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

of five boys. I use the term “gang” as loosely and innocently as possible. They are still at the stage where the most rebellious thing they do is fart loudly in maths classes and then deny it. I bet they forgot all about the lottery win by lunchtime. When Emily was being beaten in the loo, Logan was waiting at the bus stop, exchanging Fortnite strategies with his mates as usual.

I also understand why Logan might crave normality—I certainly do. I leave Jake in charge of the kids and catch the bus to work. It’s a bright spring day, birds are chirping, some spindly branches of trees, defiant and lush, reach, bend and bang against the side of the bus as it trundles along the narrowest part of the country roads. I enjoy the relentlessness of nature that somehow seems eternally hopeful and exuberant. Although, of course, soon the council will be out to chop back the branches before it becomes dangerous for vehicles taking a bend. I’m running a little late, but I’m sure Ellie will understand. I told her about the win after the press conference. I also told her about the Heathcotes’ and Pearsons’ hijack, so she understands how emotionally complex everything is. The CAB team were excited for me. Judy kept exclaiming, “You dark horse! You dark horse!” To celebrate, they bought me a Victoria sponge from M&S and we shared a bottle of cava. We ate and drank at our desks, chuckling and chatting much as we do when one of the team has a birthday. They asked me how I was planning on spending the money. “Jake seems to be handling that,” I replied wryly, which got a laugh. Then, after about ten minutes or so, it seemed we’d said all that we could say about the lottery and soon we were asking one another about the status of various clients. “Did Aliya Habeb have any luck with child support?”

“Has anyone circulated the details of the firefighters’ education program to the schools?”

By the time I was washing up the plates in the tiny sink in the staff room, I’d almost forgotten why we were eating cake to celebrate.

It’s a five-minute walk from the bus stop to my office. I can do it in three if I try. I walk at the sort of pace that makes me feel waxy on my lower back. As I turn the corner, I instantly know something is up. Usually this is a fairly quiet part of the high street. The neighboring retailers include two vaping shops, a betting shop, a tattoo parlor, a curry house, a kebab shop and a fish-and-chip shop—it’s the place to come if you’re hungry. Some other retailers are boarded up, there’s a lot of graffiti. Not the cool sort, just people’s names and expletives. I don’t judge. People have a primitive need to be noticed. At this time of day, only the CAB is open and so it’s never a busy street, but today there is a queue of people outside the office. As I approach, I hear people murmur, “There she is.”

“That’s her.”

And then, with more insistence, “Mrs. Greenwood, can I have a word?”

There are too many of them to be the usual clients looking for a drop-in appointment. Initially, I fear they are journalists, but I quickly understand that they are people petitioning not for advice or a story, but for money.

“He said he’ll change the locks if I can’t get the money to him today.”

“My son needs a new electric wheelchair, we’re fundraising.”

“Excuse me, can I talk to you about the Byson Centre for MS?”

I realize instantly that I can’t, and shouldn’t, try to manage any of these people; client interaction outside the office is frowned upon. Although I’ve broken the rules on that before, I feel this queue and the number of requests might overwhelm me and decide I had better stick to protocol. I smile briskly and stride toward the office, nodding at everyone who pulls at my arm or tries to talk to me, but effectively brushing them off. “Do make an appointment. Can you just bear with me? I just need to get inside. I have meetings.”

Inside the office is not much calmer. Every one of my colleagues has a drop-in client. There are other people filling the chairs in the waiting area and many more are standing about. As I step inside, everyone seems to pause and turn to me. I don’t know what to say. One woman breaks the silence. She is sitting at Judy’s desk, but quickly and dismissively turns away from Judy. “Thanks for your help, love, but it’s her I want to see.” In an instant, the woman is up on her feet and pushing through the tightly packed desks toward me. Her initiative seems to give everyone else permission to move, and suddenly six or seven people surge toward me. I recognize a couple of the faces: Laura Atkins, who has a brutal partner that she is too scared to leave; and Vicky Lavin, who has fallen foul of an exploitative payday lender who regularly threatens to break her arms. I see hope in their eyes as they clamor toward me. Someone knocks over a chair in their haste. It clatters to the floor, but no one bends to pick it up. The air feels volatile. It’s chaos. I instinctually retreat from them and then feel trapped when the back of my thighs hit my desk.

I’m so grateful when Ellie’s strong, calm voice cuts through the demands and disorder.

“If everyone can just take a seat, please. We’re going to form an orderly queue. Rob, if you can give everyone a number, you know, like at the supermarket meat counter. Lexi, can we have a minute in my office, please?”

I hurriedly and gratefully follow her into the office, embarrassed that I didn’t handle that well. I’ve never backed away from someone in need in my life before. I normally run toward