Page 211 of Double or Nothing

Some of her earlier work in softer colours. Straight black lines. Controlled compositions. Then the more recent pieces, where colour begins challenging the structure.

A wonderful timeline of her journey.

I enter the studio and stop. The room is almost unrecognisable.

The clutter hasn’t vanished completely. That would make it false. But everything has purpose now. Paints are arranged on shelves. Brushes stand clean in ceramic pots. Palettes are stacked. The floor has been scrubbed except for the stained section beneath the canvases. Oops.

Her most recent works line the walls. Not hidden. Displayed proudly. A whole host of her talent in full view.

My God, it’s fucking beautiful.

The triptych dominates the far side of the room. All three canvases standing together beneath carefully positioned lights.

Red burns across the first, fierce and bold. Purple moves through the centre, deep and secretive. Yellow breaks through the final canvas with enough force to change the whole atmosphere of the room.

Gold catches in the raised textures.

The black line bends.

And my breath leaves me.

I’ve seen these paintings before, I’ve admired and adored these paintings before, but this is different.

They’re no longer just the remnants of a filthy, passionate night together. They’re a fucking declaration.

A declaration of the immense talent of Alice Rose. Parker or not.

Jack stands on a small stepladder adjusting a light. Black trousers, white shirt, sleeves rolled up. He looks irritatingly confident, even in a handyman position. A place I’d never have put him in.

That’s when it strikes me. Through all the time we’ve spent with Jack, knowing his quirks and tastes and habits, I barely know anything about him.

He’s a diversionary expert when it comes to talking about himself, his past, his future.

Who the fuck is Jack Reid really?

When he turns on the ladder with a lightbulb in his hand, I feel the need to find out more than ever.

I want to know who he is.

Maybe one day.

If we hit gold.

“About time, BT,” he says. “Could have done with your help three light strips ago.”

“I came straight from work.”

“Fantastic. Did you bring champagne?”

“No.”

“Disappointing.”

He climbs down and joins me. Puts a friendly arm across my shoulders with a grin on his gorgeous face.

“Well?”

The triptych holds me, yet again. Sucks me in and won’t let go.