Read Online A Vintage Affair by Isabel Wolff - Free Book Online Page A

sir. Still with you, sir, at £ 2,200 now…’ The man gave me a sideways glance. I raised my hand again. ‘I have £2,300 now,’ said the auctioneer happily. ‘Thank you, madam. And £ 2,400…?’ The auctioneer stared fixedly at me, whilst extending his right hand to my rival as though to keep us locked in competition – a familiar trick. ‘ £ 2,400?’ he repeated. ‘It’s the gentleman against you, madam.’ I nodded now, adrenaline scorching my veins. ‘ £ 2,600?’ said the auctioneer. I could hear people behind me shift on their seats as the tension mounted. ‘Thank you, sir. Do I hear £ 2,800? Madam – will you bid £ 2,800?’ I nodded, as if in a dream. ‘And £2,900, sir? Thank you.’ There were whispers from behind. ‘Do I hear £3,000 … £ 3,000?’ The auctioneer peered at me as I raised my hand. ‘Thank you very much, madam – £ 3,000 then.’ What was I doing ? ‘At £ 3,000 …’ I didn’t have £ 3,000 – I’d have to let the dress go. ‘Any advance on £ 3,000?’ It was sad, but there it was. ‘ £ 3,100?’ I heard the auctioneer repeat. ‘No, sir? You’re out?’I looked at my rival. To my horror he was shaking his head. Now the auctioneer turned to me. ‘So the bid is still with you then, madam, at £3,000 …’ Oh my God. ‘Going once …’ The auctioneer raised his gavel. ‘ Twice …’ He flicked his wrist, and with a strange mix of euphoria and dismay I watched the gavel come down. ‘Sold then for £ 3,000 to buyer – what was the number again, please? –’ I held up my paddle with a shaking hand ‘– 220. Thank you everyone. Terrific bidding there. Now on to lot 113.’
    I stood up, feeling sick. With the buyer’s premium, the total cost of the dress would be £ 3,600. How, with all my experience, not to mention my supposed sangfroid , could I have got so carried away?
    As I looked at the man who’d bid against me an irrational hatred overwhelmed me. He was a City slicker, polished in his Savile Row pin-stripe and his hand-made shoes. No doubt he’d wanted the dress for his wife – his trophy wife, in all probability. Irrationally, I conjured her, a vision of blonde perfection in this season’s Chanel.
    I left the saleroom, my heart still thudding. I couldn’t possibly keep the dress. I could offer it to Cindi, my Hollywood stylist – it would be a perfect red-carpet gown for one of her clients. For a moment I imagined Cate Blanchett wearing it to the Oscars – she’d do it justice. But I didn’t want to sell it, I told myself as I headed downstairs to the cashier. It was sublimely beautiful and I had battled to get it.
    As I queued to pay I nervously wondered whether my Mastercard would combust on contact with the machine. I calculated that there was just enough credit on it to make the transaction possible.
    As I waited my turn I looked up and saw Mr Pin-Stripe coming down the stairs, his phone pressed to his ear.
    ‘No, I didn’t,’ I heard him say. He had a very pleasant voice, I noticed, with a slight huskiness to it. ‘I just didn’t,’ he repeated wearily. ‘I’m sorry about that, darling.’ Trophy Wife – or possibly Mistress – was clearly furious with him for not getting the Madame Grès. ‘Bidding was intense,’ I heard him explain. He glanced at me. ‘I had stiff competition.’ At that, to my astonishment, he threw me a wink. ‘Yes, I know it’s disappointing, but there’ll be lots of other lovely dresses, sweetie.’ He was obviously getting it right in the neck. ‘But I did get the Prada bag that you liked. Yes, of course, darling. Look, I have to go and pay now. I’ll call you later, okay?’
    He snapped shut his phone with a slightly conspicuous air of relief then came and stood behind me. I pretended not to know he was there.
    ‘Congratulations,’ I heard him say.
    I turned around. ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘Congratulations,’ he repeated. ‘You’ve got the lot,’ he added jovially. ‘The wonderful white