Love and Devotion by Erica James

modicum of self-respect: if his wife could no longer bear to look at him or regard him as attractive then he was sure as hell going to find the affirmation he needed elsewhere.
    It was a mistake, of course. His self-respect had no intention of showing up while he was cheating on his wife. Even without knowing about the affairs, Maxine’s loathing for him was growing on a daily basis. When he announced that he was going into business, and confessed exactly what line of business he was considering, she threw hot, scathing scorn at him. ‘You, an antique dealer!’ she crowed. ‘You don’t know the first thing about it.’
    ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I do. You’ve taught me all you know. For which I shall be eternally grateful.’
    It was a cheap shot, but by this stage of their relationship there were few sweet endearments.
    When their divorce was finalised and the money shared out, he took a gamble and opened an antiques shop, rapidly discovering that only throwing his gelt at a three-legged horse in the 2.30 at Uttoxeter would have been riskier. Nonetheless, he lived above his rented shop in Maywood, and began a new life of buying and selling. Given the right motivation he’d always been a fast learner, so he read up, did his homework and got lucky when he stumbled across an expert willing to share his knowledge. His name was Jarvis and he took a liking to Will, becoming his self-appointed mentor. He still was.
    All these years on, his life could not be more different. But for all the aggravation and all the friends he’d lost - only Marty had hung in there with him - nothing would make him go back to those days of sitting behind a shiny desk in the soulless air-conditioned offices of Carlton Webb Davis. Not unless he was armed with a machete.
     
    He was sprawled comfortably on the sofa that evening, having decided to take a break from unpacking, and was listening to R.E.M.’s Up - not the critics’ choice, admittedly, but a favourite of his - when his mobile rang. He recognised the number at once. It was his eldest daughter, Suzie.
    ‘Hi, Dad. How did the move go? How’s the new house? And can you lend me some money? Pleee-ase.’
    ‘The move went well,’ he said. ‘Marty helped. The house is horrible. And how much do you want?’
    ‘How much can you spare?’
    ‘For you sweetheart, my very last shirt button. What do you need it for?’
    ‘My coke dealer’s raised his prices.’
    ‘Then tell him to stick it up his bum. You’re paying through the nose as it is.’
    ‘Oh, Dad.’
    ‘No Suzie, I’m holding firm this time. No amount of wheedling from you is going to work. Can’t you try something cheaper? Cannabis, for instance.’
    Suzie laughed. ‘One of these days I’m going to shock you and not be the respectable daughter you’ve always taken me for.’
    He laughed too. ‘So why do you want the money?’
    ‘Promise you won’t hit the roof?’
    ‘Have I ever been that sort of father?’
    ‘I’ve bumped the car and want to get it fixed before Mum sees it.’
    ‘When you say bumped, you mean that literally, I hope? You’re not about to tell me the car’s totalled and you’re in hospital covered in bandages, are you?’
    ‘No, nothing like that. I reversed into a metal post and, well, the bumper kind of dropped off.’
    ‘Mm ... how fast were you going?’
    ‘I was hardly moving at all. So will you lend me the money?’
    ‘Why don’t you do what the rest of us do? Get it sorted on your insurance. If I’m not mistaken, I already pay for that anyway.’
    ‘Um ... thing is, it ... it wasn’t my car. It was Steve’s.’
    ‘Steve’s?’ Will sat up. ‘Hang on, let me get this straight. You mean to say that when you were hardly moving at all, and the bumper just kind of dropped off, you were driving PC Plod’s brand new Jag? The Shaguar?’
    Suzie’s answer was so faint, he scarcely caught it. Or perhaps it was the sound of his laughter bouncing off the sitting-room walls that