Page 231 of Double or Nothing

“I’ve never said that.”

“You don’t need to. You whinge about every single piece of furniture on this thing.”

He smirks. “That was before I understood the depth of its narrative.”

I look at him, not sure if he’s actually being serious. Poker face. Until he laughs.

“My fucking God, you guys. You actually bought into that.”

“Because it’s true,” I say. “It’s wonderful how they manage to transform art back to life.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a writing desk, BT, not art. They fixed an old fucking bike last week. Pile of wank on wheels. You won’t see that at Hammersmith.”

I swat his arm.

“It was vintage.”

“It was a pile of crap. Why they even bothered polishing up those handlebars…”

Alice points at him. “See. You do pay attention. Every single time. Talk crap and deny it all you like, Jack, but it’s true.”

“Research,” he says. “Who knows when we’re going to get lumbered with a piece of tat we’re emotionally beholden to? Look at that godawful bloody mug in the kitchen.”

Alice laughs, leaning into him. She swats him like I did.

“I painted that!”

“I know you did. Which is why I might be lumbered with a piece of tat that needs a repair job. Wouldn’t want to lob your artistic masterpiece into the garbage if the handle falls off.”

Jack beckons her to him. She lies across my lap and settles her head against his thigh.

The restorer onscreen begins removing the old varnish from the desk. I try to follow the process, but my mind is drifting. The lurches in my stomach refusing to go away.

My attention is on Jack’s fingers playing idly with loose strands of Alice’s hair.

Her hand resting on my knee.

The rhythm of her breathing against me.

The writing desk is repaired. The leg firmly back in position and the drawers on fresh sliders. The presenters are overjoyed with the progress, and they should be. It looks great.

Jack objects when they suggest painting it. Giving it a fresh aesthetic.

“What the fuck? It’s just fine the way it is now.”

“It’s badly stained,” I say as they zoom the camera in.

“So restore the stain.”

“That’s what they’re considering. Just listen, will you?”

“They’re considering beige fucking paint, Bryce. Beige. Fuck this shit. I’m not watching this kind of torture. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And that thing doesn’t need fixing. Glossing over it with a boring coat of paint and pretending it looks better is nothing but bollocks.”

He flicks forward to the next episode.

Alice sits up with a yawn, and reaches for her sketchbook from the coffee table.

She opens it on her lap and chooses a pencil, sitting at a right angle to the TV and facing me and Bryce instead.