Just My Luck Read online

  Jake insists on ordering champagne. He hasn’t drunk anything else since the win.

  “Let’s buy by the glass, then we can switch to wine if we want to,” I suggest. He shrugs, but doesn’t object. He just throws me an odd look that suggests I’m bonkers and then catches himself, tries to put his face back into neutral. I know, I know we can afford champagne, we can probably bathe in it, but I want wine. Once we have our drinks and whilst we wait for the main course, I turn to Jake. “So the children tell me you went to look at a school today. That was quick off the block.”

  “Why hang about? I called Coopers and the Head there said she’d see me.” Coopers is the local private school; I’m relieved that at least he hasn’t been more ambitious and thought of sending them to boarding school without consulting me. “I thought it was worth striking while the iron is hot. I know you don’t like me just hanging around the house.”

  This is true so I can hardly object to him showing initiative. “What’s it like?”

  “Beautiful. Amazing. The facilities are out of this world. They have a theater, language labs, science labs, a music room.”

  “Sign me up,” says Emily.

  “We have all that stuff,” points out Logan, not willing to keep the reluctance out of his voice.

  “Yeah, you do, but this is all just bigger and better and shinier.” Jake laughs and downs his glass of champagne, signals to the waiter for another one. He offers me another, but my glass is still full. “Their theater has dressing rooms and the light-and-sound kit is amazing. The language and science labs are state-of-the-art. I’ve never seen as many instruments as there were in the music rooms. The sports facilities are spectacular, son.”

  “Really?”

  Jake knows which buttons to press, I’ll give him that. “Honestly, they have everything. An Olympic-size swimming pool, full-size football and rugby pitches, 4g AstroTurf, cricket nets, squash courts, tennis courts, a gym. You should have seen it.”

  Yeah, he should have. We all should have.

  Our starters arrive and the conversation is put on pause as we all ooh and aah at the plates in front of us, which are basically works of art. The waiter asks if we need anything; Logan asks for ketchup. To give the man his credit he doesn’t blanch. It’s only after the chorus of appreciative noises has died down that Jake says, “There are places available. You could start straight after half term.”

  “What? The week after next? No, that’s not possible,” I say instinctually, although I haven’t really fully formed a reason as to why I’m objecting.

  “Why not? It makes sense to get half a term under their belts before the summer. That way they can make friends who they can see over the long holidays. The right sort of friends,” adds Jake, looking pointedly at Emily’s bashed face.

  “How come there are places? I thought a school like that would have waiting lists. It should have if it’s any good.”

  “It does.” Jake grins. “The headmistress mentioned her plans to extend the library. I made a sizable donation.”

  “You did what?” I bristle.

  “It’s how it works, Lexi.”

  “If we start the week after half term, does that mean we can’t go to New York?” asks Emily. “That was when we were planning our trip.”

  “I think we should cancel that,” says Jake.

  “What? No,” Emily objects vehemently.

  “Well, postpone. We can go in the summer. Your mother is right, we need to get you back in a routine. Start our new life as soon as we can.” The kids glare at me and I’m unsure how the blame landed at my door.

  “If we cancel the holiday, will we get our deposits back?” I ask.

  “For the hotel, yes.”

  “What about the flights?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Emily looks broken. I want to fix her. “I suppose now that I’m not working and don’t have to worry about getting leave at half term we could bring the trip forward. Go next week,” I suggest.

  “I thought about that, but then thought maybe it’s all a bit too much. Maybe we do need to take a breather, like you said. Take time to really let it all sink in. I mean, we’ll need to organize buying the new school uniforms and such. It will be hectic,” says Jake. I am gobsmacked by his U-turn and I must look as startled as I feel because he adds, “What’s up? I thought you’d be pleased.”

  I am. Deep down, I think. I do believe we need a breather and I wasn’t really looking forward to the orgy of shopping on Fifth Avenue that I know Emily was planning, but I had been keen to visit Ellis Island and see the Statue of Liberty. Besides, I just don’t like breaking promises to the kids. Reading my mind, Jake assures me, “The kids will get over it. I’m not saying never, I’m just postponing.” Turning to them, he flashes one of his best smiles. “When we go in the summer, we can stay longer or fly to the West Coast, too, and go to LA.”

  “LA! Really?” Emily is instantly mollified.

  “We could visit Universal Studios,” adds Jake. And that hooks in Logan. He doesn’t need to say anything more—they are placated, compliant. The holiday forgotten. A new school agreed to. Like lightning. Jake has secured everything he wanted. Yet he pushes on regardless. “You know what I’ve been thinking?”

  “What?”

  “We should throw a party.”

  “A party?”

  “It’s no one’s birthday for ages.”

  “You can have a party without it being a birthday, Logan,” points out Jake. “I was thinking we should throw a party to say goodbye to all your old school friends and we could get the class list off your new school and invite your new friends, too.”

  “Have you lost your mind? That will never work,” I interject. I think it’s so obvious I don’t even feel I have to explain. Two sets of teens from different schools and different scenes. Half of whom we’ve never met. Why would they even agree to come? I’m absolutely blown away by the fact that Emily isn’t closing down the idea immediately.

  “All my old school friends?” she asks with what sounds like curiosity.

  “Yes. A huge blow-their-minds sort of party.” He doesn’t say it, but I can’t help but think that far from being a celebratory occasion—the subcontext is to rub other people’s noses in it. To smear our wealth far and wide.

  “And my friends?” asks Logan.

  “Sure, yeah of course, buddy.” Jake ruffles Logan’s hair. “And mine and your mum’s. We’ll invite everyone we know.”

  I hate being thrust into the role of realist bad cop, but feel I have to point out the flaws in the plan that seem so obvious to me and are apparently eluding everyone else. “And do you think everyone will come?”

  “Well, my old mates certainly will,” says Emily, presumably discounting Ridley and Megan, who are unlikely to RSVP in the positive even if we did ask them, which I never would, not in a million years.

  “I see that, but your dad mentioned inviting your new classmates. I’m not sure about that. We know nothing about them. We don’t know how they roll.”

  “Everyone loves a party,” interjects Jake.

  “Well, no, teens don’t. Not always.” He’s a very involved dad; I know he is aware of cliques, gangs, fashions, trends, socioeconomic status, cool status and just plain old-fashioned self-consciousness—all the factors that can cripple a teen party.

  “I think if there is enough drink, everyone will enjoy it,” insists Emily.

  “Emily, you are fifteen. Any alcohol served will be limited and, besides, you don’t even drink.”

  “Yeah, you’re a freak,” chips in Logan.

  Emily throws him a searing look of irritation and I automatically say by rote, “Don’t be rude to your sister.”

  “I’m not being rude. I’m being factual. She’s two months off her sixteenth birthday and she doesn’t drink. Everyone else her age does. S
he’s a freak and I don’t just mean everyone else considers her a freak, which they do, she is an actual freak. Statistically proven.” Logan continues to dip skinny fries into the ketchup and then pushes them into his mouth, seemingly unaware of the offense he is causing.

  Jake rescues the situation. His ease and charm are always really helpful when it comes to defusing the kids’ spats. “I think everyone will come to the party if it is cool enough. And yeah, that means some drink,” he says, smiling encouragingly at Emily, “but dished out responsibly.” He shoots me a reassuring grin. Jake has a way of making everyone love him even when they are on opposite sides of the fence. “This party needs to be awesome. And when I say awesome, I mean awesome. A recognized DJ. For starters.”

  “Really!” Emily squeals.

  “Yeah, like someone who plays on Radio 1. They gig out at unis, don’t they? We must be able to secure someone your mates will know. We’ll have lights, a dance floor, smoke machines, all of that.”

  “Wow.” Emily’s eyes are wide with expectation. “Also a theme. We need a theme.”

  “Like Stars Wars!” exclaims Logan excitedly.

  Jake and Emily don’t dignify his comment with a direct response. Jake continues, “Like a color theme, or underwater world, a carnival,” and looking around him for inspiration, “The Great Gatsby.”

  “A carnival could be good.” Emily is grinning. “We can hire rides, like a Ferris wheel and a merry-go-round.”

  “A bouncy castle?” Logan is beaming, enough of a kid to want to bounce on a castle for the sheer joy and giddiness of jumping up and down. I think Emily might caustically shoot him down, but she maybe is still enough of a kid to appreciate that joy, too, because she nods.

  Or maybe she just knows impulsive uncontrolled bouncing up and down is a great way to flirt.

  Is she even thinking about flirting with someone new? What is she thinking and feeling about Ridley and Megan? I don’t quite know, and I should. Yesterday she was adamant that she hates them, but that sounds too simple to be true. She’s had a strange feverish edginess about her tonight. What does that mean? Does she fear them? Teens are surprisingly resilient and horribly vulnerable, sometimes simultaneously. I can’t help but wonder if she’s purposefully stuffing back emotions she can’t comprehend.

  “We could get a candy floss machine, bunting, festoons of lights. A marquee in the shape of a circus big top.”

  It’s lovely to see my daughter so excited by something, especially after what she’s been through. I feel mean throwing cold water on the idea, but I just think this is all moving too quickly. I don’t know for a fact that the gifting of the designer bags inflamed Megan and her thugs enough for them to instigate the beating, but I have a feeling that it did. Jealousy is an insidious, pervasive disease. I’m concerned that throwing a look-at-us, full-on, show-off party isn’t going to have the desired effect of getting all our friends, neighbors and associates to celebrate with us; it may just turn into something that will cause further resentment. “We haven’t got room for any of these things. We can’t fit a Ferris wheel in our garden.”

  My family turn to me and laugh loudly. Even Logan. “We’ll rent a venue, a field or something, obviously.”

  “Obviously.” I down my glass of champagne and make eye contact with the waiter. I think I might need to order a bottle after all. This is likely to be a long night.

  CHAPTER 24

  Lexi

  Friday, May 10

  The days of the week explode like fireworks, tumble, shine and then disappear now that we are lottery winners. The days have no order to them, and time seems irrelevant, almost awkward. Routines are abandoned, surprises are abundant. Friday is no longer a day when I see the kids off to school, my husband off to work and then go to work myself, partially excited that it’s a half day (home by two o’clock—the freedom!) and partially panicked (how I will fit a day’s work into a few hours?). Only one of my kids goes to school, and neither my husband nor I work. As my days are no longer divided into thirty-minute appointments, they stretch out, endless and indolent. This Friday I’m pleased to have something to do, somewhere to be. We are meeting with a financial advisor to decide how best to manage our millions. Unbelievable.

  Jake and I sit in the huge glass atrium, staring at an eight-metre-long reception desk at which sit four receptionists of exceptional beauty. There is a living wall of plants behind them, reaching up at least ten metres and yet still not hitting the ceiling. There are a number of conversations I want to have with my husband. They hang in the air around us, like overly pungent incense: silent, colorless but intrusive all the same. This morning I received a text from Hugh, Jake’s eldest brother. It detailed how much was owed on Hugh’s mortgage and his bank account number. I wasn’t aware Jake had asked for either thing when he called to share the good news but maybe he did. We do plan to pay off both of Jake’s brothers’ mortgages, but I’m a little put out by Hugh’s expectation that this is a cert, and I’m irritated by the fact that he requested we make the payment in full before the end of the month, as he has apparently already canceled his direct debit. IN FULL was written in capitals.

  I loathe texts that are written in capitals.

  I have been a lottery winner for twenty days. I had no idea how exhausting it would be negotiating other people’s emotions: the envy, disbelief, incredulity. I constantly feel a degree or two warmer than usual as I absorb the heat of everyone’s gaze.

  I want to tell Jake about Toma. All about Toma. Our secret mission to discover who was ultimately behind the deaths of his wife and child, and the relationship that has developed as a result of our shared undertaking. I want to tell my husband about the respect I feel for another man, because if I do that, then surely I disarm the ticking bomb. But I don’t know where to start. Most importantly I have to tell him about the money I gave to Toma. I know Jake will be furious, and he won’t understand. He’ll point out that I can’t right other people’s wrongs, can’t offer compensation. Can’t play God. And even though I know what his argument will be, I find I don’t know how to present my own.

  Instead, I look at the wall of plants and ask, “Do you think they are real?”

  “That’s why it’s called a living wall. We should get one.”

  “Why do we need a wall of plants?”

  “I don’t know. Why do these guys need one? It looks cool.” Jake sees that I am unimpressed and so adds, “Oxygen? Imagine how much oxygen it’s producing.”

  “Well, I can’t see that in our front room.”

  Jake laughs, “Which is why we need to move. We need somewhere that reflects who we are now.”

  I am still me. The same person I was before our win. For good or bad.

  I’m not anyone different and can’t really imagine living anywhere different. We don’t need to move. Maybe we could extend our own house. When we bought it years ago, we sometimes bandied around the idea of adding a sunroom by extending into the garden and building an extra bedroom above, if things ever picked up for Jake at work. That would be lovely. The extra space would certainly be useful.

  Gillian meets us in the reception. As ever, I am delighted to see her. She is going to chair the panel of advisors, which I find reassuring. There will be a financial advisor, a solicitor and an accountant. I am dimly aware we’re paying for the service of at least the latter two, maybe all three—I don’t know how it works with the financial advisor. Do they make commissions off whatever products they sell? But then, everyone keeps stressing that this financial advisor is independent, so maybe that just means we pay for his expertise up front. I have no idea what these professionals cost. A lot, if the scale and style of this office is anything to go by. Jake has pointed out we can afford it anyway, so there is no need to worry about it, which I suppose is true. I almost envy the easy way he has adapted to our new wealth. He’s straightforwardly overjoyed, not in the least bit overwhelmed.
No twinges of conscience, no concerns about responsibility. I’m not being difficult on purpose. It is just after a lifetime of knowing what costs what and being excited when there was a two-for-one offer on at Pizza Express, it’s surprisingly difficult to feel entitled to so much cash. I’ve always been the sort of person who shopped about, got estimates and compared quotes. I was a woman who regularly handed over coupons in supermarkets and Boots. I collect points on at least a dozen loyalty cards. I’ve always had to be that person, and I don’t really know how to stop.

  Apparently, we’re to expect a different solicitor from the one that was present at the inquiry as they all have areas of expertise. I’m glad. I want to put all that business behind me and am not in a hurry to be face-to-face with Ms. Walsh again, even though she’s very good at her job.

  The receptionist approaches, her heels click-clacking on the marble floor. Her skirt is so tight that she has to put one foot directly in front of the other to move at all. As a result, her hips sashay left and right. She is mesmerizing: of Japanese descent, she has alabaster skin, and her long black hair falls down her back in waves. I’ve noticed how many beautiful people are connected to the wealthy. Without exception, the shop assistants in New Bond Street were stunners. Male or female, they were shiny, groomed, tall, symmetrical. I wonder, is that another privilege of being rich? The fact that the only people you ever come into contact with are basically supermodels. The people I usually mix with are significantly more ordinary. I finger the hem of my dress. It is new, exquisite and expensive. I bought it after much coercion from Emily. A blue abstract print, fitted, it swirls around my knees in a pleasing way. But when I bought it, I didn’t think about shoes and when I put it on this morning, I realized I didn’t have any that matched. I’m wearing black platform sandals. They aren’t ideal. Emily is keeping a list of things she thinks I need. She’s added blue shoes to said list.