Just My Luck by Adele Parks (best interesting books to read TXT) 📕

It is frustrating that neither of them has their earbuds in. Usually it is virtually impossible to get their attention, but I know that whilst they are pretending to be focused on the cars and tarmac whizzing by, they are no doubt acutely tuned in to what we are saying. Maybe this is why rich people have to drive around in such big cars—so they can whisper about deals, wins, pacts and treaties. “What a mess. It’s all so grubby,” I mutter.

Jake plays with the cuff links on his shirt. They are new (Deakin & Francis). His suit is new, too (Tom Ford), as is his shirt (Brioni), and tie (Stefano Ricci). Even his socks and underwear are new (Calvin Klein). He looks crisp, sharp, expensive. “I’m a whole new man,” he said gleefully as he got dressed this morning. I had to root through the discarded receipts in order to establish how much this new man had cost. Unbelievably, over ten grand. I guess that is far from grubby. “Surely we should just leave this alone now. Let it all die down. The lottery company will believe us as Fred has backed up our story.”

“That’s not going to happen. The Pearsons are still going to fight us. We need Jennifer onside. I have to talk to her. You can’t just hope for the best, Lexi. You also have to plan for the worst. There are millions at stake here.” Jake reaches across and squeezes my leg. The squeeze sends a thrill and a throb through my body. It’s weird, even after all these years, I’m still basically putty in his hands. Carla and Jennifer used to say I was really lucky that my husband could still make me feel that way. Sometimes I’m not sure. For a few moments neither of us can trust ourselves to speak. Eventually he says, “I’ll drop you and the kids off at home first and then go straight to Jennifer’s.”

“Without me?”

“Yes. This will be better if I handle it.”

We drive home in silence. The thick soupy miserable sort that floods homes with grief and regret.

When we get back to the house the kids go to their separate rooms. Close the doors behind them. I guess Logan will be playing Fortnite and Emily will probably be indulging in another round of online shopping. I sigh. I know I need to get them back to school and into a routine, but I’m getting no support from Jake on that, and obviously they are reluctant. I haven’t got the energy to fight them all.

Whilst Jake is out, I text Fred and thank him for his statement. He texts straight back and we swap a few messages. I pick up a magazine and try to read it. I find my mind wandering and I read the same three lines of the same article about twenty times. I hunt about for my old copy of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen. I studied this text for A level and have reread it about ten times since. It’s reassuring, civilized, orderly. I’ve always liked the message Austen advocated: decency prevails. This novel is comfort food for the brain, and I need to get out of my own world. Odd, when I’m living the dream.

When Jake finally returns, he’s carrying a number of cardboard bags, the fancy sort that are fastened with ribbons and have rope handles. The driver helps him unload the car. Clearly, he’s found time to indulge in another shopping fest. The kids dash down the stairs to see what goodies he’s bought. I can’t talk freely in front of them but am desperate to know what’s gone on. “Did you talk with Jennifer?” I whisper.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I offered them a million pounds each if she changed her testimony and confirmed our stories. Close down the Pearsons completely.”

“You did what?”

We’ve been together long enough for me to know that he always goes on the attack when he feels guilty or wronged. “It’s not what I wanted, Lexi. But I don’t think we have any choice.” Jake dumps the packages he was carrying on the floor and storms out of the room.

Our house isn’t big, there aren’t a huge number of places available to go to sulk or rage. Jake slams a few doors as he stomps around the house, but his vehemence needs more space. It needs to be exercised out. He goes outside into the garden and to my utter surprise starts digging in the vegetable patch.

I watch him. I hear the shovel hit the earth and then my husband’s grunt, the earth being thrown to the side. What is he doing? The vegetable patch needed turning over, but he is shovelling with such force it looks like he’s on his way to Australia. I know him, he’s very physical. When we were at uni, he played a lot of team sport every weekend and on Wednesday afternoons. But, besides that, if ever he was stressed by an assignment or upcoming exam, he would have to find another physical outlet. He’d go on a run, go to the gym, have energetic sex. I guess today he’d rather dig into the garden than me.

I sigh and force myself to fill the kettle, open a cupboard, find a couple of mugs. I root out the tea bags and milk.

I take two steaming cups of tea out to the garden. “Fancy a cuppa?” It is the universal peace signal, everyone knows that. Jake slows down, then nods, throws his shovel onto the ground. We both sit down on the low wall. That’s when I notice that he hasn’t even changed out of his suit. His brand-new, cost-an-arm-and-a-leg suit. There is mud caked on his trousers, all the way up to his knee. I’m angry with him but picking my battles. We’re teetering, unstable. I’m not going to row about something that the dry cleaners can fix.

“Is it going to