Just My Luck Adele Parks (if you liked this book txt) 📖

the scale the Greenwoods described would have merited a text at least.” He raised his eyebrows.

Carla thought the retainers Patrick paid were well worth the money. “There were no texts about a fallout because there wasn’t a fallout.”

Mr. Elliott was the first on his feet when Jennifer Heathcote came into the room. He rose with such speed that he made the other lawyers look tardy, even though they were all in the process of standing, too. “Jennifer, always a pleasure,” he said, leaning over the table to kiss her right cheek, then her left. The movement was graceful, synchronized, their glasses did not clash; they had been greeting one another this way for years without self-consciousness or a collision. He was clearly half in love with her, in that way certain men were always half in love with English roses. Women they felt duty-bound to protect and defend. Women they underestimated because they had bright eyes, rosy cheeks and didn’t wear a lot of makeup.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us today, Mrs. Heathcote,” intoned Gillian with significantly more neutrality. She made the introductions.

“Anything I can do to help,” gushed Jennifer. She beamed broadly, seemingly less aware of, or at least less troubled by, the gravitas of the occasion than the other two women who had been interviewed. Jennifer liked people to know she had a sunny disposition. She kept her steely core hidden.

“As you are aware, there is some discrepancy about what was agreed on the night of the thirteenth of April at Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood’s home. We are talking to everyone who was present in order to see if there is any level of consensus.”

“Gosh, yes, obviously. Is this an actual criminal inquiry?”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Heathcote?”

“I mean, am I under arrest?”

“Should you be, Mrs. Heathcote?” asked Ms. Walsh, looking up from her notes.

“Oh, don’t be silly? Me? No. I’m not the criminal here.”

“Well, that is to be determined,” Ms. Walsh muttered.

Mr. Elliott coughed. “Shall we get on? So, what do you recall about the evening?”

Jennifer made eye contact with everyone around the table as she began to recount the details. “Lexi had made a huge effort. That was a bit unusual. Sometimes she just buys an M&S supper, you know, dine in.” She dropped her voice to a discreet whisper. “They watch the cash a bit more than the rest of us. I’m not being a snob about it, I’m just saying. They always have had to be a bit more careful. Jake just hasn’t found a job he’s especially committed to, yet. He’s always chopping and changing. He sells ergonomic chairs at the moment, or is it photocopiers? I’m not sure. But they do struggle financially.” Gillian made a clicking noise with her tongue. It had the desired effect of moving Jennifer on. “Anyway, that night Lexi had really gone for it. She themed it a Mexican evening. She made chicken chili tostadas and pinto bean salsa salad. Delicious.”

“Sounds lovely, but Mrs. Heathcote, if I can bring you to the point,” said Ms. Walsh decisively.

“The point?”

“The syndicate. Do you remember anything specific being said that evening with regard to the syndicate? Or the lottery?”

“It’s talked about every week. That week was no different.”

“What was said?”

“The usual. That we hadn’t won. Lexi said that we all owed money. That she’d bought the tickets for the past couple of weeks, that she couldn’t be expected to cough up every week.”

“Cough up?”

“Her phrase.”

“And how did people react?”

“Am I under oath?”

“Would it make a difference?”

“I wish I could tell a lie.”

“We’d rather you didn’t.”

Jennifer paused. Took in a deep breath. She had the room’s full attention now. “I was in the loo.”

“Sorry?”

“They were getting spiky with one another, grumpy. I don’t like scenes. I never want to be involved in their tussles.”

“Whose tussle?”

“It happens from time to time. Rarely, but often enough that we can all identify it for what it is and see it coming. Jake and Patrick lock horns. It’s never over anything big—not politics or religion—but they hold opposing views about whether the school should save or demolish the old cricket clubhouse. They often disagree on the school hockey coach’s tactics. That sort of thing. It can get a little tiring, you know? So, that’s why I went to the loo, to avoid it the moment I realized they were squaring up.”

“They fight?”

“Not exactly. It is fair to say they have heated debates.” Jennifer giggled, apparently uncomfortable with the idea of anyone having a disagreement. “They are both rather competitive,” she confessed. “Still, some might think it’s a testament to the strength of their friendship that they never shy away from disagreements. They bash it out. Verbally, of course, and once they’ve said their piece, they move on. Generally.”

“Mr. Pearson didn’t contain his actions to verbal onslaught on the day of the press conference,” pointed out Ms. Walsh. “I understand he throttled my client.”

“That was a first. I’m sure he regrets it. Everyone was so wound up.”

“And does your husband get involved in this—” Ms. Walsh broke off and checked her notes “—this tussling?”

“I’m so glad my Fred stays away from that sort of macho posturing.”

“The day of the press conference your husband assaulted Jake Greenwood,” pointed out Ms. Walsh.

“Well, yes, as I said, emotions were running very high.” Jennifer looked embarrassed, apologetic. “I really wouldn’t call it an assault, more of a scuffle.”

“I heard that he threw a punch.”

Jennifer colored. “He’s not normally a confrontational sort. But he feels cheated.” She paused, lowered her eyes. Gillian thought of Princess Diana. “You know this is all terribly difficult for me.”

Mr. Elliott nodded sympathetically, leaned across the table and patted his client’s hand. Gillian raised an eyebrow and wondered whether the man had slept through the #MeToo revolution.

“I think everyone involved feels this is a testing time. Why difficult for you in particular?” asked Gillian.

“Well, I wasn’t in the room, so I’m in the same position as you are. I’m wading through the quagmire of