Page 280 of Double or Nothing

She looks disappointed, so I correct myself.

“Gold, yes. Definitely gold. It will be lovely.”

Christopher takes my rigid hand. He squeezes my fingers when I fail to loosen up for him. My ring catches the passing streetlamps outside, flashes of white bouncing against the glass.

Nothing but a horrible reminder.

The auction house is a huge, restored building with proud stone pillars, tall windows and grand banners hanging above the entrance.

Our car joins a line of arrivals. Guests step onto the pavement in eveningwear, handing their invitations to staff at the door. Some carry catalogues marked with coloured tabs. Others arrive with nothing but beaming confidence. It radiates around them in a cloud of glamour.

For once, we’re just people in a queue. Parkers or not.

In a place like this, my surname means sweet fuck all, and it’s surprisingly refreshing. Dad clearly hates it, sighing at the fact we’re behind other people with more art circle kudos.

A woman in an emerald coat is ahead of us, talking loudly on her phone, discussing a limit that has apparently changed twice since lunch. The man beside her listens without interrupting, holding a leather folder against his chest.

They look serious.

Prepared.

My stomach lurches. Bad.

“Relax,” Christopher says. “We’ll be inside soon.”

But part of me doesn’t want to be. Every minute we have to stand out here in the cold is a further dent to Dad’s ego.

Christopher’s hand returns to my back every step we take towards the entrance. I want to stamp on his foot, part of me infuriated that he’s even here at all. Instead, I smile for the photographer when we get close enough. Holding him close like a treasured fiancé.

Alice Rose Parker, soon to be Otley. What a good girl.

The reception area smells of polished wood, expensive perfume and flowing champagne. Staff stand behind registration desks, distributing catalogues and numbered paddles.

Buyers don’t wave the paddles around. Not here. They slip them into handbags or keep them pressed against their catalogues, the numbers turned towards their bodies.

Private weapons.

Some people bypass registration and head straight towards the galleries. They must be advisers, or spectators just here for the thrill. I’ve dreamt of this for so long, it’s alien in the flesh.

Nothing looks frantic, not like I figured it would be.

That makes it more intimidating. Far more intimidating than the auctions in my dreams.

Money at this level doesn’t rush and burn out though, I guess. It strolls in, accepts a glass of champagne and acts as though the outcome has already been arranged. For a lot of these pieces, it already has.

“Alice.”

Camilla approaches in a black trouser suit. Very respectable.

“Good evening,” she says. “Welcome.”

“Hi.”

She shakes my hand, then greets my family. Her warmth towards Dad is professional. Nothing more.

I love the expression on his face when he realises she’s immune to his power.

“The triptych is in the main gallery,” she tells me. “We’ve had substantial interest throughout the preview. Several people have returned to see it again tonight.”