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I could bid on all of those. Not enough to win everything. Just enough to establish a pattern.

That’s what games are all about. Establishing the pattern, taking control. Then breaking it.

By the time Alice reappears from the bedroom, dressed in jeans and a loose green jumper, the kitchen island is covered in notes. Names, sales, estimates and rivalries. The beginning of a credible history for an institution that only came into existence a few days ago.

She approaches from behind and studies my screen. Casts her eyes across my notes.

“What’s all this?”

“The Gilded Table becoming respectable.”

“What do you mean? You’re researching other artists?”

“Of course. If I only show interest in you, Camilla will spot the game immediately.”

“So you’re going to bid on work by artists you hadn’t heard of until this morning?”

“Yesterday afternoon, actually. While you were out at lunch. BT helped me.”

She scrolls through my research, pausing at one collector’s profile and my note beside it.

“Supports emerging artists, but only after someone else bids.”

“Follower,” I say. “Useful for momentum.”

She moves to another.

“New money, competitive, easily influenced by the room.”

“Very useful for momentum.”

“This is terrifying.”

“Thank you.”

Her attention shifts to the artists. The burnt-canvas abstract creator. I’ve got it starred.

“You like this?”

“Kind of, yes. I understand it.”

“Really? You?” She lets out a laugh, the most jovial sound all morning. “What do you understand exactly?”

“That the neat surface has been destroyed so whatever is underneath can escape it.”

Alice goes still.

“My God, you’re actually getting into it, aren’t you? You’re beginning to understand art.”

I look into her soft blue eyes.

“I understand destruction.”

“Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

“Indeed. I imagine most creatives battle it head to head, and most analysts try their best to help from the sidelines.”

This conversation is getting far too sincere for me, so I turn the laptop back towards me.