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

derisively refers to my outfit as my “monotone mime costume.” But Jake is missing the point. The Pierrot has been a stock character in circus and pantomime for centuries; he creates pity in audiences as he pines for the love of Columbine, who usually breaks his heart and leaves him for Harlequin, the colorful one. The defining characteristic of Pierrot is his naivete. He is seen as a fool, often the butt of pranks, yet nonetheless he is loved. His redeeming feature is that he’s trusting.

I thought about my costume long and hard.

The baggy getup and the white face offer me some much-needed anonymity. Once I’m not by Jake’s side, who is dressed as a ringmaster—no make that the ringmaster)—I am not easily recognized. I am able to drift through the gentle din of polite early-party chatter and clinking glasses. I breathe in the heady perfume of the sun-scorched meadow and delicious food aromas without anyone really bothering me.

There is no denying it—the entire party looks amazing. I have never attended anything so stupendous in my life, and I don’t suppose many, if any, of the guests have, either. Every detail has been stage-managed to create an awe-inspiring, magical spectacle. The waiters, dressed as acrobats, are all incredibly fit and attractive. Bulging biceps and taut abs are everywhere I turn. They are carrying trays of brightly colored cocktails, poking out of which are slices of toffee apple or candy floss and red-and-white straws. There are dozens of primary-colored light bulbs hung in festoons crisscrossing between the trees. It’s still too early for them to be anything more than eye-catching, but they are most definitely that. There are ice sculptures of roaring lions and seals balancing balls on their noses dotted about, and enormous beanbags surround firepits and chocolate fountains that have encouraged pockets of teens to cluster. The teenagers are even enjoying themselves. I see this because they are not sat in a line, heads bent devoutly over their phones. They are talking to each other, laughing, shoving and then hugging one another. There are a lot of similar-looking girls in tiny, glittering outfits with dyed blond hair and dark roots that extend to about the ear. I understand this is deliberate and fashionable because when I once commented that it looked careless, unkempt, Emily rolled her eyes. “That’s the point, Mum.”

Their young faces are still taut and keen. Later this evening I imagine they will be flushed with drink, maybe drugs, maybe sex, but right now they ooze innocence and hope.

I scan each teen group for Emily, Megan or Ridley. Habit. I’ve done this since they were babies. Checked their whereabouts, their comfort levels. Swooped in if one of them needed taking to the loo, feeding, or if there was a dispute to be managed.

Of course it’s different now, everything is. I can’t manage their disputes. I can’t do anything to help.

Megan isn’t invited and it would take some cheek for the Pearsons to turn up under the circumstances, but they have that in spades so I’m not completely ruling it out. We haven’t heard anything from them since I called Carla. Their silence is partially disconcerting—they were so loud in our lives for such a long time—but mostly a relief. A triumph. What can they say? What can they do? I feel a small glow of pride that I have managed to deal with them so effectively, so conclusively. The Heathcotes? They are a different beast. Emily says she’s not bothered about whether Ridley comes or not, but I watched her patiently sit while a professional makeup artist spent three hours doing her makeup and styling her pink wig in preparation for tonight, so I don’t believe her. She cares. Far too much.

The volume has cranked up considerably and carries across the field in every direction. There are clashing tunes from the dance floor and the funfair rides, laughter is more boisterous and committed. People are talking over each other, everyone convinced that they are funny and interesting, more so than when they arrived, more so than the people they are talking to. From time to time I pass a cloud of the familiar smog that used to pop up at parties when I was younger. It was weed back then. Now it’s hash. I never partook. I stare intently at the kids and eye them suspiciously, but I can’t catch anyone with so much as a cigarette let alone find the source of the stale haze. They are quick and devious. People are.

“Hello, Lexi, lovely party.” Jennifer beams at me. I haven’t seen her since the press conference. Weirdly, my first instinct is to hug her. That’s my body betraying my mind, muscles and nerves collaborating because of the long and intimate past we share.

Drawing one another into an easy hug or honest conversation was normal for so long. Now I should slap her. I squeeze my hands together behind my back to avoid that. She lunges at me and kisses the air on either side of my face. As we pull apart, I stay stony silent and simply stare at her. I look at this woman who has lied and hurt me. Tried to steal from me. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asks. “Sometimes it’s hard to relax at one’s own parties.”

I don’t respond straightaway. I want it to be awkward. I want the intimacy we had to be missed and grieved for. I want her to feel guilty and ashamed. Although I must be an idiot to think she has any depth that way. Our past was tissue thin. Our future is tumultuous and confused. My mind is struggling to catch up to the fact that she’s had the nerve to turn up. I know she was invited, and I know she accepted, but a tiny part of me thought that when it came to it, she might have the good grace to realize that she ought not to be here.

No. She’s ballsier than that.