Page 221 of Double or Nothing

Spot on, Jack says. Go high, end up with the result you wanted. Paid off. Three hundred reserve.

Of course. That was his fucking plan all along.

A laugh breaks through my tears.

I touch the signature at the bottom of the final canvas.

Alice Rose Parker.

Dad has always treated Parker as the most important word in that trio, but no.

Today, Camilla Stour chose Alice Rose.

CHAPTER FORTY

JACK

The upcoming catalogue takes over the entire apartment within hours.

Alice’s triptych prep covers half my kitchen island. Condition reports, measurements, material lists and declaration papers.

As for The Gilded Table. It proudly occupies the other half.

It has a collecting brief, a registered address and enough background to survive Camilla Stour’s eagle-eyed scrutiny. I know which artists fit its supposed tastes and budgets. I’ve done my research.

Understatement of the century.

Now I need to make it behave like something real…

I answer emails without responding so quickly that I look over eager. I request condition reports for work other than Alice’s. I ask questions about provenance, previous exhibitions and existing collector interest.

It all works towards the fallacy that The Gilded Table has been quietly developing its strategy for months, rather than popping up out of nowhere several days ago.

I study the language used by established buyers. Very important.

They never say they love something. Not ever.

They call it compelling.

They don’t ask whether an artist is successful. No, no, no.

They ask how the market has responded.

They don’t admit they want to own a piece, just to enjoy it for what it is. A painting. They express an interest in pursuing it, as though the artwork itself is applying for the privilege of sitting on their bloody wall.

Pretentious as fuck.

Hell yeah, I was born for this shit.

In no time at all, The Gilded Table has requested additional information on four lots, declined an invitation to view another, and asked to be notified if two specific works attract serious advance interest.

By Wednesday morning, my apartment has well and truly become a workplace. But more significantly than that, it’s well and truly become a home.

Bryce has complete outfits in my wardrobe and a spare charger beside the sofa. Alice’s shoes are everywhere. Multiplying by the second. The fridge contains food I’d have never considered buying, and three mismatched mugs have appeared in the cupboard. Three. One of them is chipped and paint stained and looks like Alice has owned it since she was eight years old.

These two are totally ruining the aesthetic of my spacious playboy abode.

Unfortunately, I fucking love it.