Page 72 of A Night with Damien Spur

‘That’s it, Nicholas.’ Kate kicked him under the table. ‘Clearout the bank account, why don’t you?’

‘Do I hear £76,000?’ Danny asked. Silence.

‘Going… going… gone.’ He banged the gavel. ‘Sold for

£75,000. Congratulations to Mr Nicholas Morley.’

‘Oh God! What the fuck have I done?’ muttered Nicholas with a clenched smile.

‘You’ve just bought a ring you can’t afford.’ Kate picked up her glass of red wine and threw it at Nicholas’s face. ‘Why would you be so stupid? It’s that Sophie, isn’t it?’ Kate was oblivious to the people around them, turning to stare. ‘You said it was over. But you’re still obsessed with her.’

‘Stop,’ Nicholas hissed. ‘Everybody’s staring at us.’

‘I don’t care. You deserve to be embarrassed.’

Kate jumped to her feet and shouted to her audience, ‘Lords, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to Nicholas Morley, arsehole of the century.’

The audience gasped.

‘That’s enough, Kate!’ Nicholas grabbed her wrist. ‘Time to go.’

The two of them walked through the stunned guests out of the hotel, Nicholas stiff-lipped, eyes straight ahead, and Kate belligerent, stony-faced.

‘Item number six.’ Danny Archer waved Damien up onto the podium.

‘Let’s see what price you’ll bring,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Perhaps not as much as the ring, but I’m sure you’ll be a lot of fun.’ Damien arched an eyebrow at her.

‘For a good cause,’ she added, smiling.

He crossed the floor, mounted the platform and, turning to the guests, bowed. A tall, graceful figure with his rakish smile and sparkling eyes, he gave a wink that encompassed them all. The women in the audience giggled, and Danny stepped forward to open the bidding.

‘So who will start the bidding with £1,000 for a very specialnightwith Damien Spur, literary icon and, by all accounts, fascinating company.’

Damien smiled at Danny and took another bow.

The Voice was surprised.Not bad for a starter. Can’t say I’d pay a thousand quid to listen to your porkies.

A pause. At the Tulip table, a spiky-haired blonde with tanned skin and bony, chiselled features raised her paddle, flashing an impossibly white smile.

Relieved, his ego intact, Damien gave her a charming nod.

‘A thousand pounds from the foxy lady at the Tulip table. And do I hear fifteen hundred? Ah, good!’

‘The Daffodil table at £1,500 from the redhead in the gold dress. Getting hotter, and so is Damien. Can we see two thousand…? Look at that! A gent at the Lilac table,’ Danny said.

‘For my soon-to-be ex-wife. A parting gift.’ A rugged, slick, dark-haired man raised his glass. Damien had started to enjoy himself. Danny was fielding bids from all corners of the room.

‘Two and a half thousand pounds? Yes! Foxy lady ups the game at the Tulip table. Three? Back to the gentleman at the Lilac table. Hopefully a generous divorce for the ex-to-be. Where to now? Come on, let’s really play. Do I see four thousand?’

Vladimir Pushkin waved his paddle.

‘Ah! Four thousand pounds from our Russian comrade at the Rose table.’

‘Five thousand!’ Boris shouted from the Freesia table. ‘Damien Spur, you teach me how to write about a bald, uglytraitor, a business crook – all about you, Pushkin!’

‘Boris, loser! You belong in one of your shipping containers in a black plastic bag,’ Pushkin yelled.

‘You vodka-swilling peasant,’ Boris yelled back. ‘You will never beat me on contracts. You’re a pussy, a big fat peasant. Your poor wife. I pity her in your bed. She needs our new product, Venus Viagra. When a woman takes our Venus pills, she could fall in love with a donkey.’

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