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“Hardly a surprise,” he says. “That trio is a true masterpiece of passion, aided by a few splats of cum.”

I point at him. “You did this.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Don’t even try playing dumb. This interest is so blatant it’s practically wearing your cologne. Significant scale and intensity? Private interest? That’s you. You ridiculous, interfering, glorious bastard.”

“I prefer visionary, actually.” He blows on his fingernails.

“You told them someone was interested.”

“A lot of people will be very interested, in fact.”

“That’s not a fact.”

“Oh, it is. It’s an out and out certainty.” He has such mischief in his eyes. “I love making rich people panic, desperate to get their hands on big payouts. Stacks of chips, pieces of marvellous jizz stained visionary art, an old slipper from Queen Victoria’s mouldy shoe rack. It’s all the same game. We’re going for gold, baby. Literally.”

That gives me a stab in the ribs. Joviality has its limits.

“It’s hardly a game, Jack.”

“Everything is a game, Soul Girl.” He lies back and folds his arms behind his head. “Some people want to play the game of life with a big, fat grin on their faces, others just shuffle on through with a frown. I know which side of the table I’m on.”

I only wish I was on that side of the table, too.

My nerves are running rife, circling beneath the excitement like hungry sharks.

Camilla will realise she’s made a mistake. Serious buyers will look at the canvases and see nothing but chaos smeared together by a fraud of an artist pretending I belong in that room.

I don’t belong in Hammersmith. Not at a private auction. No way.

Or do I?

The bloom in my heart has a shimmer of gold foiling, just like my work.

Jack is reading me. I can feel it in his stare.

“Stop doubting yourself and enjoy it.” He pats Bryce on the shoulder. “Tell her, BT. She’s worth it.”

Bryce looks so sweet, smiling as he shuffles and winces.

“Of course you’re worth it. Those works of art are aspirational.”

“You think?”

“I don’t think, I know,” he says. “I’ve always known. Right from when you were just a girl with a sketchbook in your hands.”

His words bring a lump to my throat. I’m back there, in the summerhouse, sketching out abstract portraits while Bryce and I chattered on for hours on end. And it’s like that now. Again. Us here, with Jack, and my sketchbook back in my hands, lounging around his place like I belong here night after night.

“Enjoy the glory,” Jack says. “Kudos to you, Alice. You’re about to hit the big time.”

My giggle sounds weak.

“Steady on, there. I’ll get a shot at it. That’s all.”

“Bullshit,” he says, with a wiggle of his eyebrows that reeks of a confidence I’ve never had.