Just My Luck Read online

“It’s not PE today, is it?” asks Mum. Her vigilance is usually spasmodic and always infuriating.

  “Taking my kit in in case I decide to go to training,” I lie.

  She beams at me. “Oh that’s great, Emily. The sooner you get back into the usual rhythm, the better it will be.”

  She’s like one thousand per cent wrong about this. Things can never be as they were before. It’s stupid imagining they can. The usual rhythm is dead and gone. Because the usual rhythm used to beat around Ridley and Megan. Why can’t she see that? I don’t enlighten her. I smile at her, kiss her on the cheek and dash for the door.

  When Logan and I get on the bus, I swear it goes quiet for a moment. Everyone is gawping at us. For a split second I panic, I daren’t breathe. Maybe the silence is ugly, and everyone is going to react the way Ridley and Megan did to the news of our win. But then Logan’s friends start cheering, whooping and chanting, “Rich boy, rich boy!” I read the energy on the bus, concerned that we are going to get ambushed or something, but the mood is definitely celebratory. Logan’s mates are mentally happy for him. Like real mates are supposed to be. They can’t sit still but are up and down off their seats like they are on speed. Logan punches the air over and over again and other people start to do the same. He raises his hands above his head like a champion and people start to sing the Rocky theme tune. Even though none of us were born when the film was made and none of us has ever seen it, we know it’s sort of the iconic song of winners. He walks toward the back of the bus and as he makes his way down the aisle, people clap him on the back and shout out, “You lucky bastard!” But in a good way.

  I follow him, riding the uncomplicated tide of happiness. I’m thinking he’ll still be the only person I can sit with, but halfway down the bus, Scarlett Sorella says to me, “Cool bag. I love it.” She’s smiling in a really friendly way, so I don’t think she’s being sarcastic.

  “Thanks,” I mutter cautiously. Scarlett Sorella is in a few of my classes, but we haven’t really spoken much before. She’s pretty and cool. She’s an excellent hockey player.

  “Hey, sit with me.” She is sitting with Liv Spencer, one of her two best friends. Scarlett throws Liv a move-your-ass look, and Liv gets the hint. She scurries into a seat in front, but she doesn’t do it in a sulky way; she beams at me, as though she’s happy to be kicked out of her seat for me. I slide in next to Scarlett.

  “You can have one, if you like,” I offer. Scarlett and Liv don’t follow me. Not surprisingly. It’s not every day you get gifted a two hundred and seventy quid bag. I reach into my sports bag and pull out the totes. They look particularly shiny and special next to our school uniforms, which are pretty ugly.

  “For reals?” asks Liv. I nod. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t hesitate, not wanting to risk me changing my mind, I suppose. “Dibs on the butternut one.”

  Scarlett smiles. “Works for me. I’ll have the pink and fawn one that matches Emily’s.” We grin at each other. Handbag twins. It feels good. A relief. The three of us chat and laugh for the rest of the journey. I don’t look around, but I feel eyes follow me. I guess everyone is curious and any number of people could be staring, but I sense it is Ridley and Megan sending the evils. Their loathing can’t touch me, though, because I’m protected by an invisible barrier a bit like the one Violet in The Incredibles throws over her family all the time. I guess my mum did just that. She created a protective bubble when she bought that winning ticket.

  By lunchtime word has got around that I am giving away designer handbags to my friends, so I have plenty of friends. In the dinner hall, everyone is jostling to be on my table but Scarlett stays close, like a best friend. I’m not an imbecile. I know she’s not my best friend yet, but I’m not going to lie—it feels awesome to have the possibility that there might be new friends on the horizon. No one mentions Ridley or Megan or asks what the beef is between us. All anyone wants to talk about is the lottery win.

  “Do you want to know what heaven is?” I ask. “Heaven is all the shops on New Bond Street, the moment after you’ve told the assistant that you’ve won the lottery.” Everyone gasps and laughs.

  I tell them what I learned. “Dolce & Gabbana is just out there. Maybe one day I’ll go to some event, like a ball or something, and being so out there will seem like the right fashion choice but it’s not okay for me right now. Miu Miu is crazy chic, Loewe charges over six hundred quid for a pair of khaki trousers. One word. Gap.” My new friends laugh again.

  “Although, you totally won’t be shopping in Gap anymore,” points out Scarlett.

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “No, you totally won’t. You’ll be all about brands like DKNY and Boss.”

  “I did try some of theirs, but all their stuff is way too long for me.”

  “They’ll have tailors or something that do the alterations,” points out Scarlett, who I think is taking to me being rich faster than I am.

  They want to know exactly what I’ve bought so far and what I’m planning on buying next. We’re not supposed to have our phones on in school hours, but I pull out my brand-new iPhone and flick through various sites so I can show the girls what I’ve got. They ooh and ahh appreciatively. I practically drown in a chorus of, “You are so lucky!”

  “That is going to look so cute on you!”

  “Do you think I could borrow that?”

  I show people the hotel we are going to stay at in New York. Not the one that cost 80K because Mum vetoed that, but we’re staying at one that looks really good anyhow.

  “When are you going?” Nella Wang asks.

  “The week after half term.”

  “Term time?” Everyone looks surprised, a few gulp in a melodramatic way. It’s to be expected, we are fifteen-year-old girls and, yeah, we are excitable! Term-time holidays are a rebellion, maybe even an act of war because the Head is dead strict about people taking time off during term. I still can’t believe Mum agreed to it. I think she only did in the end because the people at the lottery recommended that we get away “to take stock, take a breath,” and Mum couldn’t get half-term week off school because nearly everyone in her office has kids and they take turns about who gets to go on leave during school holidays. The ones with younger kids get priority. Mum said she’s going to call the Head today and explain.

  “Do you think you’ll get permission?” asks Liv.

  “What can Coleman do? He can’t chain me to the desk.” Everyone laughs at this and we start to make jokes about whether the Head and his wife like bondage sex.

  Basically, I’ve become a very funny person since I’ve become a very rich person.

  I don’t see anything of Ridley or Megan. They are probably skulking about somewhere, keeping out of my way, drowning in their own jealousy. For the first time in years I don’t care what they are doing. And realizing I don’t care is a huge relief. The win has freed me from needing them. And I tell myself that I don’t want them, either.

  None of my new friends are taking the bus home because they really are staying after school to train for hockey or netball. As I had no intention of doing so, I don’t have my kit with me, my bag was full of luscious totes, so I have to travel home alone. I don’t mind because it’s been such a fantastic day. A bit of alone time is bearable after being center stage all day. I decide to pop into the toilets, even though the bus drive is only twenty minutes. It’s been so hectic I honestly haven’t had time to even wee.

  I never sit, I hover. Opinion is divided on this one. I don’t really believe you can catch any germs from the seat, not unless your bum has an open wound on it, but why risk it, and putting paper all around the seat is bad for the environment. Mum says I should just sit because I’m more likely to get an infection by not emptying my bladder properly. I literally pretend she hasn’t spoken when she says stuff like that.

  I hear them before I see anyone.

  There�
��s sniggering and the door of the cubicle next to mine swings back on its hinges, bangs. Suddenly, Ridley is peering over the top of my cubicle. I am so mortified because my knickers are around my ankles. Not that he hasn’t seen that part of my body, but he hasn’t seen it peeing. Rushing to cover up, I straighten up a moment before I stop peeing. You can guess how that works out. I pull up my pants but he’s already taking photos. It’s just stupid. Totally fucking stupid. I’m humiliated and angry at the same time. Pissed off that he’s ruining my perfect day but also terrified that he’s pranking me to this level. Photos of you drunkenly falling over are bad, photos of you pissing your pants are so much worse.

  He’s laughing his head off.

  I burst out of the cubicle and try to grab the phone off him, but he is tall and easily holds it above my head. Then I see Megan. But not just Megan, there are three other girls with her—Evie Clarke, Shayla O’Brian and Madison Aidan. They all rush at me. They push me back into the cubicle I’ve just come out of, and their combined force is overwhelming. I bang the back of my legs against the toilet, they throb. But as I register that pain, I realize someone has grabbed my hair and is pulling my head backward. Someone else, Megan I think, slaps me across the face. Once, twice. I’ve never been hit before and bloody hell it hurts. I cry out, but then a hand comes over my mouth and I don’t think I can breathe. They pull my blazer off my shoulders, down my arms, so it acts like a restraint. I’m wriggling and struggling but can’t actually fight back. There’s no room to move and besides they outnumber me. I’d like to throw a punch but mostly I want to get away before they can really hurt me. Will they?

  My phone falls onto the tiled floor and I hear it smash. Shayla bends down picks it up. “Oh, fancy.” She drops it down the loo.

  Megan leans close to me and growls, “There you go. Your shit is going down the toilet with your actual shit.” Her friends laugh. I can smell her breath. It smells of the burgers we were served at lunch. “The money your mum and dad stole from my mum and dad can’t make you safe, Emily. Remember that. You are fucked.”

  Someone yanks on my hair again. Madison? What have I ever done to her? Or any of them, come to that? It’s so painful I think she must have actually pulled hair out. Someone kicks me. Maybe Megan, maybe another girl. It’s a muddle of arms and legs in the cubicle. I’m too confused, sore and scared to be sure.

  Ridley has been standing by the bathroom door throughout this, keeping watch for teachers. Presumably he feels squeamish about beating up a girl.

  Me.

  Someone he once said he loved.

  “Okay, let’s get going, we don’t want to miss the bus,” he instructs.

  And they melt away.

  CHAPTER 18

  Lexi

  “We’re in the kitchen,” I call through unnecessarily. The children and I have an after-school ritual that has been long established. On Wednesdays and Fridays, when I only work mornings, I am always waiting for them in the kitchen. On hot days I am there with sliced fruit, iced drinks, and on cold days I offer hot chocolate and biscuits. It’s one of my favorite times of the day. I love the quintessential old-school mothering aspect of it. It balances out the times I’m dashing for the door because I’m late for work, and just scream instructions at them. “Don’t forget your glasses.” “Have you got lunch money?” “Did you do your homework?” Waiting in the kitchen for their return seems like something mothers have been doing for generations. Plus, if I greet the kids as they walk through the door, I’m most likely to find out how their day really has been. On the three days a week that I arrive home after they do, I cheerily ask, “So how has your day been?” I am usually greeted with a perfunctory “Fine.” At six o’clock their school day is old news and they think I am annoying for asking about it. On Wednesdays and Fridays, I get the lowdown.

  Logan will remember to tell me about the parents’ night we’re due to attend, or he’ll talk about how his football or rugby game went, and who he considered man of the match. He’ll tell me what he had for lunch and maybe which teacher is getting on his case. I listen carefully and try to decipher how much of the “unfair hassle” he has asked for or whether a teacher really is nitpicking. I use this time to try to unobtrusively guide and advise him.

  This is, if he can get a word in edgeways.

  On Wednesdays and Fridays, Emily lets it all out. She gives me a running commentary of her entire day, including not only who said what to whom, but also who sat next to who, who side-eyed which teacher. Emily tells me who is dating, who is drinking, who is smoking dope. I really found that quite the shock but pretended to take it in stride; if you judge, they clam up.

  Today, Jake waits with me because he isn’t working anymore. Oh, yes, that’s news. Jake has officially handed in his notice. Well, that makes it sound more civilized than it was. This morning he sent his boss a text, it read: I’ve won the lottery. Please use my outstanding holiday leave in lieu of me working my notice. All the best. I thought he should have written a proper email at least, but he just shrugged and said his boss wasn’t especially formal and that he’d understand. I can’t say I’m surprised he ditched his job. I hope now he’ll finally find something that he really wants to do with his time. Whilst he doesn’t need to work for a salary, he could find something in the voluntary sector, or maybe set up a business. I can’t think of anything worse than endless days that need to be filled stretching out in front of him.

  When Jake graduated, he landed a temp job in a glitzy advertising agency based in Carnaby Street. The work he did was menial, the hours long and no one ever remembered his name, but he learned such a lot. He loved every moment of his six-week contract and it was his dream to get a position on a graduate program in one of the big agencies. No, not just his dream—back then, it was his ambition.

  It didn’t happen. He applied to at least a dozen ad agencies and was not offered a position. There was rent to pay so he got a job working for the sales department in an electrical company; he thought it would be good experience, a CV builder. He didn’t plan to stay forever, but time passed. Not a lot of time, just long enough to somehow disqualify him from following a career path into advertising because when he reapplied for jobs in advertising, he was told his experience was irrelevant, not helpful, if anything a hindrance. “We’re looking for innovation.” “We’re looking for fresh.”

  His next job was selling branded appliances into large retail accounts. It wasn’t a terrible job. We got huge discounts, and the washer-dryer we owned when we first married was top-of-the-line. But he didn’t love the job, so after a couple of years he moved again and started selling software. It required some retraining. At first, he found that interesting. Then boring. Next it was office supplies, and then physiotherapy and sports equipment. Jake has sold something different every three years. He has not progressed to an international position or even a senior position here in the UK because he simply cannot retain the love of his products.

  He still comments on clever adverts. He often gets excited about electronic billboards.

  Obviously, as I am passionate about my work, I realize he has been in an unenviable position. He was good enough to be paid enough, but not ambitious, fulfilled or content. Maybe with this win, and the freedom it affords, he’ll find satisfaction. That’s my hope. I’m pinning a lot on that.

  The kids trail into the kitchen, their arrival home quieter than usual, and before I even see their faces I know something is up. “Oh no, Emily! What happened?”

  My baby girl is black-and-blue. Her lip is bleeding and her right eye is cut, bruised and swollen. My first thought is that she’s been injured at hockey training and we need to get to the hospital as soon as possible.

  “I’m fine,” she mumbles, and then promptly bursts into tears.

  I can’t believe what she tells me next. Megan and Ridley beat her up. They threatened her. Her best friend, her first love, the babies we’ve know
n since birth, punched and kicked and slapped her. As she recounts what she’s been through, I feel like I’ve been assaulted. I wish I had been, me rather than her. Every parent feels this when their child is hurt, either emotionally or physically. They’d do anything to take that pain. But this is worse because we’ve caused it. This fight has come to her door because of the trouble between us and their parents. I also can’t help thinking this might not have happened if she hadn’t taken designer handbags to school, which she has confessed to. I want to thump someone. Maybe the kids who have hurt her. Maybe Jake. Maybe myself. Instead, I hold her in my arms and let her sob. I try to find the words that will comfort her, but there are none. I am silent, my head is full of the blood on her shirt, the bruises on her face and legs. When she finally stops crying, I lead her upstairs, run her a bath, add lots of soothing bubbles, and then I leave her to soak. The minute I’m out of her sight my wrath—which I’ve been suppressing whilst I comforted her—erupts. “Those bastards are going to pay for this! Those animals! I’m going around there right now and I’m going to have this out. Fuck Jennifer and Fred’s deal. They are not getting a penny. Not one of them.”

  “Hang on, Lexi. This isn’t really anything to do with Jennifer and Fred, or even Carla and Patrick. Ridley and Megan did this to Emily, not their parents,” says Jake with a reasonableness that only fans my fury.

  “They are animals and they have bred animals,” I spit.

  “Okay, well, let me just check.”

  “Check what?” I stare at him, confused. Why isn’t he just reaching for the car keys?

  “Check that Jennifer has spoken to Gillian. That she has amended her testimony.”

  “What?” My blood freezes.

  “I’m not saying you can’t speak to them at some point, but the important thing now is that Jennifer has changed her story. Then, even if she changes it back again, or Fred does, they will look like unreliable witnesses.”

  “Fred won’t,” I snap.