There was only one revolver and it was directed quite stubbornly at Mitch whose face was circled with large bold black marker rings. Dracula stared back at me. Somewhere in the recesses of my subconscious, I remembered that Dracula could not be killed except by a stake through the heart at full moon. The question now was not whether this enemy lived or died but how best to achieve my goal using all the players and instruments at my disposal.

63

Rebecca

Logic finds it hard to conquer neurosis.

I’d become increasingly paranoid, splashing out an exorbitant amount of money to have my alarm system routed through to the police station. Yet no amount of reasoning would quell the fear. Although desperate to see Mitch again, I didn’t contact him for several days following on from my evening with Arthur. I had to play the long game.

My first turn on the auction rostrum was scheduled for the Friday after the break-up. The sales room was abuzz with activity as picture lots were hung, bulky furniture tastefully arranged and china items unpacked ready for viewing. The sale was due to start at six, aiming to catch after-work traffic. By five o’clock the room was already heaving with customers.

‘All set to go?’ Marion fussed round and bellowed out last-minute instructions. Dylan came up and tapped me on the shoulder as I went to mount the platform. ‘Good luck, Rebecca. You’ll knock ’em dead.’

It felt good to be in the limelight, efficient and with purpose. For a short period I forgot the traumas that had come to define my life.

‘Who’s going to start the bidding? I have commission bids on the book and can start at ten thousand pounds. Do I see eleven?’

My eyes darted left to right and back again. The rows of velvet-covered mahogany chairs were full and an overflow of bidders lined the back wall. I was on the stage, my opening night, and an overhead beam illuminated my script.

Jodi had given me an antique gavel, sourced through the internet, and each bang against the hardwood sent a thrill through my bones. Marion’s gestures of approval helped build my confidence and I soon became lost in the action.

The room started to thin out around nine, although there were a few lots to go. Suddenly I noticed a familiar face by the double doors. James Pennington.

Marion coughed, subtly at first and then louder in an attempt to refocus my attention.

The lights came on shortly before ten. The show was over. I stepped down from the podium and excused myself from the congratulatory celebrations, saying I’d only be a few minutes. I ignored the pop of champagne corks, and wandered down the aisle.

‘Hi. What are you doing here? It’s good to see you,’ I said. The past seemed as if it would never go away, rapping persistently at the present.