Page 140

“Where are you going to put them?”

“In the living room, of course, main wall.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

She looks at me as though that’s strange. As though I’d just stick them up in the hallway where Sylvia’s used to be.

“They belong there,” I say. “I’m just grateful I get the honour of having them in my home.”

Jack gives a theatrical sigh. “Touching. Beautiful. Very moving. Back to business.”

He claps once, the sound sharp in the studio.

“These three are going to make a fortune.”

Alice laughs, disbelieving. “Stop it, Jack. That’s overkill. A they’re great would have sufficed.”

“It’s accurate, not overkill.”

“You can’t know that.”

He tips his head. “Art is no different to anything else in the world. I know people. I know appetite. I know there are very rich collectors with too much money and not enough pulse. And I know when something has the kind of energy they’ll pretend they understand because they’re terrified not to.” He points at the third canvas. “That one alone could start a bidding war.”

Alice stares at the painting.

So do I.

A bidding war.

For something born from us.

The thought should embarrass me. Alarm me. Send me retreating straight back into the safety of spreadsheets and locked doors. But instead, something swells in my chest.

Pride.

Pride in having been there. In seeing this part of her, not as a polished gallery artist but as a soul consumed by creation. Pride that some small, reckless piece of our chaos helped bring this to life.

Jack looks at me, and I know he sees it.

The bastard always sees it.

“BT agrees,” he says. “They need to be up for sale.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to. Your face is practically writing a testimonial.”

Alice turns to me.

“Do you really think they’re good enough?”

I stand beside her, looking at the canvases rather than risking the full force of her expression.

“No,” I say and take her hand. “I think they’re better than good enough. They are the most amazing pieces I’ve ever seen.”

Her fingers tighten around mine.