I rushed past him as quickly as I could, tripping in my high heeled shoes. I realized I have never looked less elegant in my life, but I did not really care. I just wanted to get away and never see anything that reminded me of Ruby again. It will be less painful that way.

I was about to leave the building to catch a taxi when I bumped into my mom. The diamonds in her necklace were shining so brightly they made my eyes hurt.

"Where are you going, sweetie?", she cooed, grabbing my shoulder. "You are not leaving, are you? The auction starts in twenty minutes. You haven't even met all the nice people! There is Sir Florian Boyd over there with his son David - he's your age, I have told you - and Mrs Horowitz and Mr Green..."

I rolled my eyes but she did not seem to notice that. "Mom, please...Let me go. I can't take it anymore! I am so sick..."

"Well, if you had some respect for Aunt Ruby, you would not act like that!" she said, her eyes narrowing. "You are making me so sad, Nita. You've grown up so ungrateful for everything our family has done for you..."

"Mom, for gooodness's sake!" I tried to shake her hand off my shoulder. "I need to be alone!"

"I am sorry, honey, but it's not gonna' happen today," her tone of voice was cold. "You came here with us and you will leave with us as well. It's not your birthday party."

I was so annoyed at being spoken to like that that I couldn't help stumping my foot. "I will go and you are not going to do anything about it! I don't wanna' see you sell my great aunt! Money, money! You just want money! You never think of anything else!"

"What is going on here?" My dad's voice spoke. He was hurrying across the hall, the heels of his shoes clattering a bit. "All these screams! Do you understand where you are?" he lowered his voice. "Come on, let's go and take a seat. Emma is already there talking to Prince Romanov!"

This was so typical of my parents. They have always loved my little sister more because she was way more willing to talk to creepy old Russian guys than I was.

"Isn't he dead? Shot by the bolsheviks?"

"Oh dear, Nita, it's not time for that!" I could understand my dad was being serious. His brows furrowed in concentration. "He is only thirty-two and he is here hoping to purchase the Rossetti painting that Mr Hughes put up for auction. Let's go now, we don't want to be late!"

I threw the last glance at the doors. There was no way I could escape without my parents noticing, and if they noticed, they would kick me out of the house. I did not need that.

"Hey, why is your make-up smudged?" my sister Emma whispered when I took a seat next to her. "Have you already found...somebody?"

Her words made me think about the blonde young man who had asked about the box. Apparently these thoughts made me blush because Emma could not suppress a giggle.
"Aww! Who is he? What about Eric?"

I felt something prickle my eyes. I did not want to break down in tears in front of everyone. I knew I was being watched. Every word, every gesture, every facial expression could cause gossip.

"Nita! What happened?!" I heard Emma hiss at me. I love my sister. She can be so understanding sometimes.

"It's okay. I will tell you later," I mouthed. With either our parents or our nanny watching us all the time, Emma and I had mastered the art of reading each other's lips when we still were little children.

I stopped talking right in time for the man in a tuxedo to appear on the stage. I turned my head and studied the guests. Everybody was dressed up in evening gowns and tuxedos. Even Emma was wearing a long silk dress I had never seen on her before. I realized that part of the looks I received today might be explained by the fact I was wearing dress pants and a blouse.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the man on the stage started. "My name is George Riley and I'm glad to..."

I watched my family members from the corner of my eye. Mom's face was gleaming with satisfaction. She must have met somebody who introduced himself as the Queen's cousin or maybe she had received a compliment on her necklace that I found distasteful. I did not expect her to act differently. She never liked Ruby. But I was unpleasantly surprised at my dad's blissful facial expression. He acted like his aunt's possessions weren't about to be given to complete strangers: even the huge oak wardrobe where he used to hide when he was a kid, or the golden-framed floor mirror in front of which Ruby would rehearse her moves. Emma looked quite calm but, unlike me, she was known for being thick-skinned.

"Alright, so our first lot is a dressing table for £1500 from Mrs. Emily Harrington's family. Victorian style, ninety-three years. So, the starting price is £1500."

I was glad they didn't start with Aunt Ruby's belongings. Maybe I will get used to people selling something that meant the world to somebody else.

"I'm at £1500. I want £1800. Bid on £1800! I want £2000! Who will give me £2000? £2000, bid on £2000! Give me £2500! £2500 once! Going once, going twice, sold! Sold at £2500!"

The man in the first row shook his friend's hand. They looked happy even though I had no idea why would either of them need a dressing table, especially at such a price.

In the following couple of hours I watched people buy a service, a number of old chairs, a collection of photos, and even somebody's wedding gown. I was actually starting to enjoy the event when the next lot came up. It was one of Aunt Ruby's most treasured possessions, a Fabergé egg. One of the few things in her house I've never been allowed to play with. She told me one of her rich boyfriends bought it for her in the 1930s when Joseph Stalin was selling them. Now, sitting here and watching it being sold, I was taken aback. The people around me must be literally rolling in money since they are able to buy it like a grocery item.

When the auctioneer started talking, I could not help but close my ears. I waited for several minutes. When I looked up, I saw a well-dressed elderly couple congratulate each other on getting the egg. Even though their clothes seemed pretty expensive, they looked like rather ordinary old people, and they were stinking rich.

I could hardly remember afterwards how I felt when the wardrobe, the armchairs and the jewelry collection were being sold. But when the auctioneer mentioned the musical box, I came to my senses. I looked around, my face glowing with spite. So one of these old, fat from eating too much foie gra and lobsters, wrinkled people was going to own the beautiful box and the lovely ballerina and the fairytale music just so he could show it to his fake friends at dinner parties. It couldn't be true.

"A lovely box and Tchaikovsky's timeless classic, I must mention" grinned the auctioneer, his fingers wrapping tight around the hammer.

"Stop it! Stop it!" I thought to myself. "I am not gonna live through this. My heart is going to break right here."

"So, the starting price is £250! Who will give me £300? I want £300! £300, I bid on £300! I'm at £300! £350! Would you go £400? £400! I am at £400! One £400! Two £400!"

"I pay £700", a soft and calm male voice stated.

"Alright, £700 for the box!" the auctioneer announced brightly. "£700 once! £700 twice! Sold for £700 to the young man in the third row!"

Everybody including me looked around to see who the voice belonged to. My jaw dropped when I saw the man I had talked to before the auction started. He caught my glance and smiled at me. I felt my knees go weak. What a jerk he was to do that! If he wasn't sitting so far away from me, I'd punch him in his good-looking face with great pleasure.

Soon the auction was over, and most of the guests went on to attend the banquet. My mother, all smiles and laughter, decided to go home because she was watching her figure.

"You know, all this seafood makes me put on ten pounds the moment I eat it!" she explained to somebody's grandfather who looked like he was hitting 100. "But my daughters will stay. They are young enough to eat everything they want!"

This was a lie. As a dancer, I couldn't remember the last time I ate something I enjoy. My diet mostly consisted of oatmeal for breakfast and green salad for lunch. No smoked-salmon canapes or cupcakes or strawberries with cream. I did not get why would she tell the man so, but I was too tired to care.

"Mom, excuse me, but I am going home with you. Good evening, sir! My name is Anita." I introduced myself to the old man and gave my mom a furious look. I did not know if I was quiet, but she acted like she hadn't noticed me.

"Really? Why don't you stay for a while? They play the best music here" I heard the familiar voice say. I turned around to find myself standing face to face with the blonde-haired rich bloke. He spoke in undertones but I still could make out what he was saying very clearly.

"You!" I breathed out, my neutral facial expression turning into a scowl. "You knew that! You have stolen what was so dear to me! What else do you want?!"

"Oh, so much anger in such a little lady," he cocked his head and looked me in the eye. He was actually pretty handsome, and his hair looked so neat, as if he had just stepped out of the hairdresser's. "What if I want to steal just one more thing from you?"

"Could you just leave me alone?" I blurted, turning away. I could not stand looking into his piercing greenish-grey eyes.

"Hey, what is wrong?" I saw him lift an eyebrow, "I just wanted to give you back something that was yours. You're Miss Bergman, aren't you?"

I shivered. It sounded a little creepy. Sure, I was a dancer, but not Anna Pavlova or somebody that well-known.

"Yes. My name is Anita," I answered carefully. I could not understand why I was so mesmerized. There was something hypnotizing about my interlocutor.

"What?!"

"Excuse me?"

He looked down and took a deep breath.
"Oh, I am sorry. I just...happen to know somebody with this name. "

"Well, fine" I mumbled. Just two minutes ago I so wanted to go home and now I did not want to leave. I was curious to find out what he wanted. "And what is your name?"

"Don't you know?" he squinted playfully, touching my hand. I stepped back.

"No. I have no idea, to be perfectly honest."

"Brian. Brian Jones."

- loveandsqualor