‘Why?’
‘Because, as I’ve already explained, we’re not only selling a painting. We’re selling…’
‘Me.’ Charlie lifted his eyes and huffed like a grumpy teenager being reminded to brush his hair. ‘I know.’
Becky nodded and used the tip of her finger to part the curtains an inch. Through her spyhole, she watched the auctioneer crawl into place behind the rostrum and the first lot arrive on stage. It was time to take her place out front. ‘You’ll be great.’ She straightened his bow tie. ‘And remember the glasses. I know you think it’s stupid but, if it makes you feel better about it, this will probably be the last time you have to put up with me pushing you around.’
She made to walk away, but Charlie caught her hand. His lips parted but no words came out. And right then, Becky was back on his doorstep in June, looking into lonely eyes pleading for help.
‘Why?’ he said. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Well, with the show coming up, this job will be over. And, if you can believe it, Virgil’s offered me a new one.’
Charlie took a sharp intake of breath and released her hand. ‘Of course he has.’
‘You don’t need pushy Becky any more, Charlie. You’re all set, so I move on. Like Mary Poppins.’
That got a lopsided smile. ‘What, practically perfect in every way?’
‘Oh, most definitely.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘That’s so me.’
‘I didn’t mean it, you know. About you being pushy.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does. It was just something I said because I kept having to field questions about you and me I wasn’t prepared to answer.’
Right, she thought. What in the world did that mean?
A buzzing came from inside Becky’s bag. Apologising, she retrieved her phone. A message from Lloyd: it was time for her to get out front.
She looked up. Charlie was staring at the curtains as if they were the fine line between him and a grisly death. Becky brushed his fingers with hers to get his attention. ‘It’s time, Charlie. I have to go. You’ll be fine. I promise.’
‘Of course. You should go. Goodbye, Becky. And …’ He put his hands in his pockets and took a step back. ‘Thank you. Whatever happens out there, thank you for everything.’
Chapter 50
Becky wriggled her way round to the back of the crowd in front of the stage. She located Lloyd, who nodded as she tiptoed into place beside him.
‘Your man’s due on any second,’ he said. ‘Ah! Here it comes.’
Two members of the catering staff carried the painting onto the stage and stood holding it. This was overkill. It was barely one and a half feet square and Becky could have held it above her head with one hand. But, of course, having two people carry it and stand as human easels made it seem so much grander and more valuable.
She couldn’t recall having seen this one before. Reminiscent of a fireworks display, it depicted an explosion of colour. The flames reached such great temperatures in places they burned blue, suggesting the coexistence of white cold and heat.
Charlie stepped onto the stage. As he launched into his speech, Lloyd muttered, ‘Have you had a chance to talk to Virgil about the job?’
Without taking her eyes off Charlie, she said, ‘Not yet. But I think my advice on the other subject has done some good.’
Up on stage, Charlie had put on his glasses. Becky grinned as she heard a murmur of appreciation ripple among the female members of the audience. Perhaps Charlie heard the positive reaction too, because he left them on, even when he received an enthusiastic round of applause and stepped to the edge of the stage.
The auctioneer reminded everyone that Charlie’s exhibition would be opening the following Thursday. Obligation fulfilled, he glanced down at the notes he had been passed earlier and, from the resulting height of his eyebrows, Becky knew it was the first time he had bothered to read them. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said in a nasal whine. ‘We have already had considerable interest in this item. I have several commission bids on the books and can start the bidding at forty thousand pounds.’
Only two people in the room failed to join the collective gasp. Instead, Lloyd and Becky shared a moment of smugness; they, together with Virgil, were responsible for the commission bids.
The next few minutes were glorious as the pre-bids had the desired effect. By the time the gavel fell, the bid was at sixty-four thousand pounds. Becky and Lloyd indulged in a quick hug. The reaction of the other guests was both congratulatory and derisory; such a large charitable donation had to be publically applauded, but there was also a jealous sneer at the inflated amount paid. A tipsy fool and her ex-husband’s money were apparently easily parted.
Charlie bounded down from the stage to shake the winner’s hand. Becky watched, and although her face hurt from smiling, there was a lump in her throat. The man accepting congratulations from a roomful of strangers had shaken off all traces of his defensive shell. This was the Charlie she sometimes saw on Thursday nights, roaring with laughter at Monty Python or sneakily brushing away a tear as George Bailey’s friends rallied round.
Her work was done.
Meanwhile, Mike bobbed and weaved among the well-wishers, firing his camera like a machine gun. When the initial furore had died down, he touched Charlie’s elbow to ask him to pose for some formal shots.
Mike was preparing to pull the trigger when Barbara found her way into the frame. She positioned herself between Charlie and the painting’s new owner, thus making cropping her from the image impossible and ensuring she would get her share of the credit and a large, full-colour picture of her smiling self in all the local and, if possible, national papers.
As Mike worked, the auction limped to an anticlimactic finish in the wake of its star lot. At ten minutes to midnight, the auctioneer shoved the gavel in his pocket and bowled down the steps towards the bar, abandoning the stage to the band. As they tuned up, a screen was unrolled from the gantry and left to hang in front of the red curtains. It was soon covered with a live image of the Houses of Parliament, projected in preparation for the countdown to midnight and the chimes that would hail the new year.
Tucked away between two stacks of chairs next to the emergency exit, Becky nodded to herself in silent approval of the onstage preparations. However she was less impressed by the cheap confetti cannons being installed around the dance floor and muttered darkly to herself about corner cutting. Where did the money from the ticket sales go? She glanced at her phone. Five minutes to midnight. Another quick glance to the far side of the dance floor confirmed Charlie was still surrounded by a group of adoring older ladies. They took turns to brush imaginary lint from his shoulders while moving around him with unsettling, predatory movements. Being circled by these sharks, Charlie looked more comfortable than Becky would have expected. He smiled and chuckled, probably riding the high from the painting’s success.
Confident he was in no immediate danger, Becky fell back into her old habits and scanned the room, revelling in the luxury of only having to search for the people she cared about. Lloyd and Barbara were back on the dance floor. Ronnie was hovering a short distance behind Mike, who was busy earning his admission. That left Virgil and Rachel. Where had they gone?