Page 192 of Double or Nothing

“The gambling industry is hardly respectable. I’d rather you were with a pauper than a bookmaker in a dinner jacket. He profits from weakness, nothing more.”

I sneer at him. An actual sneer.

“And the world of finance doesn’t?”

My words crack through the room. Loud.

Mum’s eyes widen. Dad goes very still.

I’ve shocked them. Really shocked them.

A pulse pounds in my throat, but I don’t take it back, because it’s true. Dad’s industry profits from weakness as much as a casino does. At least in a casino people set the stakes with their own hands. Vultures swoop on people’s own decision making, not on the back of unfortunate business crashes.

Dad’s glare is full of disdain.

“That is an extraordinarily naïve comparison. I’m surprised at you, Alice. So incredibly rude.”

I summon Jack’s fire from the pit of my stomach. It’s a tiny flame, but it’s still alive.

“Both industries make money from risk,” I say. “So, what’s the difference?”

“One creates growth. The other feeds reckless addiction. That’s a striking difference.”

I go for another shocker, since I’m in the flow.

“At least Jack wears a much hotter suit while doing it. Your associates generally look like a snapshot of the fifties. Wrong choices at Savile Row.”

“Alice!” Mum snaps.

Ouch, what a teenage move.

Fuck. This isn’t fire. It’s fighting back at age thirteen.

Dad rests his hands on either side of his plate.

“You’re proving my point.”

“What point?”

“This Jack character is playing you. Tapping into your romanticising of rebellion.” His glare is like steel. “A casino owner randomly throws some money at your paintings, tells you what you want to hear, and suddenly you’re repeating his opinions as though they’re gospel. I can see what’s going on, and believe me, I’m not amused. Not in the slightest.”

“That’s nothing even vaguely like the truth.”

It’s utter bullshit, I want to say.

“Really? Enlighten me, then,” Dad says. “What is this truth you’re referring to? Tell me about you and Mr Reid.”

His question is cold. Surgical.

I hate him for knowing exactly where to cut.

I don’t know what to say to him, so I take a massive mouthful of goat’s cheese with a yummy.

“Don’t want to talk about it?” Dad asks.

“Nothing to say.”

“Hmm. Exactly,” he says. “I suggest you begin making choices that demonstrate your intelligence, not tomfoolery.”