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‘Here we go,’ Becker says, nudging me and nodding to a door behind the auctioneer. It opens, and a suited man appears, wearing white gloves. He has a small tin in his hand. It’s nondescript, a plain silver case, from what I can see. I’m buggered if I know what it is.
‘A cigarette case,’ Becker whispers, obviously sensing my perplexity. ‘Belonged to Marilyn Monroe . . . supposedly.’
‘Supposedly?’
He hums, glancing around the room. ‘I’m sceptical.’
‘You think it’s a fake?’ I ask, keeping my voice to a whisper.
His finger comes up to his lips, quietening me before he has a chance to add the inevitable sexy shush. But he does anyway. ‘Shhhh . . .’
I shudder, fighting off the flurry of tingles his gesture spikes.
‘Starting the bids on the phone at ten thousand pounds,’ the auctioneer declares, pointing his wooden gavel towards a balcony, prompting me to look up. A row of suited men line the space, all with mobile phones poised at their ears. ‘And we have eleven thousand in the room.’ My attention flies down, seeing a round paddle held in the air a few rows in front. I can’t see who it is, but the red nails and fur-cuffed wrist tells me it’s a woman. ‘Twelve.’ He’s pointing back at the balcony, but I don’t get a chance to follow his gavel again because the lady up front shouts, ‘Thirteen,’ before I can look away from her.
‘Thirteen in the room.’
No matter how much I try to disguise my amazement, I fail. My mouth is agape and my head turns back and forth from the room to the balcony continuously as the bidding gets higher and higher. A cigarette case? I bet if the asking price of every piece that passed through my father’s shop over a year was added together, it wouldn’t come close to the sum this piece is poised to achieve.
‘Twenty-five thousand once,’ the auctioneer yells, his gavel hovering in the air. He looks over his glasses, scanning the room. ‘Twice.’ I’m tense, waiting. ‘Sold to the lovely Miss Depont.’ I jump in my seat when he smashes the gavel down on the rostrum, and everyone in the room starts clapping as the lady who paid a crazy amount of cash for a silver cigarette case stands and takes a bow. My astonishment only increases tenfold when I get a glimpse of her face. She’s a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe.
‘Did she really just pay twenty-five grand for a cigarette case?’ I look to Becker, who’s bashing out a text on his phone. He isn’t the least bit fazed. My desire to crane my neck to see who he’s texting nearly gets the better of me. What I shamelessly do instead, though, is glance around for Alexa to see if she’s engaged in any mobile activity. God, I’m pitiful. I force my attention back to the front.
‘She’s probably the most renowned Monroe impersonator in the world.’ Becker looks past me and reaches for something. ‘Espresso?’
I turn and find a tray being presented to me. I accept the small glass of black coffee and smile my thanks.
‘If she’s bought it, it’s the real deal.’ Becker takes a shot of caffeine and downs it in one swallow before placing his empty on the waiting tray. I keep hold of mine.
‘But still . . .’ These people must have more money than sense. ‘Twenty-five grand?’
‘You’ve seen nothing yet, princess.’ Becker slips his phone back into his pocket and nods towards the front again.
Over the next hour, I sit through a dozen lots. I watch as a dozen people part with insane amounts of cash for pieces of art and historical antiques. The most insane being a music box from the twelfth century sold for £400,000. It was stunning, made of pink crystal and edged in a silver trim, with white diamonds embellishing the lid, but I was still staggered by the winning bid. My knowledge of antiques and art is vast, but I’ve neglected to appreciate the worth of the treasures I’ve indulged in over the years. The history. That’s all that mattered to me.
I’m the perfect spectator. I don’t speak, just absorb it all, flicking through my catalogue to the right page each time a piece is presented on stage. Becker hasn’t breathed a word. He’s sat next to me, hardly paying attention, busy on his phone. I’ve left him to it.
My attention is stolen momentarily by the coffee man again, and this time I take a tall latte, replacing my empty espresso glass at the same time.
‘This is what we’re here for.’ Becker nudges me in the side, and my head snaps around, knowing what I’m going to find. The gasps of shock filling the room only confirm it. It’s not being handled by delicate white-gloved fingers like everything else presented today. Instead, it’s in a glass case that’s being wheeled on to the stage by two rather smart-looking, albeit massive, guys. The room is quickly a hive of chatter, people leaning in to each other and whispering. The excitement is palpable, but again Becker remains expressionless in his seat, not giving anything away. I watch him closely as he gazes around the room for a few moments before letting his eyes settle on the lost piece of treasure. His face remains impassive, which is probably a good thing, since Brent keeps flicking glances our way. I wrap my fingers around my latte glass, sinking deeper into my chair, like I have something to hide. I’m nervous. Becker wants that sculpture desperately. Does everyone here know that? No idea, but I do know Brent does.
