Page 21 of The New House

I act as a stalking horse on a number of big-ticket items, drawing out the high rollers and gracefully conceding defeat when I’m outbid. I’ve already made a private donation: when Tom gave me my Audi, I made a matching gift to the hybrid OR, though I didn’t tell him that. We can’t quite afford it, but I wouldn’t have been able to drive the car with a good conscience otherwise.

At the adjacent table, Harper squeals when she wins a photoshoot with society photographer Hugo Burnand. ‘Kyle, he took the wedding pictures of Prince William and Kate Middleton!’ she cries. ‘And now he’ll be taking pictures ofus!’

A couple of well-known television personalities approach Michèle at the podium to make pre-arranged ‘spontaneous’ offers to share their talents or open their homes, the sequence carefully choreographed to make other guests feel like they’re in at something rather special and unexpected.

One excitable woman bids five figures to be a guest weather-girl on morning television. Another buys her daughter’s name for a character in a bestselling thriller writer’s new novel. A champion show jumper stands up at the back of the ballroom, and offers riding lessons on the horse she rode in the Olympics.

‘I’ll pay double if you take the place of the horse!’ a man calls.

Laughter.

Harper leaps to her feet, swaying slightly. It’s clear from the feverish light in her eyes that she’s very drunk. ‘Who’ll bid a thousand pounds for private training sessions with Kyle?’ she cries.

There’s a slightly sticky lull.

‘You can be on our vlog, too!’ Harper adds.

Most of her audience is too old to know what a vlog is. People cough, and shuffle their feet. A few chairs scrape as they’re pushed back. I don’t want the auction to end on this note.

‘Shit,’ I mutter, and raise my hand.

Michèle points my way. ‘A thousand pounds from Mrs Downton! Wonderful! Do I hear fifteen hundred?’

‘In for a penny,’ Stacey murmurs, lifting her arm.

‘Fifteen hundred!’ Michèle says delightedly.

I glance across at Stacey’s husband. A muscle works at his jaw, and his body is rigid in his seat.

‘Two thousand,’ I call.

Tom throws me a look: amused, rather than irritated.

Now that we’ve set the ball rolling, other guests join in. Kyle’s training session eventually goes for just under five thousand pounds: the winner is a very pretty male soap star with glass cheekbones and boy-band hair.

As the auction comes to an end, Stacey is sucked into industry shoptalk with the rest of her table and I leave to go to the bathroom. On my way back to the ballroom, I notice the same obnoxious sports presenter who accosted the young waitress earlier jammed in a corner with the coat-check girl. His hand is on her bottom, and he’s whispering something in her ear. Her back is arched like a Russian gymnast in her attempt to avoid him.

‘Is there a problem here?’ I ask loudly.

The sports presenter releases her, and she leaps back as if scalded. ‘Did you not get the MeToo memo?’I demand, in a tone that makes sure everyone within five metres of us can hear. ‘I’m sure yourwifewould be happy to fill you in.’

Several phones are being raised in our direction. The slimeball flushes puce, and can’t slither away quickly enough.

‘Next time, kick him in the balls,’ I tell the girl. ‘You don’t have to take that shit from anyone, however famous they are.’

Felix Porter is waiting near the auction tables when I finally return to the ballroom. As I approach, he steps into my path, blocking the way.

‘Stay away from Stacey,’ he says.

The moment is oddly intimate. Just inches separate us: I can feel the heat radiating from him.

‘Are you policing your wife’s friends?’ I ask lightly.

He grabs my forearm. ‘I’m warning you,’ he says. ‘Stay away from her. I’m not going to tell you again. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’

I snap my arm free.

Neither does he.

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