Just My Luck Page 19

  We have rubbed along side by side for over a decade, passing pleasantries, helping each other when needed. She is tolerant when the kids make a lot of noise in the garden, and Jake puts her bins out.

  “I think all your summers have come at once, haven’t they? And your Christmases, too, come to that. You can’t complain about the weather. You can’t complain about anything ever again,” she said. Then she chuckled, but it wasn’t a nice old lady chuckle—it was a fake laugh, spiked through with aggression.

  “I didn’t really mean a good summer would be nice for me specifically,” I stuttered. “It would be nice for everyone.” She glared at me over her glasses. The message was clear: I am no longer entitled to want anything, not even a sunny day.

  The downpour is relentless now. I listen to the rain slap the garden patio, our roof, the windows. A drum roll, a constant growl. It’s drowning out my classical music so I turn that up to an uncomfortably high volume. I wonder how far they have got with putting up the marquee. This rain will be a problem if the top and sides aren’t on yet. Although, however much of a problem it is, I’m sure the party planner will have a solution. She’ll buy electric fans to dry the place out, heaters to warm it up. She’ll buy carpet for the fields. Money can’t solve everything, but it certainly helps when it comes to party planning. I send Jake another message. How’s the progress with the tent? I’ve made a lasagna. Are you on your way home?

  His response. We are all in the pub. Sheltering from the rain. We’ll grab something to eat here.

  A thought jabs my mind, I wonder who “we are all” is referring to exactly. Him and the kids? The party planner? Other people? Who else? I didn’t used to be a jealous woman. I never watched Jake the way some women feel the need to watch their husbands.

  I never anticipated infidelity. Even when we were very young and both quite striking, when we had chances and choices, I trusted him. We felt solid. Recently, I’ve felt we are on shifting sands.

  I carefully take the piping hot lasagna out of the oven. The delicious smell of cheese, beef and tomatoes floods the kitchen. Seems like a waste to cut into it just for me. Never mind, it will be better tomorrow anyway because it will have settled. I open myself a tin of baked beans and put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. I suppose I could go and see them at the pub, but it’s too wet to walk, I’m not insured on the Ferrari and they have the Audi. Anyway, Jake didn’t suggest that I join them, so I feel it might be strangely intrusive. They all—whoever they all are—have spent the day together party planning, and it will be awkward if I muscle in now. Besides, I still have the letters to plow through.

  I decide the best way to try to keep track of the requests is to input the details into a spreadsheet. I can log whether funds are for research or relief, education and ongoing development or emergency aid, animals or people, elderly or the young, home or abroad. It still strikes me that it will be a near-impossible job to rank one worthy cause above another, but it feels like a start. It doesn’t take long for me to become absorbed. The next thing I know, I look up and see that it’s late. It’s pitch-black outside; as the lights are on in the kitchen, my image reflects back from the black windows as though I am staring into a mirror.

  I am alone.

  I mean, obviously I am alone—the others are at the pub—but I am shocked by my reflection. I’m a small woman; however, I’ve always thought of myself as strong, centered. The reflection that shines back at me exposes a woman who looks isolated, frail and intense. So much has gone on in the past few weeks. I think I’m managing everything, but am I? My hair needs a wash. I should have a blow-dry. I love a blow-dry, and it’s not as though I can’t afford to treat myself. The truth is I’ve been avoiding going to my hairdresser’s, avoiding all the fuss that will inevitably ensue. All eyes on me, the same barrage of questions. “I bet you can’t believe your luck?”

  “No, no, I can’t.”

  “What are you going to spend it on?”

  “We haven’t quite decided yet.”

  “A house? Car? Travel?”

  “Probably.” I have encountered this script sixty, seventy, eighty times in the past few weeks. I know I disappoint people. They want me to be more effusive, more committed. They don’t understand my reticence. I am wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the same ones I wore yesterday. I should do my nails, too. They are bitten and chipped. I do not look like a lottery winner. The party is in five days’ time. I’ll have to up my game for that. I can’t present myself like this—it’s not what people are expecting. Jake would be disappointed. Jake likes painted nails.

  As I stare at my reflection, which I fear appears wizened, even vulnerable, rather than wild and winning. It strikes me that anyone outside might see me this way, as well. If they were looking.

  I shiver at that thought, unsure as to where it came from.

  The rain is still falling persistently. I hear the sound of the plastic recycling bins being scraped along the side path. The wind most likely blew them over and now that fox I saw earlier will be hungrily rooting through the smelly food bin. There will be a mess to clean up in the morning. I think the shed door must have blown open, too, because I hear that swing and bang, swing and bang.

  Then something about the light in the hallway changes and catches my attention. Our front door is partially glass plated, and light from the garden lamp floods onto the hall carpet. A momentary dimming, a flickering, suggests someone has just walked up the path. I walk into the hallway, but something stops me putting on the light in there. I see a shadow at the front door. At first I think it’s Jake and the kids home at last, but I didn’t hear the car and there’s none of their familiar chatter heralding their arrival. The shadow looms as whoever it is approaches the door. I wait for the knock, and it doesn’t come. I watch as the door handle moves. The door is locked, but I’m turned to stone knowing that whoever it is on the other side just tried to come in without knocking.

  And then it is gone. The shadow. The person. Did I imagine something? Conjure someone? I rush to the kitchen window, instinctually wanting to drop the blinds, block out whatever is there in the blackness and cocoon me in the warmth of my home. I scream as I see three faces at the window. Two men and a woman. They smile and wave. The woman is in her late forties, and she has a gap where a bottom tooth is missing. I think I recognize her face. Maybe I’ve seen her at the CAB. The two men are big and brawly. They have no hair or necks. The younger one is covered in pockmarks that advertise he once suffered badly with acne. They continue to smile and wave, and one of them puts up both his thumbs in an old-fashioned gesture that I only ever see on emojis now. His hands look huge, and despite the gesture I think they are threatening. Did those hands turn the handle on my front door?

  “All right, love, can we come in?” the older guy shouts through the window, over the sound of the rain. I shake my head. My heart is pounding—I can feel it in my mouth—and my chest is going to explode. “Come on, love. We’re getting drenched out here.”

  “I don’t know you,” I mutter. “I don’t know you,” and then I drop the blind.

  I hear them grumble among themselves. I’m shaking, ashamed to have literally drawn a blind down on a fellow human being and also terrified. They might be perfectly lovely people, but I don’t know. I can’t judge. One of them bangs hard on the window.

  I grab my phone and then wonder who to call. Jake? The police? No crime has been committed. They are not really trespassing, just calling round. I wait and nearly collapse with relief when I hear the footsteps move away from the window. The next moment my back door swings open. Jake and the kids must have forgotten to lock it. I should have checked it.

  “Come in, can we?” asks the woman, but they are already in the middle of my kitchen and we all know I didn’t invite them. She shakes herself, like a dog does when it comes out of the rain. She isn’t wearing a coat and she looks blue with cold. Her thin, worn legging
s and scruffy hoodie not offering much protection against the elements. She’s wearing flip-flops. They are muddy. Her feet are misshapen, no doubt from years of wearing poorly fitting, cheap shoes. The men are bigger, fatter and seem insulated, yet they still wear an air about them that suggests a lack. A need. I’ve seen this exact demeanor many times at work. Neediness edging into desperation and anger. Although it shouldn’t feel shocking, it does because it is in my kitchen. My home. My body is stiff with dread. I wait to see what they will ask for.

  “Have you got a towel? To dry off my hair?” asks the woman. I open the drawer where we keep the tea towels. It sticks a little, and I wobble it aggressively and then hand her a bundle. She starts to squeeze the water out of her long hair. I hand towels to the men, too; they use them to rub their bald heads and make jokes about buffing boiled eggs.

  “What do you want?” I ask. My voice comes out challenging, awkward. I wanted to sound confident or polite. Either strategy would be better than appearing difficult. I do need a strategy. These people are not my friends—what are they doing here? Are they going to rob me? Threaten me? Hurt me?

  “A cup of tea would be nice,” says the slightly younger guy. He holds himself up tall. He’s at least six feet two, maybe sixteen stone. I slowly move toward the kettle, fill it with water and then set it to boil.

  “Why are you in my home?”

  “You’re the lottery winner, ain’t ya?” I consider denying it, but what’s the point? My face and those of my family have been all over the local press and news. Around here we are celebrities. At least the children aren’t at home. At least they are safe.

  “Seventeen-point-eight-million pounds, weren’t it?” asks the other guy. I don’t reply. I see the rain that has run from their clothes and bodies puddling on my kitchen floor. “That must take some spending.” He stares at me. I find myself nodding in agreement. “Them are letters asking for a cut, are they?”

  “Some.” My voice cracks in my throat, I cough to clear it. We all listen to the sound of the water heating up in the kettle. Could I use that as a weapon, if I had to? Do I have that in me? It’s a crazy, drastic thought. I glance at the kitchen knives displayed in a wooden block on the surface. I quickly pull my eyes away, not wanting to draw attention to them. I’m not in a TV show. I know any weapon I try to use is most likely to be used against me.

  “The thing is,” says the woman, “I came by to see you at work. I was queuing with a lot of other people actually. You ran off. You said you’d be back, but you weren’t.” She stares at me reproachfully. And even though I was told to leave, effectively sacked, certainly without choice, I feel accused, condemned and guilty.

  “What did you want help with?” I ask.

  “I owe money.” She glances at the floor, suggesting a sense of shame, or maybe it’s just exhaustion. “I only borrowed one hundred and fifteen quid but now they are saying I owe nearly two thousand pounds.” I notice that she’s shaking, too. “They’ll hurt me if I don’t pay.” My heart lurches in sympathy. This woman is slight, defenceless physically and most likely mentally, too. I don’t even waste my breath suggesting she try the official channels to fight back against this loan shark. That sort of justice and recourse is simply not available to some—it’s an impossible dream, like a unicorn jumping over a rainbow. The chances are the loan shark is part of her community. There would be repercussions.

  “And you two?”

  “We’re just here to get her and the cash home safely.” I realize that these men are as much of a threat to her as they are to me.

  “I don’t have that sort of money in the house. I can’t give you it, even if I wanted to.”

  He does it slowly, deliberately, so that I understand it was a conscious decision and not an unthinking reflex. The younger of the two heavy men slaps the woman in the face. His substantial paw leaves an angry print on her cheek. She keeps her eyes on me, pleading.

  “I could write a check.” I move to the drawer above the one where we keep the tea towels and pull it open. My checkbook is in there because usually the only checks I ever write are ones for my kids’ school stuff: class photos or a random piece of sports kit, and normally those checks are demanded at breakfast time as one of the children is heading out the door.

  The man laughs and holds his hand up as though to strike her again. Of course they are not going to take a check—it was crazy of me to suggest it. They know a check can be traced; they know I would cancel it as soon as they left. My guess is they want to be quickly in and out. I’m nothing to them, just a means to an end. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want them to hurt her, but can I really stop them? I consider walking to the cashpoint with them, but they might do much worse out there in the storm. To either or both of us. I have my phone in my hand and wonder if I can call 999. This woman may not be in a position to call out a loan shark, but I certainly am. “Please, please,” she begs, keeping her eyes on me.

  Then suddenly there are car headlights on the street. The two men and I look nervously at the door. I don’t want my children walking in on this. The men don’t know who might be arriving. My husband may be returning with a gang of friends for all they know.

  In a flash the older man picks up my laptop and says, “This will cover it.” The next moment he is out the back door. The second man and the woman follow him. “Don’t go with them. Stay here,” I yell after her. She keeps running. As they scarper down the back path, the front door opens wide, and Jake, Emily and Logan come into the house. They are chatting and laughing. They are wet, but on them the rain looks luminous, pearlescent. Emboldened by Jake’s arrival, I dash along the back path and scream again, “You don’t have to go with them.” I think my words have been picked up and tossed far away by the wind until the woman turns around. I feel a sense of joy that I can intervene, I can after all rescue her. Then she flicks me the V sign. “Fuck off, rich bitch,” she yells. I can hear them all laughing. For a moment, I stand on the path, rain drilling down on me, confused, and then I understand it was a scam. She was in on it with them. I go back into the kitchen, slam the door behind me, lock it and pull the bolt across.

  Jake looks concerned when he sees me dripping on the kitchen floor. “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “We’re moving,” I reply.

  CHAPTER 27

  Lexi

  Tuesday, May 21

  I want to move into a hotel right away and stay there until we find somewhere new to live, but Jake says I’m overreacting.

  “Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one face-to-face with them in the kitchen.” I haven’t slept, not surprisingly, so his normal everything-will-be-all-right manner isn’t reassuring me—it’s annoying me.

  “We’ll hire security guards. I have a contact. The people who are doing the security at the party might be able to help.”

  “People who routinely search teenagers’ bags for vodka and know how to put a puking adolescent into the recovery position might not cut it,” I mutter crossly.

  “They are big guys, ex-army. We’ll all be fine.”

  I want to talk to someone who will sympathize and reassure me, but I don’t know who to call. That thought is sobering. Cold. I don’t want to ring my parents because I know I’ll make them anxious if I tell them about the intrusion. As people who grew up poor and brought a family up on not much at all, they are dwelling in a happy, uncomplicated bubble, staunch in the belief that our lottery win is the answer to all problems. I consider calling Ellie, but we haven’t spoken since she asked me to leave the office. We’ve exchanged two or three emails, the tone of which have been remote, strictly professional. Whilst Ellie said it was just a temporary leave of absence, I’m not sure there is a place for me at the bureau anymore. Not for the first time I grieve for what I had with Carla and Jennifer. For so many years they were my go-to friends. The people I shared every thought, feeling, crisis and triumph with. Then I feel s
uch a huge wave of ferocity, it nearly swipes me off my feet. As though truly underwater and out of my depth, I kick and flounder and try to find firm ground. I never really knew either woman, despite the fact we have been friends for fifteen years. In the end I call Gillian from the lottery company. I liked her from the moment I met her. Right now, she feels like the only person in the world who won’t want something from me and therefore might just be in a position to give me something.

  Gillian doesn’t let me down. Sensible and serious, she acknowledges that the incident must have been incredibly frightening.

  “Can we meet to talk about it?” I ask, feeling weak and silly, but knowing I really need her.

  “Of course.”

  “Today? Can I take you for lunch?” And then, so I don’t sound hopelessly cloying, I add, “I’d like to thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  “We can certainly meet today, but you can’t take me for lunch, I’m afraid. We’re not allowed to accept any gifts from winners. We can go for lunch if I pay my way. Would you like to do that?”

  “Yes, please, I really want to get out of the house.”

  We arrange to meet in a pasta chain restaurant in town. I appreciate her choice. It’s low-key and straightforward. We’ll be able to chat freely without any overly officious waiters—understandably keen to score a big tip—constantly interrupting to ask if our food is good, if there is anything they can do for me, anything at all. Honestly here, we’ll be lucky to catch the attention of the waiting staff when we actually want it; the staff are much more interested in huddling in a group, talking about eyebrow shapes, than they are in attending to us. I oddly like it. It makes me think of work—standing in a gaggle with Rob, Heidi and Judy in the grubby kitchenette that passed as a staff room, talking about what we watched on TV on the weekend.