thank you, madam … Do I hear £ 380?’ The auctioneer peered over his glasses then nodded at a blonde woman in the front row. ‘So, for £ 360 …’ The gavel came down with a ‘crack’. ‘ Sold . To …?’ The woman held up her bidding paddle.’ Buyer number 24. Thank you, madam. On now to Lot 106 …’
Despite my years as an auctioneer my heart was pounding as ‘my’ first lot approached. I glanced anxiously round the room, wondering who my rivals for it might be. Most of the buyers were women, but at the very end of my row was a distinguished-looking man in his mid forties. He was flicking through the catalogue, marking it here and there with a gold fountain pen. I idly wondered what he was going to bid for.
The next three lots were each despatched in less than a minute with telephone bids. The Balenciaga was about to come up. I felt my fingers tighten around my bidding paddle.
‘Lot number 110,’ announced the auctioneer. ‘An elegant Cristóbal Balenciaga evening gown of dark blue silk, made in 1960.’ An image of the dress was projected on to the two huge flat screens on either side of the podium. ‘Note the typical simplicity of the cut and the slightly raised hem, to reveal shoes. I’m going to start the bidding at £ 500.’ The auctioneer looked around the room. ‘Do I hear £ 500?’ As there were no bids, I waited. ‘Who’ll offer me £ 450?’ He peered at us all over his glasses. To my surprise there were no raised hands. ‘DoI hear £ 400 then?’ A woman in the front row nodded so I nodded too. ‘I have £ 420 … £ 440 … £ 460. Do I hear £480?’ The auctioneer looked at me. ‘Thank you, madam – the bid is yours, at £ 480. Any advance above £480?’ He looked at the other bidder but she was shaking her head. ‘Then £480 it is.’ Down came the gavel. ‘ Sold for £ 480 to buyer number …’ he peered at me over his glasses and I held up my paddle ‘… 220. Thank you, madam.’
My euphoria at having got the Balenciaga at such a good price was swiftly replaced by stomach-churning anxiety as bidding for the Madame Grès approached. I shifted on my seat.
‘Lot number 112,’ I heard the auctioneer say. ‘An evening gown, circa 1936, by the great Madame Grès, famed for her masterful pleating and draping.’ An aproned porter carried the dress, which had been put on to a mannequin, up to the podium. I cast a nervous glance around the room. ‘I’m going to start at £ 1,000,’ the auctioneer announced. ‘Do I hear £ 1,000?’ To my relief only one other hand went up with my own. ‘And £1,100. And £1,150.’ I bid again. ‘And £1,200. Thank you – and £ 1,250?’ The auctioneer looked at us in turn – the other bidder was shaking her head – then returned his gaze to me. ‘Still at £ 1,250. The bid is with you, madam.’ I held my breath – £ 1,250 would be a great price. ‘Last call. Last call then,’ the auctioneer repeated. Thank you, God. I closed my eyes with relief. ‘ Thank you, sir.’ Confounded, I looked to my left. To my irritation the man at the end of my row was now bidding. ‘Do I hear £ 1,300?’ enquired the auctioneer. He glanced at me and I nodded. ‘And £1 ,350? Thank you, sir.’ I feltmy pulse race. ‘And £1 ,400? Thank you, madam. Do I hear £1,500 now?’ The man nodded. Damn . ‘And £ 1,600?’ I raised my hand. ‘And will you give me £ 1,700, sir? Thank you.’ I threw another glance at my rival, noting his calm expression as he drove up the price. ‘Do I hear £ 1,750?’ This suave-looking creep wasn’t going to stop me from getting the dress. I raised my hand again. ‘At £ 1,750 – still with the lady at the end of the row there. Thank you, sir – with you now at £ 1,800. And £1,900? Are you still in, madam?’ I nodded, but beneath my excitement I was seething. ‘And £ 2,000…? Will you bid, sir?’ The man nodded again. ‘Who’ll give me £2,100?’ I raised my hand. ‘And £ 2,200? Thank you,
Despite my years as an auctioneer my heart was pounding as ‘my’ first lot approached. I glanced anxiously round the room, wondering who my rivals for it might be. Most of the buyers were women, but at the very end of my row was a distinguished-looking man in his mid forties. He was flicking through the catalogue, marking it here and there with a gold fountain pen. I idly wondered what he was going to bid for.
The next three lots were each despatched in less than a minute with telephone bids. The Balenciaga was about to come up. I felt my fingers tighten around my bidding paddle.
‘Lot number 110,’ announced the auctioneer. ‘An elegant Cristóbal Balenciaga evening gown of dark blue silk, made in 1960.’ An image of the dress was projected on to the two huge flat screens on either side of the podium. ‘Note the typical simplicity of the cut and the slightly raised hem, to reveal shoes. I’m going to start the bidding at £ 500.’ The auctioneer looked around the room. ‘Do I hear £ 500?’ As there were no bids, I waited. ‘Who’ll offer me £ 450?’ He peered at us all over his glasses. To my surprise there were no raised hands. ‘DoI hear £ 400 then?’ A woman in the front row nodded so I nodded too. ‘I have £ 420 … £ 440 … £ 460. Do I hear £480?’ The auctioneer looked at me. ‘Thank you, madam – the bid is yours, at £ 480. Any advance above £480?’ He looked at the other bidder but she was shaking her head. ‘Then £480 it is.’ Down came the gavel. ‘ Sold for £ 480 to buyer number …’ he peered at me over his glasses and I held up my paddle ‘… 220. Thank you, madam.’
My euphoria at having got the Balenciaga at such a good price was swiftly replaced by stomach-churning anxiety as bidding for the Madame Grès approached. I shifted on my seat.
‘Lot number 112,’ I heard the auctioneer say. ‘An evening gown, circa 1936, by the great Madame Grès, famed for her masterful pleating and draping.’ An aproned porter carried the dress, which had been put on to a mannequin, up to the podium. I cast a nervous glance around the room. ‘I’m going to start at £ 1,000,’ the auctioneer announced. ‘Do I hear £ 1,000?’ To my relief only one other hand went up with my own. ‘And £1,100. And £1,150.’ I bid again. ‘And £1,200. Thank you – and £ 1,250?’ The auctioneer looked at us in turn – the other bidder was shaking her head – then returned his gaze to me. ‘Still at £ 1,250. The bid is with you, madam.’ I held my breath – £ 1,250 would be a great price. ‘Last call. Last call then,’ the auctioneer repeated. Thank you, God. I closed my eyes with relief. ‘ Thank you, sir.’ Confounded, I looked to my left. To my irritation the man at the end of my row was now bidding. ‘Do I hear £ 1,300?’ enquired the auctioneer. He glanced at me and I nodded. ‘And £1 ,350? Thank you, sir.’ I feltmy pulse race. ‘And £1 ,400? Thank you, madam. Do I hear £1,500 now?’ The man nodded. Damn . ‘And £ 1,600?’ I raised my hand. ‘And will you give me £ 1,700, sir? Thank you.’ I threw another glance at my rival, noting his calm expression as he drove up the price. ‘Do I hear £ 1,750?’ This suave-looking creep wasn’t going to stop me from getting the dress. I raised my hand again. ‘At £ 1,750 – still with the lady at the end of the row there. Thank you, sir – with you now at £ 1,800. And £1,900? Are you still in, madam?’ I nodded, but beneath my excitement I was seething. ‘And £ 2,000…? Will you bid, sir?’ The man nodded again. ‘Who’ll give me £2,100?’ I raised my hand. ‘And £ 2,200? Thank you,
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