When they reached their floor he was relieved that there was no one else in the corridor, because if there had been, they could not have failed to notice the state he was in.
Once he had kicked the bedroom door closed with his heel, she pulled him down on to the floor and began pulling off his shirt. ‘I can’t wait any longer,’ she whispered.
The following morning, Armstrong sat down at a table laid for two in their suite. He ate both breakfasts while checking the exchange rate for the Swiss franc against the pound in the Financial Times.
Sharon was admiring herself in a long mirror at the other end of the room, taking her time to get dressed. She liked what she saw, and smiled before turning round and walking over to the breakfast table. She placed a long, slim leg on the arm of Armstrong’s chair. He dropped his butter knife on the carpet as she began pulling on a black stocking. When she changed legs he stood up to face her, sighing as she slipped her arms inside his dressing-gown.
‘Have we got time?’ he asked.
‘Don’t worry about time, my darling, the auction doesn’t start until ten,’ she whispered, unclipping her bra and pulling him back down to the floor.
They left the hotel a few minutes before ten, but as the only item Armstrong was interested in was unlikely to come up much before eleven, they strolled arm in arm along the side of the lake, making their way slowly in the direction of the city center and enjoying the warmth of the morning sun.
When they entered the foyer of the Hôtel de Bergues, Armstrong felt strangely apprehensive. Despite the fact that he had bargained for everything he had ever wanted in his life, this was the first time he had attended an auction. But he had been carefully briefed on what was expected of him, and he immediately began to carry out his instructions. At the entrance to the ballroom he gave his name to one of the smartly-dressed women seated behind a long table. She spoke in French and he replied in kind, explaining that he was only interested in Lot Forty-three. Armstrong was surprised to find that almost every place in the room had already been taken, including the one he had identified the previous evening. Sharon pointed to two empty chairs on the left-hand side of the room, toward the back. Armstrong nodded and led her down the aisle. As they sat down a young man in an open-necked shirt slipped into a seat behind them.
Armstrong checked that he had a clear view of the auctioneer as well as the bank of temporary phones, each of them manned by an overqualified telephonist. His position wasn’t as convenient as his original choice, but he could see no reason why it should prevent him from fulfilling his part of the bargain.
‘Lot Seventeen,’ declared the auctioneer from his podium at the front of the ballroom. Armstrong turned to the relevant page in his catalog, and looked down at a silver-gilt Easter egg supported by four crosses with the blue enameled cipher of Czar Nicholas II, commissioned in 1907 from Peter Carl Fabergé for the Czarina. He began to concentrate on the proceedings.
‘Do I hear 10,000?’ asked the auctioneer, looking around the room. He nodded at someone toward the back. ‘Fifteen thousand.’ Armstrong tried to follow the different bids, although he wasn’t quite sure where they were coming from, and when Lot Seventeen eventually sold for 45,000 francs, he had no idea who the purchaser was. It came as a surprise that the auctioneer brought the hammer down without saying ‘Going, going, gone.’
By the time the auctioneer had reached Lot Twenty-five, Armstrong felt a little more sure of himself, and by Lot Thirty he thought he could even spot the occasional bidder. By Lot Thirty-five he felt he was an expert, but by Lot Forty, the Winter Egg of 1913, he had begun to feel nervous again.
‘I shall start this lot at 20,000 francs,’ declared the auctioneer. Armstrong watched as the bidding climbed quickly past 50,000, with the hammer finally coming down at 120,000 francs, to a customer whose anonymity was guaranteed by his being on the other end of a telephone line.
Armstrong felt his hands begin to sweat when Lot Forty-one, the Chanticleer Egg of 1896, encrusted in pearls and rubies, went for 280,000 francs. During the sale of Lot Forty-two, the Yuberov Yellow Egg, he began to fidget, continually looking up at the auctioneer and then down at the open page of his catalog.
When the auctioneer called Lot Forty-three, Sharon squeezed his hand and he managed a nervous smile. A buzz of conversation struck up around the room.
‘Lot Forty-three,’ repeated the auctioneer, ‘the Fourteenth Imperial Anniversary Egg. This unique piece was commissioned by the Czar in 1910. The paintings were executed by Vasily Zulev, and the craftsmanship is considered to be among the finest examples of Fabergé’s work. There has already been considerable interest shown in this lot, so I shall start the bidding at 100,000 francs.’
Everyone in the room fell silent except for the auctioneer. The head of his hammer was gripped firmly in his right hand as he stared down into the audience, trying to place the bidders.
Armstrong remembered his briefing, and the exact price at which he should come in. But he could still feel his pulse rate rise when the auctioneer pronounced ‘One hundred and fifty thousand,’ then, turning to his left, said, ‘The bid is now on the telephone at 150,000 francs, 150,000,’ he repeated. He looked intently around the audience, then a smile crossed his lips. ‘Two hundred thousand in the center of the room.’ He paused and looked toward the assistant on the end phone. Armstrong watched her whisper into the receiver, and then she nodded in the direction of the auctioneer, who immediately responded with ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand.’ He turned his attention back to those seated in the room, where there must have been another bid because he immediately switched his gaze back to the assistant on the phone and said, ‘I have a bid of 300,000 francs.’
The woman informed her client of the latest bid and, after a few moments, she nodded again. All heads in the room swung back to the auctioneer as if they were watching a tennis match in slow motion. ‘Three hundred and fifty thousand,’ he said, glancing at the center of the room.
Armstrong looked down at the catalog. He knew it was not yet time for him to join in the bidding, but that didn’t stop him continuing to fidget.
‘Four hundred thousand,’ said the auctioneer, nodding to the woman on the end phone. ‘Four hundred and fifty thousand in the center of the room.’ The woman on the phone responded immediately. ‘Five hundred thousand. Six hundred thousand,’ said the auctioneer, his eyes now fixed on the center aisle. With that one bid Armstrong had learned another of the auctioneer’s skills.
Armstrong craned his neck until he finally spotted who it was bidding from the floor. His eyes moved over to the woman on the phone, who nodded once again. ‘Seven hundred thousand,’ said the auctioneer calmly.
A man seated just in front of him raised his catalog. ‘Eight hundred thousand,’ declared the auctioneer. ‘A new bidder toward the back.’ He turned to the woman on the phone, who took rather longer telling her customer the latest bid. ‘Nine hundred thousand?’ he suggested, as if he was trying to woo her. Suddenly she consented. ‘I have a bid of 900,000 on the phone,’ he said, and looked toward the man at the back of the room. ‘Nine hundred thousand,’ the auctioneer repeated. But this time he received no response.
‘Are there any more bids?’ asked the auctioneer. ‘Then I’m letting this item go for 900,000 francs. Fair warning,’ he said, raising the hammer. ‘I’m going to let...’
When Armstrong raised his catalog, it looked to the auctioneer as if he was waving. He wasn’t, he was shaking.
‘I have a new bidder on the right-hand aisle, toward the back of the room, at one million francs.’ The auctioneer once again directed his attention to the woman on the telephone.