‘Next up is a framed photograph of last year's company get together!' 

 

The auctioneer kept his energy up, but we'd clearly hit the lower end items. 

 

I sipped my wine. Speaking of lower end. They always served the cheapest stuff at these events. Another record profit, and precisely none of it invested back into the quality of wine at our end of year party. 

 

And the charity auction. Worthless junk auctioned off to fund the CEO's ‘sustainability' family foundation which everyone knew he'd set up to get his useless son some executive experience. 

 

It was always bad, but bidding on a photo from last year's event was surely a new low.

 

The auctioneer gestured to the big screen beside him showing a blown-up version of the photo. It was taken from behind our CEO, Mr Bolton – speaking to the company a year ago. The photographer clearly had some skills, as it was quite arty how the faces of the crowd listening to the speech were in focus. I'd be in that crowd somewhere, trying to drown my boredom in the same cheap white wine I was drinking now. Last year's might have been the worst speech Bolton has made, which was saying something. Like listening to paint dry. 

 

‘As you can see, the photo captures your CEO mid-speech; his team hanging on every word. And, I don't mind saying sir, last year's oration was a classic. No surprise the company had such a good performance this year.'

 

Mr Bolton smiled. The auctioneer clearly knew flattering Mr Bolton was rule number one at these events. 

 

‘And I understand Mr Bolton has agreed to personally sign the photo for the lucky bidder. Amazing. Now, I'll start the bidding at five hundred dollars.' 

 

 

‘Anyone?' The auctioneer scanned the crowd.

 

Good luck, buddy. 

 

‘Ok, I have five hundred dollars.' The auctioneer pointed, and it was Lisa of course. She knew the rules as well. Bolton nodded in her direction in satisfaction. Loyal Lisa. 

 

‘Do I have five hundred and fifty? Yes, bidding now at five hundred and fifty.'

 

I followed where the auctioneer was pointing. There was Noel Masterton with his hand up. Knowall Masterton. Always smug. Not only was it infuriating how he talked over others – especially me – in meetings, and that he always followed up whatever I said with a ‘yes, of course, and...' to diminish my point, but he was going for Senior Project Manager, too. I knew it was down to him and me, and that Mr Bolton was going to make the decision next week. Maybe he thought buying this photo would ingratiate him? Fine, let him waste his money on a stupid company photo. 

 

‘Anyone for six hundred?' said the auctioneer. 

 

Ping. My phone buzzed. It was Knowall. Why the hell was he texting me? ‘Tired that day, eh?'

 

I gave him my best ‘what are you on about' face. That smug smile. He winked and nodded his head towards the screen. 

 

Ping. Another message.  ‘Bottom right'.

 

‘Bid is six hundred dollars now,' said the auctioneer, again indicating Lisa.

 

Bottom right? I studied the photo. Then I saw it. My stomach dropped. It was me, clearly visible, and clearly – very clearly – yawning. Unmistakeably yawning while Mr Bolton was giving his ‘inspirational' speech. 

 

‘Now at six-fifty.'

 

I looked at Knowall. His hand was raised high, but he was staring directly at me. Then he typed something on his phone. 

 

‘Current bid is six hundred and fifty dollars. Anyone for seven hundred?' said the auctioneer.

 

Ping. ‘Might point that out when Bolton signs it'.

 

My heart pounded in my ears. That would be disastrous. Exactly the sort of thing that would tip the promotion in Knowall's favour. It flashed in my mind like a movie montage: Bolton frowning as he saw my yawn; Knowall making some snide comment about ‘commitment to the company'; Knowall smiling that unbearable smug smile as he handed me a new business card that read, ‘Noel Masterton, Senior Project Manager'. 

 

‘Bid is six fifty. Looking for seven hundred.'

 

 

‘Going once at six-fifty.'

 

 

‘Going twice.'

 

Then it hit me. I could afford seven hundred. Actually, I couldn't not afford it. That promotion was worth thousands, and it was about to vanish. My hand shot up. 

 

‘A new bidder!'. There was a titter from the crowd. 

 

‘Welcome! I have you, sir, at seven hundred.' The auctioneer pointed at me and heads swivelled in my direction.

 

‘Anyone for seven-fifty?'

 

What had I done! Seven hundred dollars! Still, if I landed this promotion, it would be a big pay jump. 

 

‘Seven-fifty. I have Seven-fifty.'

 

Knowall again. Suddenly eight hundred seemed a bargain to wipe that smug smile from his face. My hand was up again. 

 

‘Eight hundred!'

 

The crowd was murmuring now. That hushed excited buzz you get at a tennis match when a point has gone for a long time. Maybe I'd done it. There was a pause. The auctioneer looked at Lisa. She shook her head. Mr Bolton was beaming. Even he can't have expected the photo to go for this much. 

 

‘Nine hundred,' said Knowall.

 

The murmur in the crowd grew louder. 

 

Ping. ‘Plenty more where that came from'. 

 

I did some quick calculations. The bump in pay to Senior Project Manager was at least five grand. Maybe six. Per year. This was a one-off investment in my future. I had a sudden sense of overriding calm. There was only one option. All in. 

 

I put my hand up and loudly said: ‘Three thousand dollars.' 

 

There was a collective gasp. And the sense of calm evaporated. My heartbeat filled my ears again. Even the auctioneer was taken aback. Mr Bolton stared intently at me. 

 

‘Three thousand dollars. Well done sir! That's the bid. Do I have any raises on that?'

 

I decided not to look around. You know when Steph Curry fires up a three pointer and turns around before it even goes in? That was me. Besides, if Knowall outbid me, now at least he'd be stuck with an extremely expensive piece of junk. 

 

‘Going once.' 

 

No more pings on my phone. The crowd was silent. I sipped my wine, trying to ignore how much my hand was shaking. 

 

‘Going twice.'

 

 

‘Sold!' 

 

The room erupted in applause and a few cheers. 

 

‘Would the winning bidder please come up to the stage to accept this wonderful memento?'

 

I walked up to the stage like I was in a trance. People were whooping and reaching out to high five me, but it felt like a march on death row. What had I done? 

Mr Bolton was smiling. He handed me the framed photo. 

 

‘Congratulations,' he said. ‘That money will really help the foundation.' 

 

 

Then he stared me dead in the eye, and in a softer voice said, ‘I hope you enjoy this photo more than you did my speech.'

 

My stomach dropped through my shoes. It was all blown now. Promotion down the drain. Three grand wasted. 

 

Then that sense of calm flowed over me again. When you've got nothing to lose, it's kind of freeing. If you're going down, you may as well go down in flames. All in again. 

 

‘Important to destroy the evidence, sir,' I said. I even threw in a wink.

 

Mr Bolton seemed taken aback, then he blinked and chuckled. ‘Good man. That's just the type of gumption we need in our Senior Project Managers.'

He shook my hand, then the auctioneer came over with a pen to sign the photo. 

 

‘One favour, sir?' I asked as Bolton was poised to write.

 

‘Yes?'

 

‘I'd like to gift this to a colleague. Would you make it out to Noel Masterton?'