I don’t recognize the plummy accent, but my stomach still sinks.A journalist?
“Who’d bid on that?” asks a second female voice.
My gaze shifts left, and I take in the tables running along the wall; this is where the silent auction is being held. I edge my way to the nearest lot as though interested, though my aim is to listen in. Aplastic stand holds the details of one of the auction lots, blank tickets scattered across the table to detail bids for ...a balloon ride over Northaby. I move to the end of the table, edging closer to the voices as I pretend to consider bidding on an ugly painting this time.
“Haven’t you been keeping abreast of the news?” the first voice demands.
“That thing in Whitehall?”
“No one is interested in the government, Caro. I’m talking about the feud between Oliver Deubel and that slice of naughty, Mitchell Atherton. His love rival.” She draws the latter out salaciously, not giving a damn who might be listening. “It’s all been rather scandalous, not that I usually follow such things.”
“No, of course not.” Her companion doesn’t sound convinced or much interested.
“A love triangle, I gather.”
I’m pleased someone is enjoying my drama-filled existence.
“Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Screw her! It’s the other two I’m interested in. Oliver especially.”
“Oliver ...” The second woman draws out his name as though rifling through a mental Rolodex. “Oh! That wicked-looking dark-haired beast? The one with the eyes!”
Yes, bitch, he has two of them.
“Yes, that’s the one. He looks like he could break a girl in two.”
“And make you say thank you.”
I turn my head, but I can’t see who’s speaking for a stupid statue and the crowd of people milling around in their stupid evening wear.
“But what has a bird to do with it?”
The first woman tsks. “Just look at lot sixty-eight.”
“‘Tea at Claridge’s and then a night in the West End with the Earl of Bellsand.’”
“God, not that one.”
Sounds like a good time to me.
“It must’ve been lot sixty-nine,” she adds with a smutty snicker. “A Little Bird is the awful gossip column I’ve been following. It’s been bleating on about him being head over heels in love with some American vet. It sounds as though they’ve been tweeting up the wrong tree, so to speak, because take a look what’s on offer.”
“A night in London with Oliver Deubel,” the other woman says. “Drinks, dinner, and an evening in his hotel.”
“If that’s not an invitation to fuck him, I don’t know what is.” The pair cackle like witches over a cage full of chubby kids.
I drop my head, muttering a litany of insults under my breath. But I have to see this for myself. As I edge closer to the table, the PA system squeals, and I wince.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” Mandy’s voice booms. “And the rest of the riffraff at the back.” The crowd chuckles. “Thank you for taking time from your busy schedules to grace us with your presence. If you could just stick around long enough so we can relieve you of the contents of your wallets, that will make me, and my menagerie, very happy.” More laughter, but I can’t look as I edge my way to the next table, slipping around the statue. “It’s all for a good cause. Northaby’s animal kingdom, of course.” A round of applause. Then, “And I have some very, very exciting news about the safari park’s future coming soon.”
I block it all out. I feel bad enough about my lies of omission, but I suddenly feel more than complicit.Did I try my best, or did I just not do enough?Those poor animals. Will Oliver screw them over too?
“Excuse me,” I whisper, moving against the tide of guests heading away from the makeshift stage. “I just need ...”
No, not this. Oliver does have an entry in the silent auction.
He is the entry.
