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

when he’s sleeping, I knew he had a chicken pox scar on his jaw (right-hand side) and a birthmark on his thigh that looks like a melted chocolate button. I knew he had a line of hair that ran downward from his tummy button and a thatch of dark hair under each arm. I did not know what that body could do.

And now I do, so I can never be the same. We can never be the same. Being friends isn’t enough. Suddenly I don’t like the heat or the sunshine or anything at all. I can’t face the party. My body feels heavy, leaden with memories and consequences. My dad keeps saying life is great, everything is wonderful now and always will be. I want it to be. I want to believe him. But Mum keeps asking if I’m okay, if everything is all right and I feel I might collapse under her scrutiny. I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I force my eyelids to stay wide-open, but a fat tear slips down the side of my face anyway. I brush it away impatiently. I have to go to the party. I have to talk to him. Him first.

CHAPTER 30

Lexi

I tightly grasp the party planner’s laminated timetable in my hand, not unlike a toddler grasps a security blanket. The first version was printed on stiff creamy card, but as the weather forecast suggests there might be another downpour later tonight, the planner had the plans laminated so that I could refer to them no matter what the weather. She’s very plan-y, I’ll say that for her. She considers every eventuality. I can’t help but think if she was running the country, we’d probably clear the national debt in the next decade. She’s not though, is she? She’s arranging parties for people with more money than sense. And I firmly count us in that bracket when I spot staff handing out glittering monogrammed glow sticks studded with Swarovski crystals.

The party is, by anyone’s estimation, tremendous. As I’ve had little to do with the planning, I am surprised and impressed by the props and design. It’s not just a party, it’s an amalgamation of a funfair, a circus and a movie set. People have understood it was going to be spectacular and have made a big effort with their costumes. There are a lot of girls and women in basques and fishnets, wearing top hats. There are men dressed as bearded ladies, lions and ringmasters, depending on their self-view—funny, cuddly or Alpha respectively. There are a lot of people in random spangly things and endless clowns. This is not the place to come if you suffer from coulrophobia.

I glance at the plan every few moments, but no matter how often I read it the details won’t stay in my head. The party planner has listed out where and when each event is going to take place throughout the evening. Obviously, like at most parties, there will be eating, drinking and dancing, but there are also magic acts, performers and photo opportunities that I have to be aware of. I have never encountered a precision-timed party before, and I’m finding it overwhelming. At the children’s parties we’ve thrown in the past, the only clock-watching we did was because we were counting down the minutes until the bedlam ended. We have hosted Christmas parties before. We’d invite all our friends and neighbours to bring a bottle/drink a bottle at our place. If I was feeling very efficient, I sometimes stuck a few mince pies in the oven. I’d expect thirty-odd guests to those parties; tonight, we are expecting just over three hundred. I had no idea we knew so many people. Having read over the RSVPs, I’m still not convinced we do. Jake made good on his promise to invite everyone and anyone we knew or have ever known, however vaguely, and we’ve had an extremely high acceptance rate. Only a handful of people have said no and that was because they’re out of the country. I’m surprised, but Jake was right—even the kids from the new school have said yes.

“You can’t overestimate just how thrilling our win is to other people,” commented Jake smugly this morning. We were lying in bed, perusing the guest list. His attitude to the response was unadulterated joy. Mine was barely disguised panic.

“I’m nervous about the large number of unknown faces that will be arriving tonight,” I admitted.

“We have a lot of security. I think they’ll spot the difference between a fifteen-year-old rich kid we haven’t met but has come to party because they’ve been invited and a fifty-year-old pierced thug who has come to rob us. Not exactly tricky.”

I’ve never before heard Jake stereotype using a piercing as shorthand for trouble. That’s the kind of thing Patrick does.

We all arrived at the party together at six o’clock. The early start was Jake’s idea. He wants the night to last forever, but that’s not possible—even money can’t change the space-time continuum. The children disappeared the instant we stepped out of the car. They melted into the crowds, keen to hunt out their friends, old or new, I’m not sure. Jake wasn’t at my side for much longer—there were too many outstretched hands that he had to shake, numerous pats on the back to be received. Inevitably, we became separated as people demanded our attention. Everyone appears to be giddy with excitement and overawed. We are repeatedly congratulated on our win, and the party, the cocktails and our costumes are all admired. I’m wearing a Pierrot, sad clown costume—loose white blouse with large pom-pom buttons and wide white pantaloons, a frilled black collar and skullcap. I’ve completed the look by painting my face white, I have black lips and I’ve drawn a fat tear on my cheek. Jake disapproves of my costume. He doesn’t like that I’m dressed as a man. He wanted me to wear a figure-hugging, sparkling something or other. He