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

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At first, I approach the letters haphazardly. I pick them up, read them, paw them, put them down again. It’s only after I have read about twenty and I pick up one I recognize that I realize I need a system. I sort the requests into three piles. One for charitable requests, another for investment requests in businesses and a third for scams. These letters—from people asking for my bank details, a PayPal transfer or urging me to invest in wine, land, carbon credits, gold or diamonds—all go in the bin. I put the more genuine-looking investment opportunities into a file—I’ll look at those later. It’s the charitable projects that interest me the most. The extraordinary wealth is weighing heavily on me, but at the same time it affords me a tremendous opportunity. I can do a lot of good.

I realize that many will think impulsively giving Toma, a relative stranger, three million pounds was an act of insanity.

Maybe it was.

I should have told Jake by now. I really should have. I know that. But I haven’t. The right moment hasn’t presented itself. I’m beginning to think the right moment doesn’t exist. Jake will be livid, that’s for certain. He’ll see it as a betrayal. Maybe even cruelty or spite. I wonder how long it will take him to notice. Whilst he is very keen on spending the money we won, he hasn’t yet shown any interest in investing it or monitoring what is in our prestige bank account. He spends, spends, spends, safe in the knowledge that we have enough, we have plenty.

Jake and I are not seeing eye to eye on much at the moment. Whilst I’m dealing with all the correspondence regarding charitable endeavours, he’s dealing with the party RSVPs. As he left the house today, he oh so casually said, “You know, the Heathcotes have said yes to coming to the party.”

“Have they?”

“Which is a good thing.”

“Is it, though?”

“Lexi, they changed their statement. We got what we wanted.”

“Their son beat up our daughter.”

“Well, technically, he didn’t beat her—Megan and her cronies did.”

“Jake! Can you even hear yourself? Okay, technically, he stood by and watched as our daughter, his girlfriend, was beaten up.”

“They’ve been buffeting one another around since they were toddlers. Fallouts, scraps and makeups are a way of life to them. Emily is fine with this. Kids will be kids,” says Jake with a shrug.

“You know this is nothing to do with kids being kids.”

“I think it’s important we make a clear and public statement that all that nonsense about them claiming to be winners is water under the bridge.”

I glared at him. “We don’t need to make clear and public statements about anything. We’re not running the country. How do we know something won’t kick off again? What if they hurt Emily again?”

“Tensions were high. Things have calmed down now.”

The one thing I know about parties is that nothing ever calms down at them.

I sigh, check the clock. I should put on some dinner. They’ll probably be home soon. I decide to prepare a lasagna. We’ve been eating out a lot recently, still too high to consider anything as mundane as cooking. Maybe we’re ready for some home-cooked food, and lasagna is a long-standing crowd-pleaser in our family. Good, solid, comfort food that I regularly serve up when the kids are feeling overwhelmed with schoolwork or after an important sports match or when Jake has had a long day at the office. Often on Tuesdays. He always used to work late on Tuesdays.

None of the above apply, but I find I have a need to eat lasagna anyway. Reading the letters has been emotionally exhausting. I heat some olive oil in a frying pan, the gas is up too high and it snaps and spits. I pour myself a glass of red wine and put on the radio as I like to listen to Classic FM when I’m cooking. I don’t listen to classical music at any other time. Usually, I prefer listening to Sara Cox on Radio 2, but somehow the fugue and rondeau lift browning meat and onions from a mundane chore to something a little more special. I add the passata, beef stock and grated nutmeg. I leave the dish to simmer for half an hour and then put a WhatsApp message on our family chat asking what time I should expect them. I hold the phone for a few minutes until the blue ticks appear that tell me my message has been read by everyone. I wait a little longer, hoping for a response—none comes. I see that all three are online, then Logan isn’t. A message tells me Emily is typing. And then she is not. She goes offline without giving me an ETA. I wait for Jake to pick up the mantle. I send another message. Just an estimate will do.

No response. Charming.

The kitchen suddenly seems moody and morose. The gloomy clouds have thickened and although it’s only seven o’clock, it’s much darker than it ought to be on a May evening. A dark shape slips along the low back fence: the neighbor’s cat. Another shadow slinks on the ground. A wily fox.

Flicking on the electric light, I swallow the lump of irritation that sticks in my throat and continue with the prep regardless. Maybe they are just heading home and didn’t think it was worth telling me as they’ll be here in ten minutes. I spoon the meat sauce into the warmed and greased ovenproof dish, then cover