Page 193 of Double or Nothing

I summon up some more of the fire.

“I’m demonstrating my talent by making a career, Dad. The art career I’ve always wanted, you know? In case you’ve been blind since I was four.”

He sighs.

“Stop this nonsense. Hammersmith may get you another token art sale, but it won’t give you a life. Not even close.”

“You don’t know what it could give me. The auction hasn’t even happened yet.”

His stare won’t back down.

“I know what value your work is currently rated at, by purchasers out on a whim, and I know precisely what fifty or sixty thousand pounds buys in London. Not a lot, darling. Not for a woman like you.”

I hate how my words jumble up in my throat. Resolve weakening against the powerhouse.

“Maybe my paintings will make more,” I say.

He laughs. Just a gentle one.

“Face reality, please. You’ve been granted exhibitions because your name opens doors that other names wouldn’t. You’re luckier than most aspiring artists, I’d say.”

My chest tightens.

“I’ve sold work to people who don’t know you.”

“How many?”

I want to curl up and die with embarrassment. Maybe three, tops. Even my first sale as a teenager was to one of Dad’s golfing buddies for his wife’s birthday.

“Please, don’t take it as an insult. You’re very talented,” he continues. “But talent is common. Access to the market is not.”

“So I should be grateful that I’m a Parker? That’s the basis for all this, isn’t it? That’s why I’m here? For another round of what you should do.”

His hands tighten around his cutlery.

“You should certainly recognise what it’s provided you. If you have any sense in your skull, it will be a will do, not a should.”

He’s getting fucked off. I can feel the tension building under the coldness.

Mum smiles across the table, shooting him a nervous glance.

“Your father is only trying to make sure you have security, darling. That’s what we both want.”

I shrug. “I have my own life. My own career. My own passions.”

Dad curses under his breath now, truly getting the rage. It strips every ounce of certainty from my veins.

“Own life? Really?” He looks me straight on. “Your house belongs to the family property portfolio. Your studio was installed through the family account. Your connections in the art industry are mine, not yours, and at a snap of my fingers.” He literally snaps his fingers. “It would all go away.”

I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say a thing. I can feel the blood draining from my face. My fingers shaking around my cutlery.

“Your exhibitions came through introductions made by your mother and me,” he continues. “Your living costs continue to be supported by the family trust. The contacts who commission your work know precisely who you are, even when you like to pretend otherwise. This is the truth, Alice. Grow up and accept it.”

Each sentence is another bar locking into place.

The black line.

Straight.