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

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 such 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.

Gillian is already at the table, and as I approach she stands up, draws me into a big hug, which lasts longer than most. She’s a curvy, motherly woman and I enjoy sinking into her. Then she breaks away and produces a small bunch of orange gerberas, tied with an elastic band. She hands them to me with a broad smile. Over the past month we have received at least twenty bouquets of flowers from people congratulating us on our win. Maybe more. I’ve lost count. We didn’t have enough vases and, in the end, put them in glasses and buckets. Every bouquet was beautiful; flowers are an undisputed joy. Many of them came from family, and I massively appreciated the thought of my sister, Jake’s brothers and sisters-in-law wanting to celebrate with us; others came from people I hadn’t heard from in years, people that had fallen off the Christmas card list. I meant to take the flowers to the local old people’s home, but things were so busy that before I got around to it, their stems began to rot. The house was flooded with a pungent, slightly sweet fetid smell of dead foliage. The bouquets were all significantly more elaborate than these five bright blooms, but I think this is the bunch I appreciate most.

“There’s nothing in the rule book that says we can’t buy you a gift,” explains Gillian with a smile. “I’m so sorry about what has happened. You’ve been very unlucky. I checked with all my colleagues who’ve worked with numerous other lottery winners and, as far as we’re aware, no one in the past has endured anything similar.”

“I imagine it’s because I work with people in very difficult situations. They are more vulnerable, and therefore the small minority of them might sometimes be reckless. I suppose that has left me exposed.”

We order, and as we eat Gillian asks, “What did the police say?”

I sigh, it’s awkward. “Jake said there was no point in going to the police.”

Gillian looks shocked. “But of course there is. You said you recognized the woman. I’m certain they’ll be able to track them down.”

I shrug. “He thinks we have had enough upheaval and we should just focus on moving forward.” Obviously, she already knows about the Pearsons and Heathcotes making