Martin went to the charity auction to buy a bicycle and found his bedside lamp on lot seventeen.
He recognized the crooked brass stem, the green shade, and the small scorch mark he’d always described as “character.” He had owned it since university. His wife, Ruth, had described it using several other words.
He phoned her from behind a display of donated pictures.
“My lamp is here.”
“Is it enjoying itself?”
“Did you donate it?”
“I donated a box of things from the spare room.”
“It wasn’t a thing from the spare room. I put it there temporarily.”
“Yes,” Ruth said. “For nine years.”
Martin examined the lot card. Someone had called it an elegant vintage reading lamp. He almost photographed the description to send Ruth, then remembered it was a charity auction. People were entitled to be generous.
The volunteer beside the display asked whether he was interested.
“Possibly.”
“Lovely piece.”
“I know.”
“We’ve had several inquiries.”
Martin straightened. Ruth had said nobody would take it even if he paid them. He decided to buy it back, bring it home with its flattering description, and settle the argument permanently.
He asked the volunteer whether she could withdraw it.
“Only the donor can do that.”
He considered calling Ruth again. Then he pictured explaining that he wanted her to rescue the lamp she had just escaped. He took a bidding number instead.
A woman near the front studied the lamp. Martin studied her. She wore expensive-looking glasses and had already bought a small painting. If she wanted it, perhaps the lamp was worth more than he’d thought.
Before the bidding started, a volunteer plugged the lamp in. It lit up immediately. Martin smiled with paternal pride. Then she switched it off and called it “surprisingly dependable.” He wanted to object to the surprise, but the woman with the glasses was nodding. He decided not to interrupt a favorable expert opinion.
The bidding began at five pounds. Martin raised his card. So did the woman.
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
Martin had planned to spend fifteen at most. But by twenty-five, he was no longer buying a lamp. He was defending an informed aesthetic judgment.
The woman raised her card again.
At forty pounds, the auctioneer said, “Someone clearly has a very special place for this.”
“Beside my bed,” Martin muttered.
At fifty, he remembered the bicycle. At sixty, he remembered Ruth saying the lamp was a fire hazard. At seventy, the woman hesitated. Martin immediately bid eighty, to discourage further thought.
“Sold!”
The room applauded. Martin tried to look like a collector who regularly made decisions of this kind.
At the payment desk, he asked whether the woman had left a telephone number. Perhaps he could learn what she knew about the lamp.
“No,” the volunteer said. “But she’s still here.”
The woman approached carrying two cups of tea. She handed one to Ruth, who had just come through the door.
Martin stared.
“You know each other?”
“We play tennis,” Ruth said.
The woman smiled. “I was sorry to lose that. Ruth said it would look lovely in my study.”
“It would,” Ruth said.
Martin looked from one to the other. There had been no conspiracy. Somehow that made his eighty pounds feel worse.
Ruth helped him carry the lamp to the car. He put it carefully on the back seat and fastened a seat belt around it.
“I suppose you’re going to say I paid eighty pounds for something I already owned.”
“No,” Ruth said. “You’ve helped a good cause.”
“And I get to keep it.”
“Of course.”
Martin relaxed. “So we’ve finally agreed it’s worth keeping.”
Ruth handed him the auction receipt.
“Keep that beside it,” she said. “Next year we’ll know where to start.”