Page 98 of Double or Nothing

“Alice.”

“Dad.”

He kisses my cheek, and his hand rests on my shoulder half a second too long.

Assessment.

Silent, looming assessment.

“You look tired,” he says.

“I’ve been working.”

“Working? You mean painting?”

“I mean working, Dad. I’m an artist, remember?”

He doesn’t answer me, the pitted smile on his face speaks more than words.

“Join us.” He gestures to my usual seat at the table. “We have things to discuss.”

There it is already. The tone. The one that says the upcoming conversation has a destination and I’m going there whether I like it or not. Somehow I doubt it’s going to be a toast about the sixty grand I just made for the hospice this weekend.

Dinner begins with the usual pleasantries. Blah, blah, blah. Mum talks about someone’s garden redesign. Dad mentions an upcoming merger in vague terms, never too much detail, because business is for men in rooms with closed doors, not wayward artist daughters pushing asparagus around their plates. I eat enough to avoid comment, drink enough wine to stop myself screaming, and I wait for the inevitable.

The change in tone comes with dessert.

Of course it does.

Parker family ambushes always come with dessert.

Dad puts down his spoon beside his lemon tart and looks at me across the table.

“Tell me about Jack Reid.”

Shit. That was right in for the kill. My stomach drops so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t splatter on the floor.

I keep my face blank.

“Who?”

Dad’s eyebrows lift.

Coward move, Alice. Poorly executed.

“The man who bought your paintings.”

“Oh. Him.” I shrug, aiming for casual and missing the mark. “I don’t know him.”

“You don’t know him?”

“No. Not really.”

“He bought three of your paintings for sixty thousand pounds.”

“Yes. Lovely of him.”

“Lovely?”