Ed
Ispendasleeplessnightworrying about Bess and how the revelation that we orchestrated the whole letter thing might be affecting her. When I finish worrying about that, I worry about whether any of us, and me in particular, will still have a friendship with her. After that, I worry about when the appropriate time to tell her The Big Truth is, and also what are they all going to do now the auction won't raise enough money withA Lettered Manbeing withdrawn. And then I go right back to worrying about Bess and how she’s feeling and the whole thing cycles over and over.
I must fall asleep close to dawn, because I am woken just before 9 am with a series of texts from Bess.
The first one reads:
You bunch of mofos
Which, frankly, can go either way on the endearment-abuse scale. Her second text somewhat clarifies her intent and leaves me hopeful most of us are safely out of the "dead to me" zone:
Well played
Still groggy with sleep, it's the third text that has me at the kind of adrenaline-driven wide-awake doctors the world over generally advise against.
It worked. The auction's at £1.2 mil. Let's get it done
Bess, contrary to all rational, reasonable thought is going to keepA Lettered Manat auction and risk a conviction for fraud.
And she's going to do it under media scrutiny, now that she's invited them in.
I should have known she would run with it. Ever-fearless Bess would of course risk everything to gain everything. But I'm not prepared for the reality of it.
I know she's made up her mind, but I have to check anyway.
Are you 100 percent sure you want to do this? You've considered all possible outcomes?
It only takes her seconds to reply.
#whateverittakes
And all I can do is make a cup of tea and welcome this day in, whatever it brings.
There's ten hours before the event begins and give or take another hour after that before the sculpture goes under the digital hammer. It feels like a mighty big window for the original letter owner to come forward and expose the lot of us. For that matter, they could come forwardafterthe auction. Any time after it. We could live in a state of perpetual fear for as long as it takes to have it fade in our collective memories, which, let's be honest, is unlikely to happen.
I don't know if I can cope with that.
Between that anxiety and the anticipation of coming clean about my penning the letters, today is threatening to unseat the crowning entry on my Worst Bloody Day of My Life list, and things have to get very bad to be worse than your fiancée announcing she's in love with someone else and can you let all the guests know the wedding's off?
This day still has the potential to thrash that awful moment within an inch of its life.
I spend the hours leading up to 'go time' divided between pacing and familiarising myself with the auction software, seeing as I've been designated to ensure all the auctions run smoothly and that the staggered closing of each of them remains staggered.
If it comes to it, being in control of the auction software means I can pull the pin onA Lettered Man’sauction if it’s absolutely necessary. At least there’s that.
Bess has made it clear everyone else needs to be engaged with smchoozing all the people in the room who look like they have plenty of expendable income and a hankering for spending some of that expendable income on art. Even Carlos has been handed that responsibility.
Everything, the future of the Port Derrum creative community hinges on this evening going well.
And then, with the small hand on the clock approaching seven and a tension headache threatening to push my eyeballs from their sockets, it's time and there's no going back.
Chapter thirty-eight
Ed
Theweathergodsarelooking down on us as the evening begins. It is still and clear and warm and, coupled with the free prosecco, perfect for encouraging people to get generous with their art desires.
The turnout is so great, there really is literally standing room only, and despite the café being cleared and used to showcase some of the pieces of art, the overflow has spilled out on to the street.
