Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
On the left side of the chairs, at the front, a dozen boys stand up. Among them, I identify the five boys who played basketball with Simon, all of them looking handsome and strong in black suits. If it weren’t for the sameness of their suits, clearly all bought from the same source for tonight’s event and therefore giving the boys an almost uniform appearance, I wouldn’t have been able to separate them from any of the high society boys their age.
The applause starts somewhere off to the right of the podium, and I realize that Jacqueline Corbin has stepped up to Simon’s side. Within moments, everyone is on their feet, clapping not just for the boys, some of whom wave a little bit as they enjoy their moment of positive notoriety, but for Simon and his efforts tonight.
“Then,” Simon says, stepping back, “I shall invite Monsieur Montblanc up to be our auctioneer.”
Simon steps away from the podium to take a seat with the boys, and a large man with a round belly and perfectly pomaded hair steps up to the podium. Curious, I lean over to Tobias. “Who’s that?”
“One of France’s top newscasters,” he answers, then he shushes me as the auction begins.
I understand and sit back to watch the action as the first gown, a deep scarlet piece with a black bejeweled neckline, comes up for auction. It’s a pretty piece, a bit dated in my opinion, with a lot of turn of the century, over the top glitz, but of course, that’s Jacqueline’s taste to a T. And for all I know, it was fashion forward at the time of its creation, since it’s not one of the pieces I recognize from their past catalog.
Bidding is lively as five people vie for the gown, but in the end, the winner takes it for a hundred and thirty-five thousand euros. The number staggers me, and I shoot a look of shock to Tobias. On my other side, Molly hisses out, “Holy shitballs. I could stay at a hotel with my own private jacuzzi tub and twenty-four, seven room service delivery of wine by hunky firemen for years with that much money.”
Tobias silently laughs, his shoulders shaking, and I have the feeling things have only started.
Moments later, the next piece, a cocktail dress in swirly purple and green, is up for auction . . . and it goes even higher, at a hundred and seventy-seven thousand.
I sit back in shock, awe, and a little bit of anger, to be honest. I’ve been in New York long enough to understand wealth, even if I struggle to choose between ramen noodles and liquid caffeine some days. And just like back in the States, these bidders are likely the ones who will bitch about their taxes or try to shuffle as much of their money into overseas tax havens as possible, but they now offer up hundreds of thousands of euros in order to look good and gain a little bit of clout.
“I know what you’re feeling,” Tobias whispers as the fourth gown, a white beaded piece that still looks fresh and red carpet ready, goes for three hundred and seventy thousand. “You’re an open book, luv.”
“Oh!” I fix my face to one of mild interest. “Better?” I ask Tobias.
He side-eyes me and offers a tiny nod.
Tobias, Molly, and I keep each other smiling, trading quiet compliments for the gowns and sassy comments about the bidders until the last gown, a dazzling black gown that is a masterpiece of elegant simplicity. The single shoulder, the way the silk shapes and flares subtly, enhancing curves and shapes, the asymmetrical train . . . it’s perfection without the need for baubles or decoration. I thought my black dress was good?
This is as good as it gets.
I watch curiously, not surprised as a true bidding war erupts over the gorgeous gown. Prices quickly rocket past one hundred, then two hundred, then three hundred thousand euros.
“What the?” I whisper, gasping as I see a pattern emerging. Every time the bidding slows down, the auctioneer looks to his right and someone bids just a few thousand euros higher, pushing the clout and the prestige of the gown up and up.
Four hundred.
Five hundred.
Three-quarters of a million euros . . . and I don’t see bidding slowing. If anything, as the cost has crossed into the stratosphere, more people want in on the action, chasing the golden apple of snagging the biggest headline moment of the event.
“Check it out,” Tobias whispers as bidding slows again at nine hundred thousand euros. “I see the juicer.”
He purses his lips, using them to point toward the front row but careful to avoid putting in an errant bid that’s probably more than he’s going to make in a lifetime. I look over as the auctioneer glances to his right, and the bidding goes up to nine hundred twenty thousand.