Page 200 of Double or Nothing

Studio visit tomorrow morning, that’s what the email told her.

Less than twenty-four hours.

Catalogue material by Friday.

Six days until the Chicago prince lands back in town.

Camilla’s email should look like pure opportunity, but Alice stares at it as though it confirms the end of her life.

She’s already imagined every stage of her father’s grand plan, I can see that.

In her mind, she’s already standing beside Christopher Otley in her pristine white dress, smiling for photographs while William Parker congratulates himself on another successful merger.

I let her sit in mopey silence for ten whole minutes.

Then I lose my patience.

“Right.”

She barely looks up. “Right what?”

“Time to get your butt in gear.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Soul Girl. I’m not taking this shit all day.”

I grab the phone from her hand and march it away to the kitchen island.

“Hey!” she says, but at least there’s some anger in her now as she follows me.

“Camilla is coming in less than twenty-four hours, so get with it,” I tell her. “Your studio needs preparing. The paintings need positioning. You need provenance, presence and something intelligent to say about those bendy black lines.”

“I know what they mean.”

“Excellent. One job done.”

She pulls my bathrobe tighter around herself, and I can see the whirring of her mind. Too many tells to mention, and all of them point in one direction. Her father’s voice is still working inside her, telling her the paintings are nothing but a rich girl’s hobby and that Camilla will see straight through her.

“She might hate them,” Alice says.

“Yes, she might. She might laugh them off as a pile of shit.”

My bluntness startles her.

“It’s true,” I continue. “She might just brush them off as not suitable and say farewell.” I pause. “Or she might recognise that they’re exceptional. Marvellous. The best things she’s ever seen. Either way, she gets to decide. It’s not your job to reject yourself.”

“Dad’s already done that job.”

“Your prick of a father knows how to tear your self-esteem to shreds.” My pissed off tone bursts through my poker face. “That doesn’t make him an art expert, Alice. It makes him a fucking cunt.”

Alice’s expression tightens.

Good.

I point towards the bedroom.

“Clothes. Makeup. Shoes. Studio.”