Lost Children Read online

  Lost Children

  Willa Bergman

  Copyright © 2021 Willa Bergman

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: Curve Graphics

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  "I'm going to show you all the secrets of the world."

  PART I

  2

  3

  4

  The Painting

  6

  7

  8

  PART II

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  PART III

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  About The Author

  "I'm going to show you all the secrets of the world."

  That was the promise my father made to me.

  He kept his word.

  EW

  PART I

  1

  A sea of voices crescendo through the open doors into the blue summer night. Passers-by crane their necks with curiosity to try and see inside without success. They see these men and women, dressed in black tie and evening gowns, who glide effortlessly up the steps through the grand portico doors of the museum before disappearing inside. They wonder who we are.

  I pause for a moment to stop and look back at them. I hear their unspoken words, some indifferent, some in envy, before I turn and hand my invitation to the lady at the door and walk inside. I see two faces I recognise walking towards me, Sam and Charlie, two mischievous nymphs with drinks in their hands coming to draw me in to their clandestine huddle. They’ve already surveyed and sized the guests in attendance and seem desperate to act as some sort of scouting party for me and report their findings.

  “Oh my god Elle, the turnout is insane. All the auction guys are in there with these perma-fixed smiles trying not to drool everywhere. Love the dress by the way.”

  “Charles Wu is here, he’s getting the full VIP talking with Viktor and Jo. Victoria’s off having a meltdown somewhere.”

  They try to pull me into a quiet nook to tell me more, but we’re directed forwards and into the main function room for the event, the King's Library. The room is grand and opulently fitted, lit by three enormous chandeliers that line the centre of the room. It’s been recently renovated, restored through the generosity of various benefactors, but the room still retains an old-world charm and feel. The walls are filled with thousands of important looking books befitting King George III’s Library but they’re frauds, the real collection now sits in the British Library. The ones here are pretty but unremarkable volumes on permanent loan from the House of Commons, their job now simply a glorified wallpaper for the room.

  The place fizzes with energy. There’s easily five hundred people here, each one carefully, individually picked; a clever and deliberate selection of clientele, celebrities and socialites. How they’ve managed to put it all together is very impressive. They’ve spent a fortune on it and you can see the money everywhere you look.

  This is the now annual Roth Auction House Summer Launch Party. It was introduced two years ago by Viktor Andersen, our great and benevolent leader, to better market and publicise the upcoming summer auctions and he’s done it very successfully. Already these parties are big news in the city, everyone wants to attend. This is what Viktor wants. Every column inch written shines the media’s spotlight that little bit brighter on the auction house. Whatever money they’re spending on the events (and they’re spending a lot), everything is calculated based on a return.

  The real money here though is in the objects sitting on exhibition plinths dashed around the room. These are some of the choice lots for the upcoming auctions. The star attraction is a one hundred and twenty carat pear-shaped, yellow diamond. It will inevitably smash its estimate and set a new record for Roth when it comes to auction next month. It will be bought by some anonymous bidder who will bid by phone, but is most probably standing in this room right now. Almost all the buyers are anonymous now and don’t attend the auctions in person. It seems a waste to have an auction room steeped in so much history become so redundant and unattended, but I guess times change.

  I see Viktor get up on a small raised platform and he brings the crowd to a hush. This is a new high for the house and he wants to make sure everyone knows who got us here. He was brought in as CEO two years ago, headhunted from a house he had set up in Dubai and quickly established as a major player in the region. His predecessor at Roth had presided over a decade of decline and Viktor was tasked with revitalising the brand and sprinkling that same magic dust over Roth that worked so well in Dubai.

  “Good evening everyone, if I can just interrupt your drinks for a moment, I’d like to catch you all before we get too far into the evening just to say a quick few words.”

  “First of all, I’d like to thank a few people without whom tonight wouldn’t have been possible. Lizzy, Sasha, thank you for putting up with me, for knowing just about everyone in London it seems, and for all your very hard work these last weeks and months. These events don’t just happen and you guys have done an amazing job.” Warm applause, everyone loves Lizzy and Sasha in the office and the guests follow the cue.

  “I’d also like to thank Jo, who’s doing a fantastic job running our London office. I don’t get to come over here as often as I would like but she’s really embraced the vision that I’ve tried to bring to Roth, and I think with tonight and what we’ve got lined up for the auctions this summer, it’s a real testament to her and what she’s managed to achieve here.” More applause.

  “We also have a wonderful dinner in store for us this evening, prepared by Head Chef Alberto Prieto and his team at London’s newest Michelin starred restaurant, Serafina.” Alberto makes himself known and the crowd again applaud generously.

  “Fantastic, amazing restaurant. I went there last week and the food is out of this world, if you haven’t been yet you must go.”

  Viktor now takes a contemplative pause for a change in tone. “I came in as CEO to Roth a little over two years ago now and to be honest we weren’t in a great place. This auction house is an institution, it’s been here over a hundred and fifty years, but we’d lost our way a little bit. The world moved on and we weren’t sure what our place was in it. But we went away, had a long hard look at ourselves and I’m delighted to say that we are now on course for one of the most successful years in our history.” Enthusiastic, self-congratulatory applause.

  “But we’re not here to talk about that. Tonight we’re here to celebrate the amazing pieces we have lined up for you to bid on in this summer season’s auctions. The finest works of art, ancient antiquities and rarest stones available for sale anywhere in the world. I know you’re all looking on enviously at the various lots we’ve got on display tonight. These are just some of the amazing things that are coming to auction this summer. So please look, enjoy, salivate. No fighting… save it for the auctions.” The crowd laughs.

  “And on that note, I will leave you. Thank you all for coming, enjoy yourselves and have a great night.”

  Viktor steps down to a final round of applause and the buzzed chatter begins anew. A fresh group of waiters p
lucked from the ranks of London’s public schools meander through the guests with more trays of cocktails and champagne.

  Through the crowd I see a client I knew was coming tonight and I want to speak to, so I excuse myself from Sam and Charlie and wander over to him. He’s interested in early Nubian art and I’ve found some pieces that are available which I want to discuss with him. He’s pleased to see me, but he’s there with his wife and they seem more interested in enjoying the evening so I hold back on the pitch and instead we discuss the large fancy pink diamond in front of us.

  I struggle with some of the more garish items on display here, gaudy, ostentatious displays of wealth. I can play the part, I know how a girl’s supposed to behave around diamonds. I’m here tonight to be one of the bright, young (preferably female) things that Viktor (he insists on everyone calling him Viktor) wants present at these events, our primary role to show how dazzled we are by the objects going under the hammer. And don’t get me wrong, I do love diamonds; their sparkle, the colours and how their different facets reflect the light each in their own dazzling and unique way. But you can see all that in the beautiful diamonds that blushing brides wear on their ring fingers. The enormous diamonds that come to auction here are outstanding in their colour, clarity and cut, but for me their size turns them into something of a grotesque. You can say the size makes them rare, but I see the people who buy these things. They just want it because it’s the biggest, to go with their biggest yacht, fastest jet, fastest car. It’s so often just driven by a childish, playground mentality. A few years ago we had at auction a surviving piece of the union jack which was flown at the Battle of Trafalgar from Lord Nelson’s ship, HMS Victory. There was a thing of beauty. A tattered panel of red, white and blue woollen fabric, transcended from its raw materials into something magnificent and poetic. The only shame is that it probably ended up on the wall of some posturing city boy to feed his wanton machismo. But this is the change that Viktor has made to Roth. Where once the auction house was filled with old British aristocrats, the ones who bid today are wealthy Arabs, Asian businessmen, hedge fund managers and tech entrepreneurs. What’s left of the old money is mostly holed up in some decaying stately home trying to prevent the slow erosion of their family’s finances. And with new clients come new tastes. If it sells with a decent margin and it’s expensive then it’s now fair game for the auction house.

  I’m still talking with my client and his wife when my boss Victoria walks over and joins us. I introduce her to them both but she’s clearly agitated about something and without any particular subtlety excuses us both from their company. In the five years she’s been my boss Victoria has progressively morphed into the walking sea of angst and aggression that now stands in front of me, her transformation inextricably correlated with our team’s continued failings and the consequent reductions in her budget. I am one of a very small number in the team that has actually met my targets this year. She however looks particularly anxious this evening. These launch parties are for the auction team, not ours. We’re only here as a courtesy, and perhaps the success and grandeur of it all is hitting home a little too hard for her set against our own comparative underperformance. Viktor’s secret sauce has not extended to our team, his focus has very much been on the auctions alone and the clientele they bring in.

  “Viktor just completely fucking blanked me. I swear that’s the final straw, I’ve had it with this place.” Ah, so this is the reason for the meltdown Sam and Charlie had been talking about.

  “He was talking with Jo about something, I didn’t even interrupt him chatting up his dear beloved Charles Wu, and when I joined them he just completely fucking ignored me.”

  “I’m sure he was just caught up in something and was distracted.” I increasingly find myself in the role of some sort of agony aunt for her. I’m really the last person you’d want talking you off a ledge.

  “Well he’d better sort himself out, because if he thinks he can get away with acting like the tosser he is he’s got another thing coming.”

  She’s about to launch into another tirade but I’m saved by the sound of bells ringing for dinner. She’s been looking forward to the Serafina meal and there’s an immediate, Pavlovian improvement in her mood at its prospect, so we set off to find our places. I’ve been looking forward to the meal too though for some reason I don’t have much of an appetite tonight.

  The dining tables look equal parts decadent and elegant, piled high with crystal and silverware. Each table is set for ten guests and has been given a theme based on an object in the room; my table has an early fifth century Etruscan vase in the centre.

  I take my seat and introduce myself to my new dinner companions. On my left I’m sat next to a handsome older man, probably in his late fifties. He flirts harmlessly with me. He’s almost certainly married but he’s enjoying pretending he can still catch the eye of a girl my age and make her laugh.

  On my other side I have a very elegant Portuguese lady who I learn used to curate the Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga in Lisbon (Lizzy’s thoughtful seating planning at work). She’s now a personal advisor to one of the VIP clients invited to this evening’s festivities and was personally requested by him to attend. The fact that she’s been tucked away with me for dinner though suggests the powers that be want her advice to be as far away from her client as possible while our sales people work their magic on him. She seems unconcerned though and happily chats away about her time at the Museu Nacional. I’ve never been to Lisbon but there was an exhibition at the V&A last year which I loved that was showing pieces on loan from the Nacional. It was a beautiful collection of twelfth century Portuguese metallurgy: golden chalices and plates and assorted fine jewellery and it turns out that Clara (her name is Clara) curated the show.

  Someone like Clara always fascinates me, a genuine authority on a subject. But for some reason I’m struggling to focus on what she says, like there’s a fog clouding my brain. We continue to talk through dinner but after a while I’m compelled by my colleagues to socialise and work the room. I’m not naturally predisposed to networking, but it’s a necessary evil for my work and I’m now a sufficiently seasoned practitioner of the art that it doesn’t pain me in the way it once did.

  Floating between guests and colleagues the evening passes quickly and soon turns into the early night. I return intermittently to my table for the different courses of the taster menu Chef Prieto and team have prepared and then for the coffees and whiskys that are brought out. The table is universal in its praise for Serafina’s haute cuisine, the Devonshire turbot main seems to have been a particular favourite, though I didn’t manage to eat much of it myself. In the distance I see Viktor standing back from it all surveying the scene with a satisfied smile. The launch party is a success.

  As everyone begins to move around to speak with friends on other tables, I pause for a moment and realise that I’m feeling somehow off and out of sync. I can’t quite place what it is though. Usually I’m buzzing with excitement when I’m at something like this. I love these occasions, the chance to speak with people about art and antiquities, the subjects I love. I love the grandeur, the spectacle, the setting. I should be loving all of this, even if I am just the hired help. But I can feel something inside me, something that’s out of place. My body feels weak and strange, I can feel dark thoughts creeping into my head. I think about leaving but it’s still early and it will be awkward if I go now. I try to pull myself out of it and push it all away.

  There’s a small balcony tucked away on the upper level of the function room. I sneak away and hide there for a moment. I breath in the fresh air, hide in the darkness and listen to the sounds of the city. After five minutes I can’t say I feel much better but it’s enough for me and I head back in. As I walk down the stairs there’s a couple I was speaking to earlier who spot me rejoining the crowd and come over to continue a discussion we were having. They want to know more about the expansion plans Viktor has in store for Roth. I don’t want to talk but I
don’t let it show; I tell them what I know about Viktor’s plans and indulge them as we speculate and contemplate about his grand visions. I’m polite and personable, I smile at the right times and laugh in all the right places and they’re none the wiser of how I’m feeling.

  I can get through this, I know how to hide from the outside world when I need to. The smile I wear is the mask I hide behind. And so I continue like this into the night, hiding in my own private masked ball.

  2

  The party is still going strong well past midnight when I finally give in and tell everyone I have to leave. My team has circled wagons on one of the tables and even Victoria seems to have relaxed but I’m not staying any longer. They’ll continue long into the night and turn up at work tomorrow sometime before lunch feeling wretched. I say my farewells and take my leave.

  Outside the night is cooler now. There’s still a fleet of black Mercedes outside waiting attentively but they’re there only for the clients so I walk out into the street to hail a black cab. It’s too far for me to walk home and I’m not getting a bus or the tube looking like some reject from the Met Ball.

  The crowds in the street have gone now, leaving only a small, eclectic collection of night owls and the sporadic flow of passing cars. I have to walk and wait a little but I find a cab soon enough. I know I could enter the modern world and app my way to a quicker and cheaper ride, but on the rare occasions that I do take a taxi I still choose old-school because I think the streets of London look better with black cabs on them instead of grey Prius’.

  As soon as I get in the cab I want to curl up in the corner and close my eyes, but the cabbie can’t help but see the way I’m dressed and wants to strike up a conversation to find out what event I’ve just come from. I brush him off with a non-committal comment saying it was just some work-do and he gets the message that I’m not in the mood to talk; I’m tired and I have no chat left for him. I close my eyes and rest my head, letting the breeze blow pleasantly on my face through the half open window.