiece, something unique and incredible.”
“Masterpiece, schmasterpiece. Art is just money. How much it is worth?”
“Not as much as it will be worth a year from now once people have seen it.”
“Well that’s even better than boobs,” Andrew says.
I have to stop myself from kicking him. Guys like him don’t appreciate art as anything more than an investment. I bet he shows up at these things just to outbid all his friends, and then sticks the painting in a basement somewhere until his accountant tells him to sell. It’s a crime.
“Welcome, everyone, to Carringer’s.” The auctioneer introduces himself and then continues on. “This is an auction house with a storied history, and tonight, we’ll add to that great legacy with our latest works.”
A small painting is wheeled up onto the stage, and is also magnified on a screen above the stage so everyone can have a closer look. “Anthony van Dyck. Portrait of a Young Maiden. Shall we start the bidding at one hundred thousand dollars?”
I stand at the back of the auction hall, my empty tray hanging at my side, but I can feel the huge upswing in energy in the room even from here. People whisper to each other and lean forward in their seats. A paddle goes up. The tension rises.
“One hundred thousand. Do I hear one fifty?” Another paddle. “Two hundred?” There is a brief lull, but then another round white plastic paddle with the Carringer’s logo and a bright red number shoots up into air like a rocket. It’s so exciting!
“Two hundred thousand. Do I hear two fifty?” This goes on for a while until the bid reaches eight hundred thousand dollars. I can’t even imagine what I could do with that amount of money.
“Eight hundred thousand going once…going twice…sold! To number 217.” The painting is rolled away and another canvas arrives on stage, unveiled with a dramatic gesture. I watch the room this time, not the art stage. It’s like a whole show out there, everybody vying for their spot. People who had tuned out during the last round suddenly perk up—you can tell each person is here for something specific. The bids climb and climb, paddles shooting into the air until the final bid stops at half a million. It goes on like this, some lots creating heated bidding wars and others going to one person without contest.
The auctioneer’s voice controls the room. “Do I hear one million?” One million!
I’m totally swept up in the drama. It’s amazing. Bidders clearly have different tactics, too. Some wait until the other bidders have exhausted themselves and swoop in at the last minute. Others fight tooth and nail, upping bit by bit in the tens of thousands and glaring at each other all the while.
“One point one million? Anyone?”
Andrew, who I’ve named Asshole Andrew in my head, hasn’t bid on anything yet, but I can tell he likes to win no matter what. He will be an emotional bidder, like many of the women who sigh and pout when they lose.
“One point three million going once…”
My gaze goes to St. Clair, seated near the front with his beautiful friend. He’s a measured bidder. He bids half-heartedly on a few of the Baroque options, always whispering with his stunning sidekick between paddle raises, but he never seems to really want any of the pieces enough to go after them. It’s like he’s waiting for the Rubens, like that’s his singular interest.
“Sold! For one point three million dollars to number 105,” the auctioneer says in his measured cadence. “Wonderful. Now, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to take a short intermission. Please enjoy the cocktails and hors d’oeuvres and we’ll see you back here in twenty minutes.”
Immediately the noise level amplifies and the classical music starts up again. People talk and laugh as they filter back into the lobby and I rush to pick up my next tray. White wine. “Chenin Blanc, 2001, Napa Valley,” the caterer says, shooing me out the door.
The next fifteen minutes are a blur of repeating the wine order and trying to keep said wine from spilling all over my silver tray. I keep an eye out for St. Clair—maybe that’s why I keep almost spilling—but don’t see him or his sexy girlfriend/art consultant. Which is she, I wonder…?
“This isn’t a chardonnay, is it?” a woman in a deep V neck gown asks me just as all the lights flash.
“No ma’am.” She sniffs at her glass and looks skeptical, but I want to rush back to the auction. The Rubens is last; I want to see it one more time. And see Charles in action—what he’ll do to get what he wants. “It’s a very good year for this vineyard,” I bluff. “Better than the 2008.”
“Very well,” She takes the glass and disappears into the sea of society folks heading back to their seats for the second half. I’m following them in when Stanford suddenly seizes my arm. Can’t he ever just say my name instead of grabbing me?
“Not you,” he says. He pulls me into the lobby as the last of the bidders make it into the main auction hall and the doors close. “You are helping with clean up out here.” He hands me a broom.
“But can’t I wait until af—” I don’t even get the words out. He’s already gone.
“Fine,” I say to his back. “I’ll sweep this floor spotless.” I start to sweep as the auctioneer’s voice echoes through the doors. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can just imagine the scene inside. As the minutes tick past, I wonder about all those works of art I don’t even get to see on the screen above the stage. Have they gotten to the Rubens yet?
Suddenly, the doors swing open. St Clair hurries out, his phone pressed to his ear. “Yes, yes, okay, give me a minute.” He sees me staring at him. His blue eyes light up. “Grace!”
“Hi,” I say, like an idiot.
“I need a huge favor,” he says, pressing his paddle into my hands. “I need you to bid for me.”
“What?”
“Lot 52. It’s coming up, but I have to take this call.” He holds up his phone. “Emergency in the Japan office. I have to talk them through it, but I can’t lose this bid.”
“I’m not sure I can…” Can someone else bid? Even as a proxy?
“Please, I have to have that Rubens.”
I can feel sweat on my palms. “I don’t know anything about bidding.”
“Just raise your paddle until everyone else stops.” I must look as shell-shocked as I feel, thinking about that much power. “Seriously,” Charles insists, his dark eyes deadly serious. “Whatever it takes to get that painting. I’m counting on you.” He rushes away, putting the phone up to his ear and gesturing me toward the auction hall.
Are you kidding me? What am I supposed to do? I shove my broom behind a potted palm and slip into the back of the hall. They are already on lot 51, a Da Vinci sketch, and the bidding is slowing down. Shit!
“Sold!” the auctioneer shouts. He has gotten louder, and the patrons have gotten restless. The crowd of socialites is also much drunker than they were during the first half. I hear Asshole Andrew the Silicon billionaire say, “This is it next, right?” His friend nods. “Hot damn.”