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

but I can’t locate her. I go and speak to as many members of staff as I can personally; however, they don’t look too interested in my instructions. I try to explain that I am the host, although as they’ve dealt with Jake and Sara they seem reluctant to listen to me. Glancing about, I see a fair number of quite wasted teens, but I can’t definitively blame the bar staff. As the drinks are free many are left half drunk, so even if a teen didn’t ask for alcohol at the bar they could easily minesweep.

I’m not drinking. I feel a need to watch over the guests, specifically the younger ones. I spot one girl who looks as though she is managing to sleep vertically. Her friends cluster around her, propping her up between them. She’s wearing a barely there clown’s costume that is streaked with vomit. Her thin, spindly legs drop into chunky wedged heels. She’s swaying about like a rooted tree. I fear if she falls, she’ll twist her ankle, or maybe she’ll just snap. Her friends are nervous when I approach, fearing she—and they—might get into trouble. I don’t judge, but I do suggest we call her parents. They seem relieved that I’ve taken responsibility. I sit with the girl until her parents arrive. I fully expect them to have a go at me for letting their daughter get into this state. I know if I was called to collect my teen from a party at eight o’clock and found she was barely conscious through alcohol, concern might cause me to lash out. I steel myself, but in fact they simply compliment me on the beautiful party, congratulate me on the win and say they look forward to seeing me again once Emily and Logan start at the new school. They bundle their daughter into their car and throw one last wistful glance over their shoulders. I think their greatest regret is that they weren’t invited.

I haven’t seen Jake for a while. I call him, but he doesn’t pick up. I’m not surprised, he often has his phone on silent. And whilst planning the party over this past week or so, Jake has said the reason it’s been difficult to reach him sometimes is that the reception in the field is patchy.

I’ve nothing to worry about. I’ve nothing to worry about. It’s over.

I scour the partying people for Jennifer’s colorful costume. There are two or three other Harlequins that catch my eye, but I don’t see her. Involuntarily, my gaze is drawn to the woodland at the back of the field, the perfect place for people to disappear into if they wanted to be alone, if they didn’t want to be found. I shake my head. It’s a stupid, destructive thought. Jennifer is probably at the champagne stack—she does enjoy a glass or two of champagne. Jake is most likely watching the magic act, which according to my timetable, is happening right now in the big top. The party site is vast and the throng thick so it’s actually very hard to find anyone.

I haven’t seen Logan since we arrived, although he has at least replied to my texts saying he’s having a “wicked time” and that he is with his friends, yes, they are staying together, no, they are not causing trouble. This is unlikely to be absolutely true, but it’s enough to be reassuring. I can’t help but note that his phone seems to have better reception than my husband’s. I haven’t spotted Ellie, Judy, Heidi or Rob from the bureau yet, either, and I really want to see them. I want to ask about a couple of my old cases. There are people who I have been thinking about, and I’d like to know how things are progressing. I know they are here because Judy has already posted about twenty pictures of herself on Facebook: her face poking out from behind a great big candy floss, her face open with a roar of laughter as she rode the Ferris. I checked at the Ferris wheel, but I couldn’t see them, already having moved on by the time I got there. I decide to make another circuit of the party in the hope of catching them, but my progress is almost immediately interrupted as I am stopped by some old work colleagues of Jake’s. Not from his last job, but the one before that. I smile and nod along with their conversation, although not a lot is being said. Mostly, it’s a repetition of the mantras.

“Who would have thought it?”

“What are the odds?”

When my phone vibrates in my pocket, I’m grateful for the excuse to cut it short. “I’m so sorry, I have to take this.” I throw out an apologetic grimace and duck away from them.

“Lexi?”

“Toma?”

“You recognized my voice!” He sounds happy and noting as much reminds me that it’s not an emotion I usually associate with him. I think of him as sincere, troubled, determined, angry, thoughtful. A complex kaleidoscope of sentiment that is tight and knotted.

“Your name came up on my phone,” I reply, matching the smile in his voice.

“You have me programmed in your phone!” He’s buoyant. Almost playful.

“Everyone has everyone programmed in their phone nowadays, Toma.”

“Where are you? You sound like you are at a party.”

“I am, actually. My own.”

“You are throwing a party, without me? How is that possible?”

I laugh. “Have you been drinking, Toma?”

“Some.” If I was having this conversation with anyone else, I would go so far as to call his tone flirtatious. I suppose that’s what happens when you gift a man three million pounds. I mean, how is he supposed to read that signal?

“Why are you calling? Is everything okay?”

“You should not always think everything is a problem with me,” he says, his tone changing abruptly, sobering.

“It’s not that. I don’t.” I falter because I do. I met the man when he was sleeping in the street outside my office. It’s hard to disassociate