Just My Luck by Adele Parks (best romance books of all time txt) 📗

for me to shake. No one has sweaty palms, or irritatingly weak grips, and no one tries to assert their dominance by crushing my bones. It is all very sleek; these people know how to do things properly. That makes me feel more nervous, not less. I wish someone would make a mistake. I look for laddered tights, low flies; of course, there are none.

Our lawyer is Ms. Walsh. She is a slight woman in her thirties. She looks as though a strong wind could blow her away, but when Jake and I met with her on the day of the dreadful press announcement, I was struck by her fast mind and her no-nonsense approach. She remained calm and cool with us, I admired her for that. She’s someone who just wants to get on with the job at hand. Since we’ve become lottery winners, people mostly seem flustered around us, either sycophantic or resentful. It is refreshing to meet such neutrality.

There are two people from the lottery: Gillian and a man who I don’t know. “Mick Hutch. My boss,” says Gillian, pointing her thumb at him whilst pulling her face into a fake grimace that suggests they like and respect one another.

A man in his fifties, who is a poster boy for pale and stale, introduces himself as “Terrance Elliott, old family friend of Fred and Jennifer Heathcote.” He is their lawyer. Yes, a family friend, too. I met him last year, at their twentieth wedding anniversary party. We spoke for several minutes about ambulance chasers, but he obviously doesn’t remember me. The Heathcotes’ family friends are all accountants, solicitors, doctors.

There are three more lawyers in the room. They all have a haughty, complacent air about them, undoubtedly the sort of people who are used to winning. Mr. Piper-Dunn, Mr. Caplin-Hudson and Ms. Chen-Ying all say they are representatives of Patrick and Carla Pearson. Whilst I am good at remembering names, I don’t commit these three to memory but instead dub them Double Barrel 1, 2 and 3. Three. Three! They have three lawyers. We are the ones with millions in the bank and they have three lawyers. I feel exposed and underprepared.

“Do you mind if I record the interview?” asks Double Barrel 3.

I look at my lawyer. She smiles encouragingly. “Lexi, this is entirely voluntary. You must keep that in mind.”

Gillian chips in, “You are not under arrest.” Her tone suggests she is joking but my eyes widen. Gillian sees I’m frightened and quickly adds, “No one is. We’re simply trying to get to the bottom of the matter.” She squeezes my arm.

I take a deep breath and try not to panic. This inquiry is serious. I have never been on the wrong side of the law, and I don’t like the merest implication that I am now. I have to stay calm and focused. I have to tell my story to the best of my ability. Sort this mess out. I wish I was wearing one of my new dresses—after all I’ve bought three this past week. But this morning I just put on the first things that came to hand: jeans, a T-shirt, trainers. Suddenly I am struck by the concern as to whether Ms. Walsh, my lawyer, is even my lawyer at all. She is someone the lottery company sourced for us. Is she representing me or is she really here for them? Is there a difference? Before the press conference I would have said not. Now I’m pretty clear the world is always divided into them and us. It’s just a matter of working out which team everyone is on.

I need to step up, get back in control. Behave as I would at work where I constantly fight for the underdog, fight for what is right and fair. Justice must have its day. That’s all that matters. They have to believe me. “Okay, I have nothing to hide. I’m happy for you to record my interview.”

Everyone looks relieved. I’ve given the correct answer.

I know I am not under arrest, but I have a lot to lose. A lot. People are lying. Cheating. Desperate. It’s dangerous. Liars undermine everything. You can’t trust or know a liar. It’s exhausting trying to. A waste of time. People do bad things, they make mistakes—that bothers me less. As long as they own their mistakes and failings. If people own their mistakes, you at least know what you are dealing with, and you can make a move toward forgiving them.

Maybe.

But lying? Well, lying destroys reality and histories. And futures. Besides being small and plain, the room is a bit grubby. It’s nothing like the lavish room from which we made the press announcement on Friday. This place is much more like the sort of room I take my clients into at the CAB. Functional. Low budget. I ought to feel comfortable as it’s so familiar, but I feel I am on the wrong side of the table. Have I already got used to being in more splendid environments in just ten days?

The table is wobbly and scratched. Not with legible graffiti, just mindless defiance or careless neglect. There are hard chairs around it and plastic cups on top of it. These have been filled with water from the cooler in the corner. I disapprove of single-use plastic, but don’t feel it’s the moment to go eco-warrior. My palms sweat. My throat is dry. I take a sip of water. “So, what do you need from me?”

Gillian smiles encouragingly. “In your own words, with as much detail as possible, please, can you give an account of the evening of Saturday, the thirteenth of April 2019? That is, the week before the lottery win.”

“The week you allege the Pearsons and Heathcotes dropped out of the syndicate,” adds Double Barrel 2. I don’t like his use of the word allege.

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Anywhere you like. Tell us anything you think is relevant. Set the scene if you think it