Page 227 of Double or Nothing

His daughter is in the catalogue because she deserves to be.

The listings appear officially on the Hammersmith website at just gone seven, on full display for the world.

We celebrate with champagne and another round of takeout noodles, because none of us has enough energy for anything more.

Alice brings a printed copy of the catalogue page from her studio and we all stare at it together.

Alice Rose Parker, abstract contemporary superstar.

Bryce Terrence Maddocks, financial expert and wannabe upcycler.

Jack Reid, distinguished patron of the arts.

The three founding members of The Gilded Table.

For a few hours, we pretend the week has been moving towards this happy moment rather than Sunday’s shitty goodbye.

Champagne fuels the happiness and obliterates the sense of doom, the catalogue page remaining between us as a testament. A testament to us.

Alice catches me looking at it.

“We did it,” she says. “All of us.”

“Nah, Soul Girl. You did it. Bathe in the pride, just a little bit.”

“You helped.”

“With jizz and gambling skills. Yes.”

“Stop playing it down, Jack. What you did… it’s just crazy.” She looks across at BT. “So did you, Bryce. You helped more than you could ever know.”

I scoff, trying to diffuse the affection.

“Bryce loves both art and paperwork. It was hardly a sacrifice. For either of us.”

Bryce lifts his glass towards me.

I raise mine in return.

Alice looks between us, and for a moment there’s nothing waiting beyond these walls. No arranged future. No family expectations.

I would keep us here if I could. Freeze the clock. Lock the elevator. Tear Sunday from the calendar and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

I want to tell Alice not to go.

Simple.

Fuck off, Mother. I’m not fucking coming.

But it’s not that easy, apparently. Not unless you’re a man like me.

No point preaching to the unconvertible, so instead, I lift my glass.

“To our success, our future successes, and our looming last day as a triptych.”

Neither of them argues. No banter, or eyebrow raising, or jovial little comments denying the horrible gravity.

The Otley meal is arranged, booked in, and its end game already decided.