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

as he went down. It really was quite a violent shove. His daughter has already made a complaint. We’re going to need to write it up.”

I shake my head. This is the last thing Ellie needs. We’re always thinly stretched, and a complaint investigation will add significantly to the workload. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, it isn’t your fault exactly.” She sounds grudging.

“Was Dave okay? I know him. He won’t have meant any harm.”

“Maybe not, but he caused some. And of course, the Tourette’s didn’t help. Once he started swearing, old Mr. Ryan just thought he was a terrifying thug.”

“It’s a very much misunderstood condition,” I interject.

Ellie looks impatient. “I know, Lexi.” We sit for a moment in silence. I feel chastised, she feels patronized. I don’t like the gap that’s widening between us. I fear I might fall through it. Ellie eventually lets out a long sigh. “After a few months, things will calm down and we can talk about you coming back.”

“A few months?” I gasp.

Ellie shrugs. She’s not committing. “It might be less. I don’t know how long these things take to blow over. You are going on holiday soon anyway, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“To New York, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to New York.” She says this with what I think is a note of envy in her voice. “Staying somewhere lovely, I expect?” I nod. She studies me as though I’m an insect behind one of those glass domes the Victorians were so fond of. A curiosity. “You should just try and enjoy your good luck, Lexi.”

I leave her office. There’s nothing more to be said.

I walk to the local greasy spoon that’s just ten minutes from my office. I expected some people from the queue at Citizens Advice Bureau to follow me, but they don’t because I lie, reassuring them I’ll be back in a minute and urging them to stay put. “You don’t want to lose your place in the queue.” They trust me so don’t follow. I feel squalid and selfish ignoring their requests, being one more person who is prepared to lie to them and let them down, but what can I do?

At the café I order a mug of tea. It’s served stronger than I usually drink it. I swallow it quickly anyway, scalding my mouth in my impatience. I check around, but no one is paying me any attention. The place is full of builders on their morning break reading tabloid newspapers, their bottoms spread over the small wooden chairs, their stomachs rolling over their belts. Not for the first time I think the real win in life is being born a man. I pull out my phone and hit the number that is now saved in my favorites. It rings two, three, four times before he picks up. “Toma Albu,” he declares. I have always liked the way he owns his name, not afraid to state it. Even when he was on the streets Toma claimed his name, held on to himself, despite the odds. “What would you do with three million pounds?”

“Lexi?”

“Yes.” I repeat the question.

“I read about the win. Congratulations!” I hear amusement in his voice, which warms me. “You are ringing me to ask how to spend it?”

“No, I won nearly eighteen million, not three. I’m ringing you to ask how you would spend three. If I gave three to you.”

“Why would you do that?” I can hear talking in the background.

I guess he’s on his tea break, too. Like the builders, he also starts early. I imagine the bustle in the factory staff room as people jostle for mugs, tea bags, milk. I feel his stillness. His seriousness and calm as he waits for me to explain myself. Which I can’t. Not really.

“I want to. Is it enough to allow you to return home?”

“Well, I suppose I could exhume my wife and son and have their bodies flown home if I had that sort of money. Is that what you meant?”

“No, not exactly.” I feel mortified because I’ve been clumsy. He told me he couldn’t leave the UK because he couldn’t bear to be so far away from them. To leave them behind. He has never said the problem was money. I suppose I hadn’t really believed it. I suppose I still thought money could help him start again. Have I started to think like Jake? Do I believe money can fix everything? I’d be an idiot to believe that when the evidence is stacking up to say the exact opposite.

“Yesterday, my daughter was beaten at school,” I explain.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes, in the grand scheme of things I know she’s not—” I break off. Change tack. “I know things could have been worse.” He makes a sound, not a word exactly. I find it soothing. “Before it happened, I thought I understood how you felt. That I understood your loss. Your sense of anger and impotence. Or at least almost—” I stumble again. I take a deep breath and admit, “But I see my empathy was limited.”

“It still is. Your child was hurt. Mine is dead.”

“Yes.”

I feel fury and shame. Fury that she was hurt. Shame that I didn’t protect her. Toma must feel something a hundred thousand times more daunting, more dreadful.

“My problem isn’t your problem, Lexi,” says Toma quietly. “I can’t take your money. You have done a lot already. Thank you. You are a very good woman.” His thanks are heartfelt and steady, not gushing. “Thank you. You’ve helped me get back on my feet, the lodgings, the job.”

It still doesn’t seem enough. “I don’t want you to lose any more time.”

“You can’t control that. Even with millions you can’t control time.”

“Right.” I sigh and it sits between us. The boundary of my abilities.

Toma seems to understand my sigh, my frustration. I can hear the smile in his voice. “But Lexi, I’m nearly there. Things are changing for me. You did that.”

“I want to give you this