Down London Road

hardly
old
. He was, however, fifteen years my senior. I didn’t care. Convinced that he might be
the one
, I didn’t want Joss jeopardizing the progress of our relationship by insulting his good friend.
    ‘Jocelyn’ – Braden gripped her waist again, eyeing me and my growing panic – ‘I think it best if you practise the art of artifice tonight after all.’
    Finally reading my expression, Joss placed a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘I’m kidding, Jo. I’ll be on my best behaviour. I promise.’
    I nodded. ‘It’s just … things are going well, you know.’
    ‘Malcolm seems like a decent guy,’ Braden agreed.
    Joss made a sound at the back of her throat, but we both ignored it. My friend had made her opinion clear on my choice of boyfriend. She was convinced I was using Malcolm and he was using me. It was true that he was generous and I needed that generosity. However, the bigger truth was I really cared about him. Ever since my ‘first love’, John, when I was sixteen years old, I’d fallen for charming providers and the idea of security for me and Cole. But John had gotten fed up with playing second fiddle to my family, and after six months he’d dumped me.
    It had taught me a valuable lesson.
    It had also given me a new requirement in a boyfriend – he had to have a good job, be driven, hardworking, and have a good income. No matter how hard I worked, with my nonexistent qualifications and lack of any real talent, I was never going to make enough money to secure a stablefuture for my family. I was, however, pretty enough to secure a
man
with good qualifications and talent.
    A few year after I pieced myself back together from the heartbreak of my failed romance with John, Callum entered my life. Thirty, a well-off solicitor, gorgeous, cultured, sophisticated. Determined to make it last, I became what I imagined was the perfect girlfriend to him. It was a habit, becoming someone else, especially since it seemed to work. Callum thought I
was
perfect for a while. We were together two years – until my secretiveness about my family and my inability to ‘let him in’ drove too deep a wedge between us and he left me.
    It took me months to scrape myself back together after Callum … and when I did, it was to run into the arms of Tim. Horrible decision. Tim worked for an investment company. He was so mind-numbingly self-absorbed that
I
actually dumped
him
. Then there was Steven. Steven was a sales director for one of these annoying door-to-door sales companies. He put in long hours, which I thought might work in our favour, but it didn’t. Joss thought Steven had dumped me because of my inability to be flexible about anything because of my family obligations. The truth was I dumped Steven. Steven made me feel worthless. His comments about my general uselessness brought back too many memories, and although even I thought there was little to recommend me other than my looks, when your boyfriend said the same and ultimately made you feel like a paid escort, it was time to call it quits.
    I took a lot of crap from people, but I had my limits, and the older I got, the narrower those limits became.
    Malcolm was different, though. He never made me feel terrible about myself, and so far our relationship was moving along nicely.
    ‘Where is Lotto-Man?’
    I shot a glance over my shoulder and searched for him, ignoring Joss’s sarcasm. ‘I don’t know,’ I murmured.
    With Malcolm I’d literally hit the jackpot, as he was a solicitor-turned-lottery-winner. He’d won the EuroMillions three years ago and given up his job – his career, in fact – to begin enjoying a new life as a millionaire. Used to being busy, he’d decided to try his hand at property development and now had a portfolio of properties he owned as a landlord.
    We were standing in an ancient redbrick building with its dirty windows made up of rows of small rectangles that you’d be more likely to see on a warehouse than an art gallery building. Inside was a different matter altogether. Outfitted with hardwood floors, amazing lighting and partition walls for the art, it was the ideal gallery spot. Malcolm had divorced a year before his win, but of course a good-looking, wealthy man attracted young women like me. He’d soon encountered Becca, a savvy twenty-six-year-old Irish artist. They’d dated for a few months and remained good friends even after they broke it off. Malcolm had invested money in her art, renting a gallery a few