launches into a detailed speech. It goes on and on, with no one seemingly paying attention as he rambles about the history of Countryscape. I expect they’ve heard it all before, as have I, but I still settle in for the introduction and listen attentively while he talks through the history of the building – about how it became such a prolific, worldwide-famous auction house, a meeting point for some of the best-known art historians in the world. Built in 1752 by the Masons – a family held in high esteem in the aristocratic world, and famous collectors of antiques – Countryscape is famous for housing and exhibiting some of the most famous historical finds in recent history.
Situated in the countryside with no neighbours for a ten-mile radius, it boasts a church, a gatehouse, a lake, and a woodland. The current Masons live in a smaller dwelling on the grounds and kindly opened up Countryscape in 1945 to the elite art and antiquing world. It’s still very fascinating, however old the story is to me.
‘Here we go,’ Becker says, nudging me and nodding to a door behind the auctioneer. It opens, and a suited man appears, wearing white gloves. He has a small tin in his hand. It’s nondescript, a plain silver case, from what I can see. I’m buggered if I know what it is.
‘A cigarette case,’ Becker whispers, obviously sensing my perplexity. ‘Belonged to Marilyn Monroe . . . supposedly.’
‘Supposedly?’
He hums, glancing around the room. ‘I’m sceptical.’
‘You think it’s a fake?’ I ask, keeping my voice to a whisper.
His finger comes up to his lips, quietening me before he has a chance to add the inevitable sexy shush. But he does anyway. ‘Shhhh . . .’
I shudder, fighting off the flurry of tingles his gesture spikes.
‘Starting the bids on the phone at ten thousand pounds,’ the auctioneer declares, pointing his wooden gavel towards a balcony, prompting me to look up. A row of suited men line the space, all with mobile phones poised at their ears. ‘And we have eleven thousand in the room.’ My attention flies down, seeing a round paddle held in the air a few rows in front. I can’t see who it is, but the red nails and fur-cuffed wrist tells me it’s a woman. ‘Twelve.’ He’s pointing back at the balcony, but I don’t get a chance to follow his gavel again because the lady up front shouts, ‘Thirteen,’ before I can look away from her.
‘Thirteen in the room.’
No matter how much I try to disguise my amazement, I fail. My mouth is agape and my head turns back and forth from the room to the balcony continuously as the bidding gets higher and higher. A cigarette case? I bet if the asking price of every piece that passed through my father’s shop over a year was added together, it wouldn’t come close to the sum this piece is poised to achieve.
‘Twenty-five thousand once,’ the auctioneer yells, his gavel hovering in the air. He looks over his glasses, scanning the room. ‘Twice.’ I’m tense, waiting. ‘Sold to the lovely Miss Depont.’ I jump in my seat when he smashes the gavel down on the rostrum, and everyone in the room starts clapping as the lady who paid a crazy amount of cash for a silver cigarette case stands and takes a bow. My astonishment only increases tenfold when I get a glimpse of her face. She’s a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe.
‘Did she really just pay twenty-five grand for a cigarette case?’ I look to Becker, who’s bashing out a text on his phone. He isn’t the least bit fazed. My desire to crane my neck to see who he’s texting nearly gets the better of me. What I shamelessly do instead, though, is glance around for Alexa to see if she’s engaged in any mobile activity. God, I’m pitiful. I force my attention back to the front.
‘She’s probably the most renowned Monroe impersonator in the world.’ Becker looks past me and reaches for something. ‘Espresso?’
I turn and find a tray being presented to me. I accept the small glass of black coffee and smile my thanks.
‘If she’s bought it, it’s the real deal.’ Becker takes a shot of caffeine and downs it in one swallow before placing his empty on the waiting tray. I keep hold of mine.
‘But still . . .’ These people must have more money than sense. ‘Twenty-five grand?’
‘You’ve seen nothing yet, princess.’ Becker slips his phone back into