Just My Luck Page 24

  “Cool costume,” he says. I wore the purple in the end. Sara was right, this isn’t the moment to undersell. I’m glad I wore the one that made Mum mutter and demand of Dad, “You’re happy with her going out dressed like that?” It’s pretty obvious Mum’s losing her shit, though, because in the past she ultimately made the decision on what did or didn’t happen in our house. I kind of get the feeling that Dad decides now. I don’t really know why.

  “I like yours, too,” I comment. Then I want to punch myself in the face because it’s not really a very imaginative comment. He grabs hold of my hand. “Come on, let’s get some privacy.” And now I want to sing and clap and dance and kiss him.

  Mostly, I want to kiss him.

  CHAPTER 32

  Lexi

  I’m glad the party is outside. I have seen four steaming pools of vomit already. At least if the forecasted rain does come tonight, it will be washed away or maybe the foxes will get to it. Horrible thought. I search about for the party planner. I want her to check that the staff really are confirming ID and not serving cocktails or spirits to anyone under eighteen, but I can’t locate her. I go and speak to as many members of staff as I can personally; however, they don’t look too interested in my instructions. I try to explain that I am the host, although as they’ve dealt with Jake and Sara they seem reluctant to listen to me. Glancing about, I see a fair number of quite wasted teens, but I can’t definitively blame the bar staff. As the drinks are free many are left half drunk, so even if a teen didn’t ask for alcohol at the bar they could easily minesweep.

  I’m not drinking. I feel a need to watch over the guests, specifically the younger ones. I spot one girl who looks as though she is managing to sleep vertically. Her friends cluster around her, propping her up between them. She’s wearing a barely there clown’s costume that is streaked with vomit. Her thin, spindly legs drop into chunky wedged heels. She’s swaying about like a rooted tree. I fear if she falls, she’ll twist her ankle, or maybe she’ll just snap. Her friends are nervous when I approach, fearing she—and they—might get into trouble. I don’t judge, but I do suggest we call her parents. They seem relieved that I’ve taken responsibility. I sit with the girl until her parents arrive. I fully expect them to have a go at me for letting their daughter get into this state. I know if I was called to collect my teen from a party at eight o’clock and found she was barely conscious through alcohol, concern might cause me to lash out. I steel myself, but in fact they simply compliment me on the beautiful party, congratulate me on the win and say they look forward to seeing me again once Emily and Logan start at the new school. They bundle their daughter into their car and throw one last wistful glance over their shoulders. I think their greatest regret is that they weren’t invited.

  I haven’t seen Jake for a while. I call him, but he doesn’t pick up. I’m not surprised, he often has his phone on silent. And whilst planning the party over this past week or so, Jake has said the reason it’s been difficult to reach him sometimes is that the reception in the field is patchy.

  I’ve nothing to worry about. I’ve nothing to worry about. It’s over.

  I scour the partying people for Jennifer’s colorful costume. There are two or three other Harlequins that catch my eye, but I don’t see her. Involuntarily, my gaze is drawn to the woodland at the back of the field, the perfect place for people to disappear into if they wanted to be alone, if they didn’t want to be found. I shake my head. It’s a stupid, destructive thought. Jennifer is probably at the champagne stack—she does enjoy a glass or two of champagne. Jake is most likely watching the magic act, which according to my timetable, is happening right now in the big top. The party site is vast and the throng thick so it’s actually very hard to find anyone.

  I haven’t seen Logan since we arrived, although he has at least replied to my texts saying he’s having a “wicked time” and that he is with his friends, yes, they are staying together, no, they are not causing trouble. This is unlikely to be absolutely true, but it’s enough to be reassuring. I can’t help but note that his phone seems to have better reception than my husband’s. I haven’t spotted Ellie, Judy, Heidi or Rob from the bureau yet, either, and I really want to see them. I want to ask about a couple of my old cases. There are people who I have been thinking about, and I’d like to know how things are progressing. I know they are here because Judy has already posted about twenty pictures of herself on Facebook: her face poking out from behind a great big candy floss, her face open with a roar of laughter as she rode the Ferris. I checked at the Ferris wheel, but I couldn’t see them, already having moved on by the time I got there. I decide to make another circuit of the party in the hope of catching them, but my progress is almost immediately interrupted as I am stopped by some old work colleagues of Jake’s. Not from his last job, but the one before that. I smile and nod along with their conversation, although not a lot is being said. Mostly, it’s a repetition of the mantras.

  “Who would have thought it?”

  “What are the odds?”

  When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I’m grateful for the excuse to cut it short. “I’m so sorry, I have to take this.” I throw out an apologetic grimace and duck away from them.

  “Lexi?”

  “Toma?”

  “You recognized my voice!” He sounds happy and noting as much reminds me that it’s not an emotion I usually associate with him. I think of him as sincere, troubled, determined, angry, thoughtful. A complex kaleidoscope of sentiment that is tight and knotted.

  “Your name came up on my phone,” I reply, matching the smile in his voice.

  “You have me programmed in your phone!” He’s buoyant. Almost playful.

  “Everyone has everyone programmed in their phone nowadays, Toma.”

  “Where are you? You sound like you are at a party.”

  “I am, actually. My own.”

  “You are throwing a party, without me? How is that possible?”

  I laugh. “Have you been drinking, Toma?”

  “Some.” If I was having this conversation with anyone else, I would go so far as to call his tone flirtatious. I suppose that’s what happens when you gift a man three million pounds. I mean, how is he supposed to read that signal?

  “Why are you calling? Is everything okay?”

  “You should not always think everything is a problem with me,” he says, his tone changing abruptly, sobering.

  “It’s not that. I don’t.” I falter because I do. I met the man when he was sleeping in the street outside my office. It’s hard to disassociate him from a feeling of concern.

  He quickly dissolves the awkwardness. “Well, I am calling for a stupid reason now. You make me feel stupid because you haven’t asked me to your party and I am calling to ask you to mine.” There’s no real irritation or anger in his voice, just amusement. It warms me. It makes no sense, but my stomach hiccups a fraction, a small glimmer of excitement at the idea that Toma is having a party. That he is inviting me. “My going-away party.” And then my stomach plummets.

  “You’re leaving the UK?”

  “Yes, because of you.”

  “What did I do wrong?” I joke, but it’s forced. When I gave him the money, I hoped it would help him move on. That’s what I wanted to enable, what I suggested, but now that it has come to it I feel a faint breath of loss.

  Toma laughs. “You are the most right person I have ever met, Lexi.” His words slice through me. It’s obviously a translation thing that makes his compliment seem so moving. The words seem real and raw, although I know they are not. I am not a right person. Jake doesn’t even know about the money I gave to Toma yet. “I have no idea why you decided to give me that money.” He pauses, waiting for me to explain, no doubt. I’d like to one day, but I can’t right now, so I stay silent. He doesn’t push me. Then I hear him breathe out deeply. “Okay, so whatever the reason, it is a miracle. At first, I
think it is a joke but then the money arrives in my account. I do not spend it. In case you change your mind. Have you?”

  “No, I haven’t changed my mind.” My voice comes out in a whisper, and I grip my phone. Sweat prickles under my arms.

  “Okay, then it is a miracle. I am going home, Lexi, you gifted me that.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Something good. Something that will honour Reveka and Benke. I plan a—how do you say it?—a sponsorship of education. I’ll give another child the life I would have given Benke. What am I saying? With that much money I will give many, many children a good life.” I gasp. The air builds in my throat and I can’t breathe. It’s the first time since we won the lottery that I’ve been genuinely excited about how the money is being spent. “I give it a lot of thought. I make a trust. Make the money work hard. Go back to home and find kids who need help to flourish. It will be a full-time job if I do it right.”

  I’m in awe of his certainty. I have spent hours poring over endless charity petitions and numerous proposals for beneficial projects. I’ve been paralyzed. Unsure where and how much to commit. I am impressed by Toma’s assurance and clarity.

  “When do you go?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? So your party is happening—”

  “Right now,” he interrupts to confirm. “Lexi, don’t think I am rude. I wanted you to come, but I didn’t know how to ask you, and then I have two beers and realize I ask you as I ask everyone. So, I ring you up.” He laughs. “But it’s too late. You have your own party.”

  “Where is your party?” He gives me an address in town. It’s not too far from my office. I look about me. We’ve quickly arrived at the point of the evening where everyone is too drunk to keep track of anyone else. Plus, the party is spread over a massive field, so no one would notice if I slipped away. He is going away. After tomorrow I might never see this dignified, decent man again. “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I calculate that if I drive back to the new house to take off my makeup and change outfits, then drive back to the address Toma gave me I will lose almost an hour and a half just getting there. It’s already approaching nine o’clock, and somehow this sacrifice doesn’t seem worth it. I decide to drive directly to Toma’s in my costume. I should feel foolish and self-conscious, but oddly I don’t. I realize that all that matters to me is getting there as soon as I can.

  There is a field that has been turned into a car park. I’m frustrated to find that our car has been blocked in by dozens of others. When I challenge the young guys who are working at the car park about this, they point out that they weren’t expecting us to leave until the very end of the party. It’s a fair comment. I check my watch, see that there’s a bus due in four minutes. I run, if I catch it that will be faster than calling an Uber. Now that I’ve made the decision to go to Toma’s party, I can’t get there soon enough. There are not many people on the bus when I get on it. Just two lads at the very back and an old lady sat near the front, within shouting distance of the driver. The old dear says she likes my costume and the two boys ignore me altogether. Of course they do. A middle-aged woman, even one dressed as a brokenhearted clown, is invisible to them. As the bus gets closer to town, a handful more people get on. Couples mostly, who look as though they are going to spend the night in a pub or maybe at the cinema. They are all dressed up, and laugh and chatter between themselves. I’m reminded of Saturday nights, long ago, when Jake and I used to enjoy a night out in town. The memory should make me smile because we had such great times, but it doesn’t. I shiver. The memory is too distant to warm me. I get off at the last stop and a plastic bag, lifted in the wind, gets caught around my ankle. I kick it off, glance at Google Maps on my phone and then set off in what I hope to be the right direction. I move away from the smell of bus diesel and fast-food fat and head down a badly lit street where the strongest aroma is overflowing bins. It’s about a ten-minute walk until I’m approaching the house that I was given the address to. The party is not happening at the lodgings where I know Toma lives—that’s not this part of town—so I can only assume a friend is hosting this goodbye party for him. How lovely. Even without the address, it would have been clear to me that this is where the party was being held. One house in the middle of the terraced row has its windows flung wide. There is music floating out of it, old pop songs that seem never to go away, but no one can ever remember when they were genuinely fashionable. Lots of chatter and laugher ebbs and flows onto the street. There’s cheap, cheerful bunting hung inexpertly from the gatepost to the doorway. I ring the bell, wait, wondering whether it will have been heard above the noise of the festivities.

  Toma flings open the door, a bottle of beer in his hand and a beam on his face. For a moment he looks startled to see me on his step and I am concerned that he’s forgotten all about inviting me, then I remember what I’m wearing, that my face is painted white. I wonder, can he see my blushes through the makeup?

  “You dressed up!” he says with a laugh.

  “My party is a fancy-dress party,” I explain with a shrug. “I didn’t want to waste the evening going home to change.”

  Toma’s beam widens a fraction more and I know I made the right decision. He steps forward and flings his arms around me, enveloping me in a huge bear hug. This is the first physical contact I’ve ever had with Toma. I’m generally a tactile person, and I tend to squeeze a person’s arm to convey sympathy, solidarity, encouragement. However, I’m strict about not doing so at work as it can be construed as unprofessional. I don’t remember my fingers so much as brushing Toma’s as I’ve passed him a cup of tea, or my shoulder rubbing against his as he’s held open a door for me. His sudden physicality ought to feel unfamiliar, maybe awkward, but I find my body smudges against his with ease and we fit. He’s tall, I slip under his arms, which are raised to embrace me. As we separate, I suddenly feel a lack, notice that my hands are empty.

  “I’m sorry, I should have brought a bottle.” I think of all the bottles of champagne, wine, beer, spirits that are stacked at my party and I am embarrassed that I didn’t think to pick one up to bring here.

  “Lexi, you don’t have to bring anything other than yourself.” I nip to the bathroom and wash the makeup off my face. Toma might not think it’s odd I have arrived in full fancy dress, but I’m sure others will. There’s nothing I can do about my costume. When I emerge from the bathroom, Toma is patiently waiting for me. I follow him through to the sitting room where about twenty people are pushed into a small space. All the seats are taken, and floor space is at a premium, too. Everyone is talking to someone. No one is lurking gauchely in the background. As I walk in, everyone turns, smiles, give small nods and waves. I have been to small dinner parties where there have been only a handful of guests, and sometimes those guests have ignored the arrival of a new person. These people seem extraordinarily inclusive. I smile back shyly. Toma leads me to a group of three—two women and a man, all about my age or older, I guess. Of course, the first comments are about my costume. I explain I’ve come from another party but don’t mention it was my own as I fear that might require more of an explanation than I can offer. Why have I left my party of three hundred guests to come to this gathering of twenty people?

  Toma touches my arm—it’s startling. “Drink?”

  “Yes, please. I came on the bus.” He goes into the kitchen to get me a drink. He returns with a glass of white wine, and by then I have jumped into the conversation that his friends were having about the books they are reading at the moment. They talk passionately about the plot and characters. By chance I’ve also read the book that is at the root of their discussion so I can agree that the ending was deeply satisfying.

  The thin woman in the flowered dress, Dita, puts her fingers in her ears and makes loud “la-la-la” sounds. “I haven’t finished it, just two more chapters to go,” she says, laughing.

  �
��Wasn’t it a bit predictable, though?” asked the bearded man, Mandek, looking genuinely concerned about this.

  “Well, sometimes a little bit of getting what you expected is just what you need,” I point out.

  “Very true,” he agrees. I try to establish which one of them works in publishing or as a librarian because I can’t imagine why they would all be so informed and opinionated about books otherwise, but I discover Dita and Mandek work at the laundry with Toma. Sabina, the youngest of us all, is a cleaner at the local police station.

  “Good jobs,” explains Sabina, “fit around my family. I never take worries home with me.” I nod, that’s undeniably true. I also discover that it is Dita and Mandek’s home that I’m in. I thank them profusely for inviting me.

  “Any friend of Toma’s is our friend,” they tell me. No one mentions the lottery win. Notable because people rarely talk to me about anything else nowadays. I don’t think Toma has told anyone about my luck or his good fortune. I feel relieved. If he had, I could not have been just another guest.

  I move around from one group of people to the next. A mixed bunch, they remind me of the sort of friendship groups Jake and I used to make on holiday when we were much younger. Transient people from many different walks of life. All with stories and histories, and none of those histories are shared. It makes an interesting party. There is a freedom in talking to these people who have been brought together through chance and circumstances. They did not go to school together; nor do their children. They did not meet at child birthing classes. They don’t even live in the same neighbourhood, but are scattered across the town and county. Their lives aren’t intrinsically entwined through years of responsibility or habit; there is a sense that they are choosing to spend time together because they value the moment. Within the first hour of being at the party, I encounter people from five or six different birth countries. Yet, despite having come from different places, we have all arrived in the same spot this Saturday night. A terraced house in a small British town, and everyone seems happy about it. Their viewpoints may not have originally been the same, but they have found commonalities, unity and harmony. They want to make the most of it.