Page 19 of Double or Nothing

Tonight, I must appear more like one of the buyers than one of the artists. This event is a big deal for Dad, and I must live up to the prestige. I look so far removed from the woman I am in my studio – my soul bursting free along with the paint as I let myself be me.

The artist version of Alice seems a world away, shoved into the shadows under a layer of lip gloss and glory. I don’t belong here. That’s what she’s yelling at me.

And there it is again… the demon of imposter syndrome.

I’m getting well and truly sick of its shitty inner voice these days. My library of self-help books on the topic has had some benefit these past few years. The voice is slowly losing its power, since I’ve sold a fair amount of artwork since I started exhibiting, and not all of my clients knew my father before they knew me. Just most of them.

Bryce is talking with him right now, over in the corner. They raise champagne flutes, no doubt toasting another business victory. Bryce is a much stronger character standing at my father’s side than he ever was when he was standing next to Sylvia, but he’s still got the loyalty of a golden retriever, turning the business cogs in the background at the click of Dad’s fingers.

He has a streak of imposter syndrome like I do. Or at least he used to, when I was close enough to him to talk about it.

That kind of conversation feels like a lifetime ago, and it hurts. I’ve always loved the loyalty and affection of golden retrievers.

I always loved the loyalty and affection of Bryce, too.

The room keeps flowing, but Dad and his associates do not. They’re emersed in conversation, their eyes fixed solely on each other and not on the array of talent around them.

A fair few browsers are gathering in a crowd by Thomas Mackley’s paintings opposite mine. I can overhear his explanation of his beautiful landscape pieces. The rugged, wild beaches of Scotland, where he was born and raised. He’s made it to the top on his own merit. His family tree is full of fishermen, and the sea is their pride and joy. It only makes my part of the room feel emptier.

I stare at my own three pieces, pure abstract statements, observing them as an outsider. They are completely the opposite to his.

Mine may not be beautiful, true to life landscape pieces like Thomas’s, but they are equally from the heart. We are both artists. My three are a variety of vivid colours, with my trademark central black line through the centre, and a shimmer of broken gold foiling.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles as a man steps up to my side. I keep my confidence at the fore as I turn towards him, my first potential buyer in almost an hour.

My God. The sight of him catches my breath in my throat, he’s so handsome.

He’s a tall blond, with the same colour hair as mine, but his height puts my stilettos to shame. He wears his sharp black tux with pride, and his eyes sparkle as he examines a piece of my artwork with a champagne flute in his hand.

In all my years in this circuit, I’ve never seen this man before. I’d remember him if I had.

“Enjoying the event?” I ask him as his eyes rove up and down my central piece. It’s my abstract cascade of reds, the symbol of fire – the golden swirls of the foiling uncontrollable as they fuel the flames.

He looks at me with a conspiratorial kind of smirk, then steps closer, as though he’s about to reveal a secret.

“Probably as much as you are.”

The hairs on my neck are still prickling.

“Really?” I give him a smile, and his smirk notches up. I recognise the smell of his cologne. It’s Royal Oud. My favourite.

“Yes.” He clinks his champagne glass with mine. “Pretentious as all fuck, right?”

I give him a wry smirk back. “This kind of circuit often is.”

He gestures towards my paintings. “I mean who would actually buy this crap? Twenty grand a piece? I could splash some colour around on a canvas myself and make this shit for twenty quid.”

He laughs as though I’m on the same page that he is.

My imposter syndrome bursts out of the artist cave, and I feel like I’ve been stabbed through the heart, the callous bastard. But I’m no coward tonight. I’m not going to let a joker like him take the piss out of me.

I clear my throat, and stare straight into his deep blue eyes – still alight with his cocky grin.

“I’d like to see you try it.”

“Really?” He winks. “Maybe we could arrange that. I’m sure I could pick up some paint for some fun and games.”

“You wouldn’t need to,” I say. “I’ve got some supplies already.”