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

London. Jennifer kept saying that in Bucks we could buy decent-sized semis or even a detached doer-upper. Plus, Bucks had impressive coed grammar schools. Sort of private school, without the fees. At the time, I was struggling to get my head around Monkey Music class admissions, but Jennifer insisted that it was important to think ahead. The rail links allowed efficient commutes into London, which meant the career ambitions of the men—and any of the women who wanted to continue to work (just me)—didn’t have to be curtailed by geography. Jennifer and Fred had family on the doorstep, so would have access to reliable childcare and whilst this didn’t apply to the rest of us, Jennifer swore her mum was ready to be “Everyone’s Granny.”

“Patrick and Carla moved out just six months after Fred and Jen. They settled in the same village, Great Chester. It was only when we couldn’t get a decent infant school place for Logan that we decided to join our friends and move out of the city, too,” I explain.

Unfortunately, the property market was booming at the time of our move, and we really didn’t get quite as much bang for our buck as we’d hoped. We settled in Little Chester, a couple of miles away which is, in every way, slightly inferior to Great Chester. Still, it has a pub, a post office and small convenience store. True, we don’t live in one of the pretty wisteria-clad cottages in the high street. We live in a 1990s three-bedroom semi on the outskirts of the village, but I’ve never regretted the move.

Or, hardly ever.

Admittedly, there isn’t quite so much to do as there was in the UK’s throbbing capital: fewer shops, theaters, galleries, but we make our own entertainment.

“We fast fell into routines. When the kids were little, we frequently got together for impromptu playdates through the week. That doesn’t happen now. The kids make their own arrangements and I work. But we’ve continued our tradition of meeting up most Saturday evenings, with the dads, too. Sometimes we throw what has to be recognized as a dinner party, other times we pick up greasy bags of fish and chips. Keep it low-key.”

“How often do you meet?”

“Three weekends out of four. We rotate between each other’s homes. One weekend in a month, we do something separate, just as families or with other people.”

The weekends off are healthy, essential, so we can continue to appreciate each other.

“And you did the lottery on those weekends you had supper together?” asks Ms. Walsh.

“We did the lottery every week. It was one of my favorite things about the weekend. Even though I always thought it was sort of silly, dreamy, impossible. Probably because of those things.”

“Well, not impossible,” chips in Gillian. “You’ve proven that.” She beams at me.

“Improbable,” I correct myself.

“Have you ever won anything before?”

“We’ve twice won twenty pounds.”

“How did you share the winnings?”

“We put it towards the takeaway the following week.” I see what Double Barrel 1 is doing, but it’s irrelevant. The past is irrelevant. I push on, trying not to allow him to derail me. “When the draw was still televised, we’d all watch the show together. Just for the fun of it. It was a tradition.”

At least it was to me. It was one of our things. Like watching the fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night or seeing in the New Year, something we’d always done. It proved we were solid. A unit. “Now that it’s not televised, sometimes someone remembers to put the news on and wait for the numbers to be announced at the end of the program, but the news is a downer and invariably brings our evening to a close. So more often than not, as dessert is being served, Jake has a sneaky peek on YouTube and then he’ll announce, ‘Not this week,’ which generally solicits a round of playful groans and assertions, ‘Next time!’”

Double Barrel 1 coughs and says, “So let’s focus on Saturday the thirteenth, in particular, shall we?”

“I was hosting.” We’d had a few days of dry weather and it really felt as though summer was around the corner. Summer is my season. I unfurl. Winter just has to be got through, best hope being not too many bouts of flu and not too many unwanted gifts that need returning after Christmas. “I was planning on serving drinks on the patio. I’d themed the night. Mexican. I’d made margarita cocktails. Strong ones. And I’d bought Corona and Sol.”

“Sounds like quite the party.”

I sense criticism in Double Barrel 2’s comment and say defensively, “This sort of attention to detail is my way of showing I care. I’d even got Emily to download some Mexican tunes.” It was the sort of music that makes people want to sway their hips. “The tunes were blasting out when Carla called to say Megan wasn’t coming along.”

“Megan being one of the Pearsons’ children?”

“Their eldest. Carla and Patrick have three children. Megan is fifteen like Emily and then they have Scott and Teddy. Twelve and nine. Emily and Megan are best friends. The Heathcotes’ son is called Ridley. He’s Emily’s boyfriend.”

“Very cozy,” comments Double Barrel 3.

It doesn’t sound like a compliment. It sounds like she is accusing us of incest or something. So my daughter’s best friend is the daughter of one of my best friends, what could be more natural than that? And her boyfriend is the son of my other best friend. How wonderful! That is a good thing.

Or at least it was. Poor Emily.

“Sounds like a really jolly evening,” says Gillian, encouragingly.

“It wasn’t actually,” I admit with a sigh. “Despite all my efforts, to my disappointment and—at that time—mystification, I don’t think my guests were particularly comfortable. The evening had stuttered along, rather than flowed.”

“And why do you think that was?”

“At first I had no idea. It wasn’t as though the stilted conversation was a result of adults watching themselves around the kids. We hadn’t been expecting Megan, but Ridley also failed