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

kick it off, glance at Google Maps on my phone and then set off in what I hope to be the right direction. I move away from the smell of bus diesel and fast-food fat and head down a badly lit street where the strongest aroma is overflowing bins. It’s about a ten-minute walk until I’m approaching the house that I was given the address to. The party is not happening at the lodgings where I know Toma lives—that’s not this part of town—so I can only assume a friend is hosting this goodbye party for him. How lovely. Even without the address, it would have been clear to me that this is where the party was being held. One house in the middle of the terraced row has its windows flung wide. There is music floating out of it, old pop songs that seem never to go away, but no one can ever remember when they were genuinely fashionable. Lots of chatter and laugher ebbs and flows onto the street. There’s cheap, cheerful bunting hung inexpertly from the gatepost to the doorway. I ring the bell, wait, wondering whether it will have been heard above the noise of the festivities.

Toma flings open the door, a bottle of beer in his hand and a beam on his face. For a moment he looks startled to see me on his step and I am concerned that he’s forgotten all about inviting me, then I remember what I’m wearing, that my face is painted white. I wonder, can he see my blushes through the makeup?

“You dressed up!” he says with a laugh.

“My party is a fancy-dress party,” I explain with a shrug. “I didn’t want to waste the evening going home to change.”

Toma’s beam widens a fraction more and I know I made the right decision. He steps forward and flings his arms around me, enveloping me in a huge bear hug. This is the first physical contact I’ve ever had with Toma. I’m generally a tactile person, and I tend to squeeze a person’s arm to convey sympathy, solidarity, encouragement. However, I’m strict about not doing so at work as it can be construed as unprofessional. I don’t remember my fingers so much as brushing Toma’s as I’ve passed him a cup of tea, or my shoulder rubbing against his as he’s held open a door for me. His sudden physicality ought to feel unfamiliar, maybe awkward, but I find my body smudges against his with ease and we fit. He’s tall, I slip under his arms, which are raised to embrace me. As we separate, I suddenly feel a lack, notice that my hands are empty.

“I’m sorry, I should have brought a bottle.” I think of all the bottles of champagne, wine, beer, spirits that are stacked at my party and I am embarrassed that I didn’t think to pick one up to bring here.

“Lexi, you don’t have to bring anything other than yourself.” I nip to the bathroom and wash the makeup off my face. Toma might not think it’s odd I have arrived in full fancy dress, but I’m sure others will. There’s nothing I can do about my costume. When I emerge from the bathroom, Toma is patiently waiting for me. I follow him through to the sitting room where about twenty people are pushed into a small space. All the seats are taken, and floor space is at a premium, too. Everyone is talking to someone. No one is lurking gauchely in the background. As I walk in, everyone turns, smiles, give small nods and waves. I have been to small dinner parties where there have been only a handful of guests, and sometimes those guests have ignored the arrival of a new person. These people seem extraordinarily inclusive. I smile back shyly. Toma leads me to a group of three—two women and a man, all about my age or older, I guess. Of course, the first comments are about my costume. I explain I’ve come from another party but don’t mention it was my own as I fear that might require more of an explanation than I can offer. Why have I left my party of three hundred guests to come to this gathering of twenty people?

Toma touches my arm—it’s startling. “Drink?”

“Yes, please. I came on the bus.” He goes into the kitchen to get me a drink. He returns with a glass of white wine, and by then I have jumped into the conversation that his friends were having about the books they are reading at the moment. They talk passionately about the plot and characters. By chance I’ve also read the book that is at the root of their discussion so I can agree that the ending was deeply satisfying.

The thin woman in the flowered dress, Dita, puts her fingers in her ears and makes loud “la-la-la” sounds. “I haven’t finished it, just two more chapters to go,” she says, laughing.

“Wasn’t it a bit predictable, though?” asked the bearded man, Mandek, looking genuinely concerned about this.

“Well, sometimes a little bit of getting what you expected is just what you need,” I point out.

“Very true,” he agrees. I try to establish which one of them works in publishing or as a librarian because I can’t imagine why they would all be so informed and opinionated about books otherwise, but I discover Dita and Mandek work at the laundry with Toma. Sabina, the youngest of us all, is a cleaner at the local police station.

“Good jobs,” explains Sabina, “fit around my family. I never take worries home with me.” I nod, that’s undeniably true. I also discover that it is Dita and Mandek’s home that I’m in. I thank them profusely for inviting me.

“Any friend of Toma’s is our friend,” they tell me. No one mentions the lottery win. Notable because people rarely talk to me about anything else nowadays. I don’t think Toma has told anyone about my luck or his good fortune. I