‘Trust your wife, James. She knows what she’s talking about.’
So the Grace Choir sang without their top lip-syncher, and, no offence to Marilyn, we sounded our best yet. Nearly everyone was on their feet by the end. We bowed graciously and took a much-needed break to catch our breath, quench our thirst and steel ourselves for the next part of the evening – the auction.
Did we really have anything these people who had everything would want to pay good money for?
Had they loosened up enough to bid high anyway?
Aha. We had forgotten one thing.
Those good old fashioned posh-people traits of one-upmanship, competitiveness and mob mentality.
Yes, at times the bidding became so frenzied, we indeed seemed to be on the verge of a mob.
Guided – and goaded – by Hester’s forthright use of the auctioneer’s gavel, the bids began to rise. Somebody paid over three hundred pounds for a hair styling session with Rowan. After seeing the before and after photos, two members of HCC paid a monstrous amount for Marilyn to give their wives a workout training session. From the looks of them, as they slapped each other on the back, red-nosed and sweaty-faced, they could have done with the training themselves.
Throw in a singing lesson from Hester, a custom-made outfit from Rosa, a technology masterclass from Uzma, and a set of children’s bobble hats, hand-knitted by Millie and we were well on our way to reaching our target.
My turn was next. Whatever the lot sold for had to cover the cost of the four-course meal I would cater, so it needed to be a decent bid or someone (me) would be out of pocket.
Hester did another grand introduction, nudging beyond embellishment, past exaggeration and into plain fabrication a couple of times, but it was all in a good cause. She finished off bymentioning my outstandingly awesome organisational skills, as demonstrated by planning the gala.
‘Who’ll give me one hundred pounds for a fully catered dinner party for six, to start us off?’
An HCC committee member at the back raised her hand.
‘One hundred and twenty!’ called out another one.
And we were off.
A couple of minutes later, someone upped the bid to two hundred and fifty pounds if I made it for eight people and threw in party favours.
‘Anyone else?’ Hester barked.
There was a brief silence.
‘I’ll give one thousand pounds if she organises my daughter’s eighteenth birthday party.’ Eddie, Perry’s partner, waved so we could see him.
Hester looked at me, eyebrows raised. ‘Faith?’
I sidled up to the microphone. ‘Um, will that include the cost of the party?’
Eddie shook his head. ‘No. Expenses are extra. The grand is for you.’
‘Okay.’ I nodded at Hester and stepped back, trying to appear nonchalant.
‘What do you say, then? Any more? Who can top that?’
Nobody would top that. Eddie was Perry’s partner. Perry had probably offered to give him the money.
‘One and a half if she can sort out my parents’ wedding anniversary without bloodshed,’ a man on another table called out.
‘My fiancé says he’ll give two if she can plan my wedding without sending him bankrupt,’ a young woman in the corner joined in.
We were off again.
Hester had her gavel poised, on the second ‘going’, about to say ‘gone’, when a raspy voice called out, ‘Ten thousand.’
Everybody sucked in a deep breath. I knew this because when I saw who spoke, staring at me while raising his hand in a salute, I couldn’t find an ounce of oxygen left for me.
