The agent began the auction. "Have I got an opening bid? Have I got an opening bid for this lovely family home on this quiet cul-de-sac in Killiney? What am I bid for this beautifully renovated home? It's ready to walk into, a magnificent residence, give me an opening bid please. Is anyone willing to start the bidding here today?"

We stood at the back of a small crowded auction room and studiously examined the flower arrangement. So unused to avoiding eye contact, we held our breaths and concentrated on appearing nonchalant. "Whatever you do, don't make the opening bid," my mother had said. "Don't let them see you're keen." There were two houses up for auction, the first our dream home, a five-bedroom beauty with a lolloping sunny back garden the kids would die for. The other was a townhouse in Blackrock. I tried to divide up the stony faces in the room. Is she a townhouse client? Would he have the money to bid for our five-bedroom home?

"Can I have a gentle opening bid of £400,000? 400? Do I have 400? I'm asking for an opening bid of 400. No one in their right minds would see this house selling for this amount - I am just looking for an opening bid. I would remind you Ladies and Gentlemen that our clients have no problem withdrawing this property today. If we do not get an opening bid, we will have no hesitation in withdrawing the property. 390. 390 then. I'm asking 390 to open the bidding".

My heart was thumping loudly in my chest. Maybe there's no one else. Maybe they won't get the mad price they were asking. Maybe we won't have to scrape the barrel of our funds. There's just a chink of a chance. I stared casually round at the motionless faces. "390! I have 390 from the gentleman at the back."

There was a ripple of surprise. No hand had moved. We had missed the wink. People's bodies shifted imperceptibly to take the back row into their peripheral vision. Who was it? Who had dared? The auctioneer's voice glided smoothly on.

"390. 390. Do I have 400? I'm asking 400. I will remind you that the opening bidder is in a strong position and even though the property may be withdrawn, he will get exclusive rights to negotiation. 400? I have 400 at the front."

At the front? Somebody else! We hadn't even bid yet.

"I have four hundred. Do I have 410? 410. 410?" He eyeballed the man at the back who was standing right beside my Jerry. "I'm asking 410."

This time I saw the wink.

"I have 410. Do I have 420 at the front? 420. 430? 430 at the back. 440? 440 at the front. We welcome a new bidder still at this stage; the house has not reached its reserve price. We have 440. Anyone for 450? 450. 450?"

The more he said it, the more easily it glided off his tongue. I heard my children's laughter as they rolled down the lawn. Jerry put up his hand awkwardly.

"We have 450! 450 from a new bidder at the back. Gentleman in the corner has bid 450."

The balance in the room had shifted to us. The man beside Jerry shifted his weight away to the other leg. "It's our house," I muttered fiercely to myself at the man in the front row, my eyes calm. You may be playing a game, but we're talking about our future home.

"450. 450. And I have 460 at the front. 470 at the back. 480 at the front. 490 at the back. Gentleman in the back has bid 490."

These were thousands of pounds, not buttons. Four minutes had passed since the opening bid. The man beside Jerry was silent now. He must have been a plant to get things moving. The coward had never seen himself washing dishes in that kitchen. He had never measured his own curtains to see if they would fit. He probably hadn't even seen the lime green living room, which was begging for a calmer tone.

"The gentleman at the back has 490. Do I have 500? 500? 500? And I have 500 at the front. An important psychological bid that, sir. 500."

The bastard. He's after bringing us into a new stamp duty range. 7 per cent moves up now to 9 per cent. God, God, God. He looks like a solicitor. They didn't even show up themselves. They're taking our home and we never even looked on their faces. A young couple like ourselves wouldn't have hurt so much. This impassive businessman wouldn't do justice to our home. He wouldn't love it like we would.

"Excuse me, while I speak to our clients". The auctioneer and his solicitor left the room. Nobody spoke.

I looked at Jerry who raised his eyebrow. 510? I shook my head. 505 I fingered. Slow them down. When does it go in ones? Each bid had been a jump of £10,000 so far. Our forever max was 507 and it was a crazy amount of money. We wouldn't buy a can of paint if we went any higher. But we wanted it. We wanted it. We had lived in our minds in it. It was our dream. My son Liam loved the house. Had chosen the tree for his tree house.

The auctioneer marched briskly back into the room with his entourage. This was all so barbaric, facing us off against each other like this. And so public. The other 40 or so people were there to watch. Unlikely they were all bidding for the townhouse. The dream was fading. The bubble was still intact but fragile. We were so close.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have spoken to the owners and they are willing to sell the house today at this price. The house is now on the market and we have a bid from the gentleman at the front for £500,000." The auctioneer faced us kindly. "Do I have 510? 510? Do I have a counter bid of 510?"

Jerry held up his hand signalling five.

"505. I have 505 at the back."

There was a long pause. We had it. We had it. £505,000 It was ours. He had paused. It was ours. It was ours! My nails squeezed into my palms, holding onto the prize.

"510. I have 510 at the front."

I released my breath. Jerry touched my shoulder. I didn't meet his gaze. Shook my head slightly.

"I have 510 at the front. 510. 510. 510. Another 1,000 for luck sir?"

Jerry shook his head.

"£510,000 going once? Going twice?" The auctioneer paused, looked at us, and lifted the hammer, which came down on our hearts. "Sold to the gentleman in the front."

"Mum," called Liam later from his seat on the toilet where he does his thinking. "You know the man who just kept paying more and more and more and more money for our house? Well, he won't have any money left for food. And he'll starve and then he'll die and then we'll get our house."

As I put the duvet over Liam's sleeping form that night, I made a promise. We haven't got a tree in our little garden, but one thing is certain, we're definitely, positively, building a tree house this summer.