Page 217 of Double or Nothing

I let them inside, offer them a drink, which they decline.

Camilla’s attention goes immediately to the paintings arranged along the staircase. The result of last night’s efforts. The colours deepen as the sequence rises, while the black lines strain against their own rigidity.

“You arranged these chronologically?” she asks.

“Mostly. A few made more sense thematically.”

“The progression is clear.”

My stomach tightens. That’s good, I think. Progression.

When we reach the landing, she pauses. Holds out a hand to halt me before I open the studio door.

“Please note that private interest does not guarantee acceptance, Alice. Nor does it determine my professional judgement. Everything will be about the art itself, not the background situation.”

“I understand,” I say.

“Good.”

Something inside me submits to the hands of fate as I open the door for the grand reveal. It’s time for the canvases to speak their own words and make their own sale.

Camilla surveys the scene in front of her like a hawk. Eyes sweeping over everything. Jack was right when he said create the impression. The whole room is a salesfloor, even if you don’t realise it.

I see her take in the ordered paints and clean brushes, the earlier works displayed around the walls.

When she turns her attention to the triptych her expression reveals nothing. Her own kind of poker face.

She approaches slowly, examining the complete work from a distance before moving closer to study its texture. Her gaze travels from red to purple to yellow, then back again.

The silence stretches.

Daniel puts down his cases but leaves them closed.

He leaves them closed…

And in comes imposter syndrome like a piece of shit, taking over every scrap of my rationale.

She’s about to confirm I don’t belong in her auction. She hates them. They aren’t good enough. Nothing of mine would ever be.

But no. NO.

I force myself to remain still.

No apologising.

No explanations she hasn’t requested.

Camilla crouches beside the central canvas.

“What did you use beneath the foil?” she asks.

“Acrylic gel mixed with marble dust. It creates resistance.”

“I see. To what?”

“The brush. My hand. The paint.”

I move farther into the room.