Page 287 of Double or Nothing

But that isn’t the way we’re playing it.

Bryce was very clear.

No confrontations.

No public declarations.

No telling William Parker to go fuck himself before Lot 47.

There he is. The grand powerhouse. Sitting on Alice’s other side, beside his wife, radiating the confidence of a man who believes he owns a room, even when the room doesn’t even know his fucking name.

It takes another two lots before he scans the room and notices me himself. To be fair to him, his expression barely changes. Just a hint of a scowl. A brief look at Bryce. Then back to the auctioneer.

A tell all the same.

He thinks I’m here because I want Alice’s paintings.

The idiot has no fucking idea.

The auctioneer opens Lot 21, a sculptural piece of trash made from twisted lengths of reclaimed steel. According to the catalogue, it represents industrial collapse and the abandonment of working communities. Sure, whatever. These people must be viewing things with very different goggles on.

Still, The Gilded Table expressed advance interest, and I have a reputation to maintain.

“Opening at one hundred and twenty thousand pounds,” the auctioneer says.

A woman near the centre raises her paddle.

One twenty.

The auctioneer looks towards the telephone desks.

One thirty.

The woman immediately counters.

One forty.

No hesitation.

I’ve done my research on her. Her name is Celeste Dalloway. Heiress, philanthropist and collector of large objects she can place in gardens nobody visits.

She likes sculptures.

More importantly, she hates Martin Foster.

Foster sits six seats behind her, one leg crossed over the other, making a show of reading his catalogue.

He’s not looked at the sculpture on the screen once, but he’s looked at Dalloway seven times.

Jackpot.

A perfect rivalry.

“One hundred and fifty thousand,” the auctioneer says, acknowledging an online bid.

Dalloway’s paddle rises.

“One sixty.”