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“A couple of early bids on work like this gives The Gilded Table a credible interest in emerging artists, mixed materials and emotional explosions,” I tell her. “Then your triptych fits a collective effort, rather than looking like a personal obsession.”
“Is that what it is?”
“What?”
“A personal obsession?”
I keep my expression light.
“Your father annoyed me. And I like winning.”
“Of course.”
“And Camilla needs to know the interest is real.”
Alice holds my gaze. “Is it?”
The answer requires no performance.
“Yes, of course. The interest is real. The buyer is real. The money is real. This effort will get people to look. Your paintings themselves then get to determine whether they keep on looking.”
“What if Camilla rejects them tomorrow?”
“Then she rejects them. Game over.”
“And if she accepts them?”
“Then William Parker doesn’t get to take the credit for it. You do.”
Some of the despondency leaves her face.
Not all of it. But enough.
She retrieves her phone and begins making a list. Lighting. Measurements. Space around the canvases. Her artist statement.
Purpose cuts through her misery one practical detail at a time.
“Are you coming with me?” she asks.
“I’m kinda busy, if you haven’t noticed. The Gilded Table needs a fair few hours of distinguished history under its belt today.”
Alice collects her coat. At the door, she looks back. Still wounded, still frightened, but moving.
“Thank you.”
I blow her a kiss, since I can’t handle any more emotional sincerity. I’ve had my quota for three decades already.
“Send me photographs once the triptych is positioned,” I tell her.
“Sure thing.”
The door closes behind her.
I return to my laptop, diving into more trends and figures, but I can’t resist checking my phone.
Nothing from Bryce. Not that there would be.
I hate how much my stomach lurches at the thought of him facing Bill alone.
