Page 232 of Double or Nothing

Jack gives her a side eye when they’re halfway through someone’s grandma’s ancient footstool on the TV.

“You could simply take a photograph,” he says to Alice. “Save yourself the effort.”

“I don’t want a photograph,” she says.

“Why not?”

“Because photographs catch what something looks like in one instant. They don’t reveal what’s underneath.”

“And sketches are different, are they?”

“Very. The artist’s interpretation speaks louder than a digital snapshot.”

The answer quietens him for once.

I watch the pencil move.

“I didn’t even know you did portraits,” I say.

“I do now.”

I shift closer, so I can keep an eye on it over the top of the page. My heart fills with joy as she begins to expand on the initial framework.

She’s captured Jack’s wrist through his dressing gown. The way his hand is gripping my knee.

The edge of the sofa, his elbow so casually resting on a cushion.

Nothing posed. Nothing preened or groomed. Just us. The pair of us. Me and Jack watching TV.

Alice notices me looking.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

I glance at the page again.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It isn’t finished yet. I’ve barely even started.”

“That makes it even more beautiful. Just the beginning and it’s already filled with so much life.”

Her expression changes.

I only understand why after the words have left me.

Just the beginning.

That is what we are.

A beginning forced to behave like an ending.

“I mean the sketch,” I say, cheeks burning up. “That wasn’t a philosophical nosedive.”

“I know. It’s just the truth.” She lowers her face to the page and resumes drawing. “Shame it’s just a sketch, isn’t it?”