Page 95 of Double or Nothing

It’s clear from my tone that she thinks I’m half mental. Sixty grand’s worth of paintings with a you’re welcome.

“Great. I’ll get that sorted for you.”

“Actually,” I say. “Add my number. Make sure they pass it on with the note.”

“To Mr Maddocks?”

I can’t help myself.

“To the guy looking confused and emotionally constipated when the paintings arrive.”

Silence.

Then, to Marianne’s credit, a laugh escapes her. At least she has some sense of humour.

“I’ll include your contact number on the delivery note, Mr Reid.”

“Great stuff.”

“Would you like us to give him advance notice of the delivery window?”

“No. Surprise him.”

“I’m sorry? You don’t want to send advance notice?”

“No. Not to him. Nothing. Actually, email is fine. Send one to me. Whatever.” I pause. “Just surprise him as best you can.”

“I’ll get that done for you. Thank you again for your generous purchase. It means a great deal to the hospice.”

Crap. There it is. The decent bit. The bit I keep forgetting about because I bought those paintings as a show off. To make Alice glow like a horny lightbulb, wind Bryce up, and stick my nose into a game of Cluedo I had no business solving. Or desire to. I just wanted a filthy threesome.

Keep lying to yourself, Jack. Round of fucking applause.

“Happy to help the hospice, please keep up the good work,” I say, and for once I’m not entirely taking the piss. People are going to actually benefit from my bullshit.

The call ends and I sit there with my phone in my hand, staring at nothing.

You’re welcome.

I should have sent something better. Something wittier. Something filthier. Something that would make Bryce choke on his posh coffee.

But no.

You’re welcome to the paintings, BT.

You’re welcome for the holes in your perfect walls being filled by the woman you’re too terrified to claim.

You’re welcome, you uptight bastard.

My stomach does that stupid little lurch again. I hate it. I hate them, the pair of lovebirds in utter denial.

Except I don’t, obviously, which is the problem.

I grab my pack of salt and vinegar crisps and shove a handful in my mouth, chewing like that’ll put a stop to the whole emotional circus.

It doesn’t. It just makes me thirsty, and damn it, I go for a glass of water. Urgh. Who is this prick inhabiting my body? It’s easily time for champers.

I should call someone. Anyone. One of my usuals. Someone easy. Someone who’ll tell me I’m gorgeous within forty seconds and not start sobbing about their past trauma.