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

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.

“Would you like to follow me? I’ll take you up to the meeting room.” The receptionist’s professional smile reveals pearly white, straight teeth. I run my tongue over my own and hope there’s no lipstick on them. Jake chats to the receptionist whilst the elevator takes us to the fifteenth floor. He reveals a deep longing to visit Tokyo that I have never heard mentioned before. I inwardly roll my eyes, mildly irritated by his inappropriate attempt to flirt. I reach for his hand and gave it a brief squeeze. Onlookers would think it was affection, he might understand it’s a warning.

The room is full of men, suited and booted. They smile with the same professionalism the receptionist has shown. I hadn’t considered that smiles could be professional until recently. I’ve always thought they had to be warm, broad, sincere or even insincere. The room is paneled in a dark polished wood—mahogany? There are two incredible floral arrangements on the long glass table and a plate of colorful macarons. I just know that no one will eat them. I bet eating is considered frivolous at this type of meeting. I wish I dared ask to take them home for Logan, then I remember I don’t need to—if we want macarons, we can buy them. The receptionist hands us over to a young man called Jeb, who is apparently our “host,” then she disappears. A vision of loveliness gone in an instant. Jeb offers tea, coffee, water, still or sparkling. Once we are furnished with delicate china cups and heavy crystal glasses, he discreetly sits at the side of the