And there it is. The old emasculation routine. I give a single, derisive laugh. "Nice try,my brother, but I'm honoured to be working in a field that is traditionally a female one. Promoting and fostering literacy? Surely you're not that much of an arsehole to belittle that kind of work."
"I'm merely playing you at your game, Ted. You think Bess wants you fighting her battle for her, like you're her knight in shining armour and she's some damsel in distress incapable of confronting the big, scary dragon? I can do metaphors, too, hombre. So, quit your chest beating and I'll quit mine."
He steps around me and disappears into the throng.
I don't move for a few seconds.
He's right, of course. Bess doesn't need me. That's one of the things I love about her. Her potency, her fierce independence. And even though she is capable of rescuing herself – is in the process of rescuing herself – she could also do with all the help she can get.
I turn and watch Theo's progress.
He strategically ignores anyone who looks like they might be an artist, presumably so he doesn't have to deal with any further shit giving, and engages with people who look moneyed.
There's no doubt about it, the man can do charm. He might even prove to be an asset to tonight's proceedings. More than likely he's trying to hand shake a few more dollars out of the punters, because he stands to win if he can.
Bess has, meantime, extracted herself from the gaggle of selfie seekers and is edging her way out of Pinkerton's eyeline.
She disappears out the café door and starts talking to those drinking and eating canapés on the pavement.
Fifteen minutes later, the first auction edges towards closing and there's a drop in the volume of conversation as those observing or bidding watch proceedings on their phones or on the big screen TV that’s been set up for the evening.
Lutek's metal sculpture of a kestrel is the first piece of the night to go under the electronic hammer.
The software Bess is using tells me there is over five thousand people logged into the auction site. Most of them won't be bidding, but still, it's a pretty impressive number and one that I hope doesn't cause it to crash.
The auction closes at twenty-one thousand, four hundred and ninety pounds and the next one immediately starts.
Lutek stands beside his installation, beaming and being jostled by all the slaps on the back and hugs he's receiving.
The next pieces sell without any technical issues and then Jeanette's naked woman is under the digital hammer. When it sells for an incredible forty-nine thousand pounds, Jeanette's delighted squeal threatens to break frequency records and every champagne flute within a five-metre radius.
There is just one piece to go beforeA Lettered Man's auction moves towards closing. It's already sitting at just under one point eight million pounds and the pace of the bids does not appear to be slowing.
As Elly's glitter bathroom suite comes online, the first bid of the evening comes in at nine hundred and ninety-nine trillion pounds. I blink at the screen, wondering if I've hallucinated several or all of the zeros. Nine zeroes sit stubbornly after the nine hundred and ninety nine, no matter how many times I slap my lashes together.
"Ah, Ed?" Elly's voice drills through the decibels of conversation. "Carlos has a bit of a problem."
I look up to see her towing a three-piece-suited and cravat-ed Carlos.
"Yes?"
"He doesn't actually have the nine hundred and ninety-nine trillion pounds he just bid on my suite."
Carlos. Of course. "No, I imagine he doesn't. Why did you bid that amount, Carlos?"
"I wanted to see if there was a maximum amount for bidding. Just out of curiosity. Turns out there isn't. One pound more and I don't even know what you call that number."
Elly clucks her tongue. "Can you remove his bid so people who actually want a glitter bathroom can bid on a glitter bathroom?"
I click around the settings and eventually find the function to reject a bid.
"Thank you," says Elly in a way that doesn't actually engender any gratitude and plucks Carlos' phone from his hand. She hands it to me. "Best you look after this." Then she disappears off in the direction of her auction pieces.
"Quadrillion."
"Hmm?" Carlos leans towards me. "I can't hear anything above all the babbling rabble, dear boy. They removed my sensory enhancers when I mistook Ron R. chasing Nancy in his stilettos for machine gun fire while they were on a state visit. Stormed the building through a one-of-a-kind Victorian glass dome to find her in a Janet costume and him dressed as Dr Frank. N. Furter. Role playing they call it. Expensive mistake as it turns out and not just because of the dome. Sheryl Jones had to work some diplomatic magic to smooth things over due to the level of distress of Mrs Reagan."
"Did she now?"
