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

six bedrooms, each with an en suite. There’s an extra bathroom on top, which the agent describes as the family bathroom, but I don’t understand who would need it because of the multiple en suites. There are a lot of glossy wooden and marble floors and a rich scattering of plush rugs, no carpets. If my parents visit here, the rugs would be a hazard—my dad is always tripping over his own feet. There are a number of lights hidden in the floors, ceilings and recesses, not a dusty lampshade in sight. Some walls are made of glass bricks. I know they’re really trendy, but they’ve been ruined for me because they use them in our local health center. I’ve sat too often waiting to see a doctor to associate them with anything other than one of my children running a fever. The place is minimalist, furnished with a number of tasteful shades of gray. I suddenly think of Carla. She is the only woman I know who freely admits that she’s read Fifty Shades of Grey. I imagine her making jokes about the color scheme and the opportunities to christen the endless rooms. I wonder how Jennifer would have responded. She constantly behaved as though Carla’s unsubtle innuendo was a bit distasteful. She always seemed to be something approaching sexless. She almost behaved as though giving birth to Ridley had been the result of an immaculate conception. Carla used to say it was because, out of the three of us, Jennifer had the least attractive husband and probably wasn’t that into sex with him, specifically. I used to shush Carla when she said things like that. I’d tell her not to be mean. She didn’t listen.

“Do we get to keep the furniture?” I ask. It may all be a bit different from my usual tastes—I generally like bright cheerful colors—but I know we don’t have enough furniture of our own to fill this place. Everything we own could fit in the one room I’m standing in.

“If you like it and want it. It’s from a hire company. I can have it changed if it’s not to your taste. We have a range that you can view online.”

“It’s fine.” I’m certain under normal circumstances there’s nothing Emily would like more than playing interior designer, but at the moment she’s absorbed with party planning. Besides, I’m not sure she needs to feel the buzz of click and collect any more than she already has. I think she’s technically addicted.

We are shown around the rest of the house. It’s wall-to-wall elegance, the very epitome of wealth and success. I sniff the air and swear I can detect the scent of money wafting about. There is a cinema room, a gym and outside, at the bottom of the garden, a pool room. I mean swimming pool, although there is also another room with a pool table in it. The children are beside themselves. They have already picked out their bedrooms, and there were no squabbles because all of them are stunning, huge. This place is the opposite to the sort of place Gillian advised me to move to, but the matter is settled. Jake has signed a contract. The kids like the place. In fact, they love it. And I don’t dislike it. How could I? What is there to dislike?

Emily and Logan go into the garden and discover a croquet set. Neither of them has ever played croquet in their lives, the very name of the game a source of derision in the past. Now they are knocking a ball about with a lack of expertise but complete enthusiasm. I stand at the window and watch them.

They giggle and chatter, gently squabbling about whose ball is closest to the hoop. There are no electronic devices in sight. I’m living the dream. Jake is at my side.

But we’re not touching.

The estate agent says breezily, “I’ve a bottle of champagne in the car. I should have got it out when we arrived and put it in the fridge to chill. Will you excuse me for a moment while I go and fetch it? I imagine you want a moment just to take in all this fabulousness.”

A strange thing has happened to Jake and me over the past few weeks. For years we used to talk about anything and everything. The big stuff and the little stuff. The value of my career, how many children we should have, where and how we should raise said children, what we should spend our money on. We discussed, in detail, what we’d do if we only had five minutes left to live and if we have fifty years left to live. Now we only talk about what we—he—wants to buy next. I wish I could keep up with him. I wish I could simply enjoy spending it all. I can’t, and somehow that means we no longer know how to reach each other. I’ve noticed when we are alone together, we seem to be more alone than when we are apart.

“How much does this cost to rent?” I ask.

“We can afford it,” replies Jake, which doesn’t answer my question.

“And if we did want to buy it, how much would that cost?”

Jake shrugs. “I’m not sure exactly.” I stare at him. He looks just above my eyebrows. Doesn’t he even care anymore? Has he gone past that?

“A ballpark?”

“No clue.”

“Did you ask?”

“We’ll ask if we decide we want it.”

“What length of lease is on it?”

“Monthly.”

I consider this. I’m surprised; a monthly lease offers us the most flexibility. And freedom. It’s the careful, considered thing to do. My husband has been the complete antithesis to careful and considered since we won the lottery. Well, since before then, really. “Why, Jake?” He shrugs. “Isn’t a six-month rental more usual? Wouldn’t it have been better value?”

“That’s the point, though, isn’t it, Lexi? We are not usual. We don’t have to worry about what is better value.” He runs his hands through his hair.

“Everyone