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

a claim on our win, and I explain that I’ve been asked to take a break from work, that Jake has resigned and that we are going to change the kids’ school. I don’t tell her about Emily’s beating. It’s not as though she can do anything about that situation, and it would be a case of a problem shared, a problem doubled, not halved. We are not her responsibility.

Gillian understands that it is almost impossible to continue living in our home. There are no walls, fences, not even a gate. What if those three from last night are just the thin end of the wedge? Should we expect to be inundated with people just turning up asking for money? Some might ask politely, or there may be more threats. Either way it will become impossible, intolerable.

“If you move, though, can I recommend you consider staying close by, at least to start with? We’ve found that really works for other lottery winners,” suggests Gillian. “Keep your support system around you, just pick somewhere less accessible for strangers. Maybe somewhere less remote.” She reaches for her iPad. “I’ve taken the liberty of doing a bit of a search on the internet. Just to give you some ideas. There is a new development in Great Chester that’s almost finished. A gated cul-de-sac that might be worth a look.”

Gillian shows me photos of five lovely new houses on a private road. I am aware of the development as Jennifer, Carla and I have been closely watching the building project progress over the last year. We were planning on having a mooch around the showhouse together as soon as it was open to the public. At the time none of us had any intention of moving, but we all like a nose because you can get some inspiration on how to do up your own home—it’s a good way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Although the show house opened up Easter weekend, we never got there. The houses in the photos are certainly grander than ours. They are all basically the same with a few cosmetic differences. For example, you can choose your own kitchen units, and the tiles and carpets vary throughout. There are two different sorts of front doors to pick from. According to the listing, all the houses have five bedrooms, three with en suites, a reception room and a snug—whatever that is, somewhere for the kids to hang out, I suppose. They each have separate garages and huge kitchens. I could see myself living in one of these houses, happily. They are not too impossibly grand, but they are elegant, spacious, aspirational.

“You’d get a level of security without feeling cut off,” points out Gillian. This search is thoughtful of her and so close to an act of friendship that I feel tears sting in my eyes. The fact I notice the kindness somehow draws attention to the lack of it in my life at the moment. I used to want to live in Great Chester, if we could ever have afforded it. I wanted to be able to walk to my friends’ homes, knock on their doors and have impromptu get-togethers, but since I’m no longer friends with Carla and Jennifer, Great Chester has lost its appeal. I don’t say this to Gillian—it would sound ungrateful. Instead, I thank her, tell her I might take a look, although I won’t. Then I change the subject and start talking about the party.

We pass a pleasant hour and a half. I want to linger longer, but Gillian has to get back to the office. I envy her sense of purpose and business. As she stands up to leave, I feel a flush of embarrassment at being the rudderless person who does not have to be somewhere. Anywhere.

“I don’t want to get overinvolved and push my beak in where it’s not wanted,” she says with an apologetic grin.

“What is it? Honestly, all advice welcome.”

She looks uncomfortable but earnest. I recognize the expression because I sometimes wore it at the CAB when I overstepped a guideline. “Even if the development at Great Chester isn’t for you, can I urge you to just maybe think twice about buying somewhere too far away, or too grand, or too—” she searches for the word “—isolated.”

The first thing I spot when I arrive home is the for-sale sign standing tall in our front garden.

“That was quick,” I comment to Jake.

“Your safety comes first. Why would I delay?” he replies. His comment is somewhat at odds with the one he made this morning about my overreacting, but since it would be very churlish to grumble since he has come around to my point of view I just nod, smile. “I’ve also booked security guys who will start work this evening at six. They are going to stay overnight.”

“Where will they stay?” I ask.

“On the sofa.”

“They agreed to that?”

“People agree to anything for the right price.” His comment is throwaway—his easy, firm belief. “Anyway, it won’t be for long, we’re moving out tomorrow.”

“You’ve found a hotel? Great. Then why can’t we go tonight?”

“Not a hotel, I’ve found a home.”

I had been edging out of my shoes, busy shrugging off my jacket and looking for a vase to put the gerberas in, but this news makes me pivot to face him. I expect him to be wearing a huge triumphant grin, an expression I’ve become accustomed to seeing when he arrives home with his latest booty. I’m more concerned that he is not smirking goofily; he simply looks decisive, firm and matter-of-fact. Choosing us a home isn’t a matter of joy for him, it’s his prerogative. I struggle to process this shift in the dynamics between us. We used to discuss everything from what we were going to have for tea to what we should watch on TV. Certainly, where we live would have been a matter of intense debate. In the past. Why aren’t I involved in these decisions