The Auctioneer – Part 1: Going Once

The saleroom was hushed. Rows of gilt chairs stood empty in the half-light, the lots along the walls still shrouded in white dust sheets, a grandfather clock ticking beside the rostrum. On the rostrum itself, a gavel of polished walnut lay on a green leather pad. The sale had ended at six. The porters had gone home. The great brass doors were locked.

Philippa stood at the rostrum with her hands folded. She was fifty-two, an auctioneer of thirty years, tall and grey-haired, famous in the trade for a voice that could sell a chipped vase for the price of a car. Jonathan was forty-four, a conservator of old paintings, quiet and thoughtful, who had once confessed, sitting in the back row at a sale, that he often imagined what it would be like to be put on the block.

"Come up," said Philippa.

He climbed the three steps to the rostrum. She handed him a sheet of heavy paper, printed in the auction house's own typeface. Conditions of Sale. His limits and hers: no marks, nothing painful, no real humiliation, nothing beyond the night, no one else in the building. The word was Withdrawn.

"Say it."

"Withdrawn."

"If you say it, the sale is over. I come down from the rostrum. I am Philippa. We have tea in the committee room."

"I understand."

"And every half hour, I will ask whether you wish to continue. You answer truly."

"Yes, Madam."

"Not yet." She took a long grey coat from the back of the rostrum, drew it on and smoothed a pair of black kid gloves over her fingers. When she looked up, her eyes were cool and her voice was low and measured. "Lot forty-two. A gentleman of uncertain provenance. Step forward."

He stepped onto the small wooden block beside the rostrum, the one the porters used to show a vase to the room. She rapped the gavel once, very softly, and let the silence sit.

"Condition: fair. Some signs of wear. A tendency to apologise." Her voice was dry, even, unhurried, and absolutely sure. "Turn."

He turned. She told the empty room precisely what she saw, a lot description delivered in the grave deadpan of the trade, and every word went into him like heat.

"Are you content, Lot forty-two?"

"Content, Madam."

"Good. The bidding will be slow."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Sold.