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It feels like Alice is in the room, right here with me.

Not physically. Not in some absurd mystical way. I’m not Jack, for Christ’s sake, reading meaning into every raised eyebrow and fridge magnet and cracking out filthy jokes about it. But Alice’s presence is here. Her colours. Her hand. Her soul.

Soul Girl.

Jack’s stupid bloody nickname rises in my mind and refuses to leave.

I root around for the delivery paperwork, because of course there must be something, some invoice, some explanation, some scrawled note with further information.

There.

A small card has slipped from the wrapping and landed face down on the floor. I get a final flash of panic that there’s been a fuck up somehow. That somehow our addresses got befuddled and these should really be with Jack and not me. But it’s just another sign of my self-effacement. I know it before I pick it up.

Of course it was him, and of course they were meant to be here. For me.

Two measly little words are there on the card.

You’re welcome.

Underneath is a phone number.

Jack Reid’s phone number. Finally.

I laugh. It comes out high as a kite.

The paintings stare out at me and Jack’s number sits in my hand.

I should throw it away.

No. I should put it carefully in the drawer with the warranties and tax documents and other things belonging to sensible adults. I should not message him. I should not engage. I should not send even one syllable to the man who has already risked red alert damage to every load-bearing wall in my life.

I especially should not contact him after what Bill said.

Sensible. Sane. Safe.

Boring.

I straighten up and pace.

Phone in one hand. Card in the other.

The sensible thing is painfully obvious. At least sleep on it and get some kind of rest after the crazy weekend. Stay home. Eat something bland. Wake up tomorrow and be Bryce Maddocks again in the office. Fix the mess before it grows roots. Distance myself from Jack. Distance myself from Alice. Let Christopher Otley return from Chicago and become whatever polished, acceptable future Bill has hand-selected for his precious daughter.

My stomach curdles.

Christopher Otley touching Alice’s hand at some gala dinner table.

Christopher Otley standing beside her at charity events.

Christopher Otley smiling his stuck-up grin while Bill beams and raises a champagne glass to their family future.

Something hot and ugly rips through me.

Jealousy.

Not gentlemanly. Not noble. Not quiet longing tucked politely behind my ribs.

This is jealousy with claws. Nasty, serious fucking claws.