When the charity evening starts, the hall is packed and Lady Venetia is already on stage, ready to take over my event. I can’t deny that I’m not completely sure this will work, and I know that half the people sitting out there are waiting for me to fail, big time.
I cross my fingers and hope that, once again, my lucky star works its magic. “Ladies and Gentlemen,Mesdames et Messieurs, Sehr geehrte Damen und Herren: this year, in lieu of the Gregorian Choir concert, the Union Jack Charity Society is proud to propose an entirely new event organised by the Duchess of Burlingham, Lady Jemma Parker! Let’s give her a round of applause.” Lady Venetia pauses to shift the attention onto me. “I’m sure that this initiative will be widely appreciated, especially by the ladies. As the invitation states, there will be a light buffet later, followed by dancing, but first, each lady will choose a partner for the evening.” The guests start muttering. “Yes, the gentlemen are about to be auctioned off, dear ladies of the audience. They will be at your command to satisfy your every wish, within the limits of decency, of course – I’m addressing the married ladies in particular. My dear dames, choose well, raise your paddles, fight for your man and don’t forget to use your chequebooks. Be generous, this is for charity! The starting bid is five hundred pounds!”
I feel all eyes on me, and someone sitting at the back hisses: “So disreputable,” or: “She’s foolish.”
“Without further ado, let’s see the first lot: Lord Havisham, would you please join me on stage?”
Lord Havisham clears his throat, looking around uncertainly, and then he walks towards Lady Venetia, encouraged by his sister. He’s been a widower for more than four years, he should be over the grieving process by now.
“Very well, then: Lord Havisham, ninth Earl of Twickens, passionate chess player, master of foxhounds and two-time Ryder Cup Champion with the European team.”
The room is deeply embarrassed, so his sister is the first to break the ice and raise her paddle. “A thousand pounds.”
“Our Juliet is not going to let any other lucky lady enjoy the company of the Earl. Come on, you can have him for yourself whenever you want!” Urges Lady Venetia.
From the back of the hall, someone else raises a paddle. “Two thousand pounds.”
“Brilliant, Lady Smythe. Thank goodness your husband is in Belgium. We won’t tell anyone, shall we? Keep it under your hat, ladies and gentlemen!”
Other paddles are raised, but rather timidly, until Lady Smythe succeeds in winning the Earl.
Once the format is established, the following gentlemen sell like hot cakes, so the Earl of Clerkenwell and Baron Fansworth are on and off the stage in no time.
I have chosen the gentlemen carefully after observing them at these interminable events.
I included the widowers to spice up their lives a bit, as you never know what could come out of such an evening, then the married men who are able to laugh at themselves – strange as it may seem, there are some, like Murray Davenport – and, of course, confirmed bachelors and single men.
Speaking of single men, Lady Venetia has just called Harring onto the stage. He accepted readily, but on one condition.
“Ladies and young Ladies, please welcome the ineffable Kenneth Harring, heir to the title of Viscount of Westborough. Car enthusiast and Formula One driver, collector of 1995 champagne, he owes his perennial tan to his villa in Marbella and his forty metre yacht. He hasn’t been in a steady relationship for a long time. Place your bids!”
It’s like a western movie, when there’s nothing in the street except for rolling dust and tumbleweed. The room is immersed in silence; if there were any crickets about they would be heard loud and clear.
Harring takes off his jacket, throwing it nonchalantly over his shoulder and starting to walk up and down the stage.
“Come on, ladies, don’t be shy,” he winks at the audience. “It’s your chance. One night only.”
Silence. Apart from Ashford.
He’s next to me and he’s laughing so hard that I’m afraid he might have a heart attack. He looks as if he is having a seizure, I swear. I’m horrified when I see him grab my paddle.
“I saw a paddle move over there?” Lady Venetia lingers. “Duke of Burlingham? I’m afraid that what you’re doing is a little ambiguous… the bids are reserved for the ladies!”
I force him to replace the paddle on the table and the crystal glasses clink against one another.
Ashford wipes the tears from his eyes. “I had to fan myself or I would have fainted,” he can hardly swallow as he holds back a final guffaw. “You got it, Haz.”
Harring is still walking up and down on stage, winking to the right and left, in an attempt to encourage the ladies to bid.
His problem is his bad reputation: every young lady here has been in his bed, but no one wants to let anyone know.
“One pound,” I hear, recognising the voice and the subtle sarcasm coming from the table behind me: it’s Cécile.
“Lady Loxley, may I remind you that the starting bid is five hundred pounds. It’s for charity, after all!” Lady Venetia urges her.
“Five hundred pounds, then,” Cécile repeats irritably.
“No other offers? Going, going…” she pauses for a moment. “Gone! Kenneth Harring is sold to the Marquise of Hungeford, Lady Loxley.”
