Page 145 of Double or Nothing

Previous buyers. The money people paid for lots before showing them off proudly on Instagram posts. I can’t believe some of these people believe in the grandiosity of the shit they’re spouting.

Alice looked absolutely terrified when me and Bryce said she should submit the paintings.

Not nervous. Not modest. Terrified.

That ridiculous little imposter voice of hers is serving up bollocks on a silver platter. If anyone deserves the respect of these social media likes, she does.

Her paintings are brilliant. Even I can see that by browsing through past sales from this place. Not charity-brilliant. Not sweet-little-rich-girl-has-a-hobby brilliant. Actually brilliant. Alice is called Soul Girl for a reason.

My laptop chimes again. I’ve been removed from the table.

Fuck the online poker, I’m taking charge.

Rich people are fun to manipulate when they’re frightened of missing out, and Alice needs someone to bully the scene into catching up with her.

Apparently, that someone is me.

I’m up to the challenge. Grinning to myself as I keep digging.

Past sales.

Thomas Mackley’s watercolour seascapes did well last year. Ludicrously well, considering half of them looked like damp weekends with self-esteem issues. Eighty thousand for some pale cliffs and moody gulls. Get a grip, people. Ninety-two for something called Low Tide, Returning Weather. No shit, Sherlock. No way I’d go there on holiday.

Eliza Grainger’s sculptural pieces moved higher. Two-seventy. Good. Proper money in the room. A set of neon-framed screen prints by some Shoreditch redhead went for four hundred and ten, which tells me the buyers are both suggestible and competitive.

Excellent.

Suggestion and competition are my native tongue.

I skim bidder names where I can find them. Some are hidden. Some are not. Collectors, hedge fund types, one actress trying to become a patron of the arts. There are two gallery owners who hate each other if the rumours are to be believed, which could be a welcome path to victory.

The more I scout, the more I observe the patterns.

Who chases texture. Who chases names. Who buys early. Who only enters once the room is already hot.

I know this game.

Different table, same tells.

People like this have spent centuries making auction rooms feel elitist, and that pattern is going to change for Alice. Her triage of paintings is not going into that room like a bad auctioneering judgement. They aren’t going for the same rate as a piece by Thomas Mackley. No fucking way.

The more I read, the more the old excitement starts to hum under my skin. Not casino-night obvious. Something cleaner. Nastier, maybe. Strategy. Anticipation. The delicious little click of a table setting itself up to be played.

It’s a table I’ve never played at before, but I can see it already.

A few whispers. A gentle suggestion that Alice Rose Parker is being watched by the right people in the right cities. A buyer or two nudged into thinking they are clever enough to get there first.

And me, somewhere in the middle, smiling like I’m only there for the champagne… until I need to act, and act I will…

I can already feel it. God, I love to be a winner, casino or not.

I’ve got this.

I pull up a message for Alice this time.

About to get your jizz soaked trio into the auction, Soul Girl, by invitation. Stay tuned.

My phone buzzes.