In truth, I never really worked for Sotheby's. I was sent there by an agency to clear out a vast backlog of lots that had failed to sell on the company's ill-advised venture into online auctions.
Located opposite the flagship salesroom on New Bond Street, the Internet Accounts Division was rightly viewed as the very pinnacle of short-contract employment. A stone's throw from Oxford Street, it felt like a world away. The sort of place most people needed to make an appointment, just for the privilege of peering in.
I took the desk of a young actor who had left to take the plays of Christopher Marlowe on a tour to Mongolia with the British Arts Council. Two of his flatmates remained and occasionally fed tales back of his adventures to some of the in-house staff that had apparently adored him. In contrast, I struggled to make a similar impact and by the time his first postcard arrived, I realised I had been in the job for over a month without really speaking to anyone, beyond correcting them of how they should pronounce my surname.
The problem was exacerbated by the fact that I hadn't been issued a password to login to my computer and open-up the client databases. You would think someone might notice the complete lack of activity on my screen, but to my knowledge it was never raised or questioned and after my first few days, I gave up chasing my manager for the code.
As a result, it meant hundreds of staff emails were never opened or seen. A regular absentee from team meetings, I missed fire-drills and leaving-dos, everything that passed as internet humour, the latest traffic and news. Oblivious to who fancied who in the office, I kept my head down, fearing even the smallest and innocent interaction would expose my invisible powers.
Every fortnight, very peculiarly, my handler from the agency would ring to check if I was still there. She'd relay bizarre messages to me about how pleased my employers were with my progress and work and ask on their behalf if I could continue 'doing a grand job' for a another month or more. She was mad, they all were, but I told her 'yes' for as long as I possibly could.
My department kept normal office hours, but I usually rolled in about quarter to ten, carrying a coffee and Danish I'd picked up for breakfast on the way. Often I walked in from Green Park tube, through the shuttered galleries on Cork Street and past the high-end jewellery and fashion boutiques, chained off and guarded like red carpets at a film premiere. Switching my monitor on, I'd stare at the blank dead screen, until it warmed-up and eventually prompted me to type my password in. I gave it three random guesses, each one considered carefully on the commute. 'Yellow', 'Lochness', and 'Armchair' were just some of many unsuccessful tries.
Around ten, I 'd leave my desk for a fag break. The staff smoking room was located in the bowels of the antiquated building, in a round shaped room in the basement. Unlike my office upstairs, I'd got to know most the regulars on first name terms and I looked forward to bumping into them on my impromptu visits downstairs. There was Ken from Stamps, Lucy from Musical Instruments and Reggio from the Film Poster Department who I usually ran into most mornings and every hour till lunch.
One of the great perks of working at Sotheby's was the staff restaurant, which was housed right beneath the same expensive one frequented by rich clients and guests. They called it a canteen, but it was anything but and by showing a pass at the entrance, you could eat extremely well on three courses for the ridiculous sum of eight pounds. Sotheby's was my first introduction to lobster ravioli and Beef Wellington. I was twenty-seven and going nowhere.
To me, it seemed a crime that most of my colleagues chose to eat at their desks, or work through lunch so that they could leave at four. I could tell their hearts weren't really in it like mine and they seemed more interested in pursuing other careers, like that of their Mongolian friend.
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