Page 107 of The Unraveling

I start to walk toward him, but am stopped by Alistair approaching me. He gives me a wink and then stands by my side, where he whispers, “Nice guy,” before asking a server if they have any scotch hidden somewhere in the back. The server nods and goes off to find it for him.

The gallery owner puts a little scarlet dot on the info panel by Jordan’s painting nearest to us. It’s a mix of grays and blues and something about it gives me chills.

I know that the little dot means it sold.

“Did you just buy that painting?” I ask.

“I did. For quite a bit above its value, in fact.”

“Why—why did you do that?”

“He’s a great artist. He’s up-and-coming. And by buying it at this price, I’m raising the value of his other work, which I’ve started buying up recently.”

“You didn’t tell me that. Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I own a lot of art, Jocelyn; would you like me to tell you every piece I own?”

I start at this, but look up at him to see a wash of amusement in his features. He’s kidding. It just didn’t sound like he was kidding.

The server returns with his scotch, and he accepts it, slyly handing over a twenty-pound note as he does.

“One more thing,” he says. “I put it under your name.”

“Put—the sale of the painting?”

“Yes. Hope that’s all right.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Let’s just call it diversifying my assets. I paid for it, of course. And the sale should register as anonymous, should anyone look into it, but if they look too deeply, they’ll find your name instead of mine. I can hardly escalate the artist’s value if I’m buying them all for myself, can I? Plus, if I gift it to you, it’s a tax write-off, isn’t it?”

I feel a little lost. This is not a side of art or wealth I’ve ever been exposed to, and I’m not sure what to say in response.

“Okay,” I say. I try not to expose how shocked I am.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” he says. “You’re now the proud owner of a painting worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.”

I cough on my sip of champagne. “Hundreds of—”

“That’s right,” he says.

I look around to find Jordan, and I see him in conversation with another rich-looking man and the gallery owner. Jordan looks a little ruffled.

Last I knew, his pieces were selling for a lot, but not for that much.

Christ, if the gallery owner ratchets up the prices on all the others to match Alistair’s purchase, and everyone knows it just sold tonight—well, Jordan could leave tonight a millionaire.

I start to understand what Alistair’s intentions are.

“But why do you care about making the pieces worth more?” I ask. “Don’t you already have more money than God?”

He laughs. “You haven’t spent enough time in the upper echelon, have you?”

“I’m a ballerina, I’ve spent plenty of time with men like you,” I snap back. “Your obscene wealth doesn’t impress me. And isn’t it your wife’s, anyway?”

It’s a daring thing to say, and for a moment I’m sure I’ve said just the wrong thing.

He arches an eyebrow and gives the hint of a smile.

---