Jeffrey Archer - A Prisoner Of Birth

"Are you Lawrence Davenport's sister?" said Danny in disbelief.

"Someone has to be," said Sarah. "But I've learned to live with it."

"What about your friend?" said Charlie, smiling at Danny.

"I don't think so," said Sarah. "Nick, this is Charlie Duncan, the play's producer."

"Pity," said Charlie, and turned his attention to the young men who were surrounding Davenport.

"I think he fancies you," said Sarah.

"But I'm not…"

"I'd just about worked that out," said Sarah with a grin.

Danny continued to flirt with Sarah, aware that he no longer needed to bother with Davenport when his sister could undoubtedly tell him everything he needed to know.

"Perhaps we might-" began Danny, when another voice said, "Hi, Sarah, I was wondering if…"

"Hello, Spencer," she said coldly. "Do you know Nick Moncrieff?"

"No," he replied, and after a cursory handshake, he continued his conversation with Sarah. "I was just coming across to tell Larry how brilliant he was when I spotted you."

"Well, now's your chance," said Sarah.

"But I was also hoping to have a word with you."

"I was just about to leave," said Sarah, checking her watch.

"But the party's only just begun, can't you hang around a little longer?"

"I'm afraid not, Spencer. I need to go over some papers before briefing counsel."

"It's just that I was hoping…"

"Just as you were on the last occasion we met."

"I think we got off on the wrong foot."

"I seem to remember it being the wrong hand," said Sarah, turning her back on him.

"Sorry about that, Nick," said Sarah. "Some men don't know when to take no for an answer, while others…" She gave him a gentle smile. "I hope we'll meet again."

"How do I-" began Danny, but Sarah was already halfway across the ballroom; the kind of woman who assumes that if you want to find her, you will. Danny turned back to see Craig looking more closely at him.

"Spencer, good of you to come," said Davenport. "Was I all right tonight?"

"Never better," said Craig.

Danny thought it was time to leave. He no longer needed to talk to Davenport, and like Sarah, he also had a meeting he had to prepare for. He intended to be wide awake when the auctioneer called for an opening bid for Lot 37.

"Hi, stranger. Where did you disappear to?"

"Ran into an old enemy," said Danny. "And you?"

"The usual bunch. So boring," said Katie. "I've had enough of this party. How about you?"

"I was just leaving."

"Good idea," said Katie, taking him by the hand. "Why don't we jump ship together?"

They walked across the ballroom and headed toward the swing doors. Once Katie had stepped out onto the pavement, she hailed a taxi.

"Where to, miss?" asked the driver.

"Where are we going?" Katie asked Nick.

"Twelve The Boltons."

"Right you are, guv," said the cabbie, which brought back unhappy memories for Danny.

Danny hadn't even sat down before he felt a hand on his thigh. Katie's other arm draped around his neck, and she pulled him toward her.

"I'm sick of being the understudy," she said. "I'm going to take the lead for a change." She leaned across and kissed him.

By the time the taxi drew up outside Nick's home, there were very few buttons left to undo. Katie jumped out of the cab and ran up the drive as Danny paid for a second taxi that night.

"I wish I was your age," remarked the cabbie.

Danny laughed and joined Katie at the front door. It took him some time to get the key in the lock, and as they stumbled into the hall she pulled off his jacket. They left a trail of clothes all the way from the front door to the bedroom. She dragged him onto the bed and pulled him on top of her. Something else Danny hadn't experienced for a long time.

DANNY JUMPED OFF the bus and began walking up Bond Street. He could see a blue flag fluttering in the breeze, boldly displaying in gold the legend Sotheby's.

Danny had never attended an auction before, and was beginning to wish he'd sat in on one or two other sales before he lost his virginity. The uniformed officer on the door saluted him as he walked in, as if he were a regular who thought nothing of spending a few million on a minor Impressionist.

"Where is the stamp sale being held?" Danny asked the woman behind the reception desk.

"Up the stairs," she said pointing to her right, "on the first floor. You can't miss it. Do you want a paddle?" she asked. Danny wasn't sure what she meant. "Will you be bidding?"

"No," said Danny. "Collecting, I hope."

Danny climbed the stairs and walked into a large, brightly lit room, to find half a dozen people milling around. He wasn't certain if he was in the right place until he spotted Mr. Blundell talking to a man in smart green overalls. The room was filled with rows and rows of chairs, although only a few were occupied. At the front, where Blundell was standing, was a highly polished circular podium, from which Danny assumed the auction would be conducted. On the wall behind it was a large screen giving the conversion rates of several different currencies, so that any bidders from abroad would know how much they were expected to pay, while on the right-hand side of the room a row of white telephones were evenly spaced on a long table.

Danny hung around at the back of the room as more people began to stroll in and take their places. He decided to sit at the far end of the back row so that he could keep his eye on all those who were bidding, as well as the auctioneer. He felt like an observer rather than a participant. Danny leafed through the pages of the catalog, although he had already read it several times. His only real interest was Lot 37, but he noticed that Lot 36, an 1861 Cape of Good Hope four-penny red, had a low estimate of £40,000 and a high of £60,000, making it the most expensive item in the sale.

He looked up to see Mr. Prendergast from Stanley Gibbons enter the room and join a small group of dealers who were whispering among themselves at the back of the room.

Danny began to relax as more and more people carrying paddles strolled in and took their seats. He checked his watch-the one Nick's grandfather had given him for his twenty-first birthday-it was ten to ten. He couldn't help noticing when a man who must have weighed over twenty-five stone waddled into the room, carrying a large unlit cigar in his right hand. He made his way slowly down the aisle before taking a seat on the end of the fifth row that appeared to have been reserved for him.

When Blundell spotted the man-not that he could have missed him-he left the group he was with and walked across to greet him. To Danny's surprise they both turned and looked in his direction. Blundell raised his catalog in acknowledgment, and Danny nodded. The man with the cigar smiled as if he recognized Danny, and then continued his conversation with the auctioneer.

The seats were quickly beginning to fill as seasoned customers appeared only moments before Blundell returned to the front of the sale room. He mounted the half-dozen steps of the podium, smiled down at his potential customers, and then filled a glass with water before checking the clock on the wall. He tapped his microphone and said, "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to our biannual auction of rare stamps. Lot number one." An enlarged image of the stamp displayed in the catalog appeared on the screen by his side.

"We begin today with a penny black, dated 1841, in near mint condition. Do I see an opening bid of one thousand pounds?" A dealer standing in Prendergast's small group at the back raised his paddle. "One thousand two hundred?" This was met by an immediate response from a bidder in the third row who, six bids later, ended up purchasing the stamp for £1,800.