Page 223 of Double or Nothing

Alice takes the page back from Bryce. Starts scribbling notes over notes. I don’t know why she doesn’t just use a bloody laptop. She could get PowerPoint lessons from BT. Expert level tuition at zero cost.

Her phone lights up beside her hand while I’m staring over at her, and we all tense up as everything changes.

The warm disorder of my apartment falls silent, because we all know what the flash of that phone means.

“Your mum?” Bryce asks, like it needs asking.

“Yep.”

Alice tries to return to her writing, but the words no longer hold her. She tosses her gel pen to the side with a fuck’s sake.

Her mother has been messaging way too much lately. Reminders about Christopher’s arrival. Instructions about Sunday, making it clear every part of the day has already been settled. A series of questions for Alice that make no damn difference to anything, merely strung into the chain to give the impression she has some form of autonomy.

Even I know the schedule by heart now.

The Chicago prince lands at nine in the morning.

The Otleys will take him home first.

Everyone is due at the Parker estate by four.

Dinner will be served at six.

Five courses.

Joyous.

And this shitty affair is happening this weekend. Four days from now.

Four days until doom.

I’m still treating it like an obstacle, because obstacles can always be beaten. But Alice and Bryce are treating it like a cataclysm set in stone.

“Answer her, before she pings you again,” I say, snappier than I mean it to be.

Alice looks up. “Why? What’s the point?”

“Because she’ll keep messaging until you do.”

“What should I say? Yes, peach coloured roses will definitely be a complement to white?”

“Tell her you’ve ordered a brass band and commissioned an ice sculpture in his honour, and to leave you the fuck alone.”

Bryce gives me a warning look. I’m getting sick of those.

Alice doesn’t smile. “This isn’t funny, Jack.”

“I know. I’m not fucking laughing, am I?”

That came out rough. Barbed.

Frustrated.

I guess I’m as sleep deprived as she is. Our intermittent fuck fests don’t exactly help with the mountain of tasks at hand, but needs must.

I close my laptop, opting to give the motherly texting angle another try.

“Tell her you’ll be there on Sunday. End of. She can piss off and leave you a few days of freedom, at least.”