A Night on the Orient Express Read Online Free
her eyes . . .
Surreptitiously, she bent down and fished in her handbag to touch up her lipstick, then opened the bottle of Yardley’s English Lavender she kept in there. She dabbed some on her wrists, then re-emerged. He was still there, lighting a cigarette, looking slightly bored, as if he were there out of duty, having to humour some aged aunt by accompanying her. Yet Adele could see no such companion.
The auctioneer raced through the furniture, then the cutlery and china, before finally arriving at the paintings. He ploughed through third-rate hunting scenes and dingy landscapes then came to a halt at the one Adele was waiting for. She felt the usual excitement that precedes entering into the bidding. If the other lots were anything to go by, she would have no competition.
‘An attractive seascape, signed by Paul Maze and dated 1934. Who’s going to start the bidding for me?’
He swept an experienced gaze around the room and Adele raised her catalogue. He acknowledged it by pointing his gavel at her, then gave a cursory glance to see if there were any counter-bidders. He clearly wasn’t expecting any.
The object of her intrigue had not offered up a single bid on anything as yet, so she was surprised to see him look up for the first time and nod at the auctioneer, who smiled his acknowledgement.
Adele raised her bid accordingly. She didn’t mind that she was in competition. It was good to know someone else was interested in her potential purchase. Her opponent nodded his raised bid to the auctioneer, and she could feel her blood warm as her competitive spirit kicked in. The bidding quickly turned into a battle. The rest of the room was agog: this was as spirited as the sale had got all morning. The auctioneer was enjoying himself. He’d had no real momentum until now. As sales went, it was lacklustre. Lots had been knocked down at ridiculous prices to whoever could be bothered to cart them away.
Until now. The bids flew back and forth, not a moment’s hesitation, getting higher and higher. Something in Adele wanted the painting more than anything. She was determined that it should be hers. She felt almost murderously protective of it. Her heart was pounding and her cheeks were flushed.
Her counter-bidder sat on the other side of the tent, unperturbed, unruffled, his face showing no emotion. She wondered if he knew something that she didn’t. What piece of inside information did he have? Was the painting by some undiscovered genius? Was it a long-forgotten masterpiece? Or did he have a personal reason for wanting it? How high would he be prepared to go?
She suddenly realised that the next bid was with her and she had gone more than four times over her original limit. She had several guineas in her handbag, for William had given her the housekeeping in cash the day before, but she didn’t have enough money with her if she was successful. Nor did she have their chequebook – it was sitting in her writing desk. It would be terribly embarrassing to have to admit to the auctioneer she couldn’t pay. She mustn’t, simply mustn’t, go any further.
‘The bid is with you, madam.’
She waited. It seemed to take an age for her to say no. She desperately wanted to continue but she didn’t have the means. Could she leave her wedding ring, she wondered? All eyes were on her, including the auctioneer’s. Except, of course, her rival’s. He was coolly leafing through the rest of the catalogue without a care in the world.
She would be utterly mad to carry on. In the end, all she’d be doing was paying far too much for a painting that was good, but not exceptional.
She shook her head. Seconds later, the gavel came down. Her rival didn’t bother to look up from the catalogue. She was aggrieved that the painting that should have been hers had gone to such a bloodless buyer. She wasn’t usually a bad loser, but she felt nettled. She gathered up her things and edged her way out of the row of seats, excusing
Surreptitiously, she bent down and fished in her handbag to touch up her lipstick, then opened the bottle of Yardley’s English Lavender she kept in there. She dabbed some on her wrists, then re-emerged. He was still there, lighting a cigarette, looking slightly bored, as if he were there out of duty, having to humour some aged aunt by accompanying her. Yet Adele could see no such companion.
The auctioneer raced through the furniture, then the cutlery and china, before finally arriving at the paintings. He ploughed through third-rate hunting scenes and dingy landscapes then came to a halt at the one Adele was waiting for. She felt the usual excitement that precedes entering into the bidding. If the other lots were anything to go by, she would have no competition.
‘An attractive seascape, signed by Paul Maze and dated 1934. Who’s going to start the bidding for me?’
He swept an experienced gaze around the room and Adele raised her catalogue. He acknowledged it by pointing his gavel at her, then gave a cursory glance to see if there were any counter-bidders. He clearly wasn’t expecting any.
The object of her intrigue had not offered up a single bid on anything as yet, so she was surprised to see him look up for the first time and nod at the auctioneer, who smiled his acknowledgement.
Adele raised her bid accordingly. She didn’t mind that she was in competition. It was good to know someone else was interested in her potential purchase. Her opponent nodded his raised bid to the auctioneer, and she could feel her blood warm as her competitive spirit kicked in. The bidding quickly turned into a battle. The rest of the room was agog: this was as spirited as the sale had got all morning. The auctioneer was enjoying himself. He’d had no real momentum until now. As sales went, it was lacklustre. Lots had been knocked down at ridiculous prices to whoever could be bothered to cart them away.
Until now. The bids flew back and forth, not a moment’s hesitation, getting higher and higher. Something in Adele wanted the painting more than anything. She was determined that it should be hers. She felt almost murderously protective of it. Her heart was pounding and her cheeks were flushed.
Her counter-bidder sat on the other side of the tent, unperturbed, unruffled, his face showing no emotion. She wondered if he knew something that she didn’t. What piece of inside information did he have? Was the painting by some undiscovered genius? Was it a long-forgotten masterpiece? Or did he have a personal reason for wanting it? How high would he be prepared to go?
She suddenly realised that the next bid was with her and she had gone more than four times over her original limit. She had several guineas in her handbag, for William had given her the housekeeping in cash the day before, but she didn’t have enough money with her if she was successful. Nor did she have their chequebook – it was sitting in her writing desk. It would be terribly embarrassing to have to admit to the auctioneer she couldn’t pay. She mustn’t, simply mustn’t, go any further.
‘The bid is with you, madam.’
She waited. It seemed to take an age for her to say no. She desperately wanted to continue but she didn’t have the means. Could she leave her wedding ring, she wondered? All eyes were on her, including the auctioneer’s. Except, of course, her rival’s. He was coolly leafing through the rest of the catalogue without a care in the world.
She would be utterly mad to carry on. In the end, all she’d be doing was paying far too much for a painting that was good, but not exceptional.
She shook her head. Seconds later, the gavel came down. Her rival didn’t bother to look up from the catalogue. She was aggrieved that the painting that should have been hers had gone to such a bloodless buyer. She wasn’t usually a bad loser, but she felt nettled. She gathered up her things and edged her way out of the row of seats, excusing
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