Page 101 of Double or Nothing

“I know that.”

“You’ve had time.”

“For what?”

“To explore. To paint. To find yourself.”

Find myself.

His attitude always pisses me off. As though I’ve been on some extended gap year funded by his patience. As though my studio is a hobby room. As though the paint under my nails is nothing but childish residue I should have grown out of.

“My work is not some passing phase.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You implied it.”

“I said you’ve had time.” Dad’s eyes stay steady on mine. “It’s time to think seriously about your future.”

“I do think seriously about my future. All the time.”

“No, Alice. You think passionately. Dramatically. Creatively. Not seriously.”

The words slap harder than they should.

Because he means them.

That’s the worst thing. He isn’t being cruel for the sport of it. He genuinely believes this is wisdom. Fatherly guidance. A necessary steering of his difficult, artistic daughter back onto the correct path.

“I am an artist,” I say. “That is very serious. At least for me.”

“For now.”

My heart cracks.

Just a little.

Enough.

Bastard.

“For now?” I repeat. “What do you mean by for now?”

Dad exhales through his nose, as though I’m forcing him to be blunt.

“You can’t stay an immature artist for ever.”

The crack in my heart opens wide.

Mum looks down at her plate.

Coward.

Beautiful, elegant coward.

“My work raised sixty thousand pounds for Redwick Hospice two nights ago,” I say. “Does that count as immature? I don’t think so.”

“It counts as a success. One I’m proud of.”