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

claims, trying to work out who said what. I mean, I know I didn’t resign from the syndicate personally and I’m sure if my husband had, he would have admitted as much. He’s a very straightforward sort of chap. But, on the other hand, Lexi and Jake say he did resign and why would they lie? And as for the Pearsons? Well, I don’t know what to think.” Jennifer shook her head sadly. One of the men handed her a handkerchief. “I just wish I’d been in the room. Not being so has put me in a uniquely vulnerable position.”

Gillian wondered whether it had crossed Jennifer’s mind that she was in fact in a uniquely powerful position. By not alienating the Greenwoods, but still tactically supporting her husband and the Pearsons’ claim, she stood to benefit whichever way the pendulum swung.

Jennifer dabbed her eyes and asked if it was possible to leave now. “I do voluntary work at a local school on Tuesday afternoons. Nothing too arduous. Just teaching children to read.” She giggled self-consciously. “Well, not even that, just giving them extra practice time. It’s very rewarding and they’ve come to depend on me. I don’t want to be late if I can help it.”

Everyone stood up as Jennifer left the room. They basked in the sense of calm dignity that she left behind, like perfume floating on air.

“Do you see who you are sitting opposite? Do you understand that I have lawyered up to the fucking hilt and I’m going to have those bastards for every penny they owe me? Do you understand?”

“Would you take a seat, please, Mr. Pearson.”

“They owe me nearly six million pounds. Are you listening? Six million pounds. The man is a thief. I might have expected it from him. But Lexi? I can’t understand why she would lie. She’s always been a Goody Two-shoes. A little bit holier-than-thou, you know the type. Turns out she’s just another bitch.”

“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Heathcote.”

“No trouble. Best get this all ironed out pronto.” Gillian and Mick tried not to exchange a look of mild amusement; neither had ever met anyone outside Italy who said “pronto” without any sense of self-consciousness or irony.

Mr. Elliott took the lead. “Fred, I was wondering, has the syndicate always used the same numbers?”

“Yes, indeedy.”

“And how were those numbers chosen?”

“We chose one each that first time we did it. I chose eight, my lucky number. Jennifer chose one, to celebrate our firstborn. As it happened, Ridley is an only child, so I suppose the number one has taken on an even greater significance. I think Lexi chose twenty-nine because she was twenty-nine years old when she had Emily, or maybe it’s her birth date. I’m not sure. Something very meaningful. Jake chose twenty, their wedding anniversary, I do remember that. Or do I? Maybe that’s his birth date. Or Lexi’s? Anyway, you get the gist. Everyone picked something personal. That’s why we all feel committed to the lottery. Not just the money, but the history behind it.”

“Including the Pearsons?”

Fred nodded, a single decisive movement of the head. “Yes, they feel committed, too.”

“No, I meant, did they pick their numbers for personal reasons?”

Fred chuckled to himself. “Funny story there. Carla initially picked twelve, her birth date, but Patrick, her husband, shouted her down.”

“Why?”

“He said most people pick their birth dates, so numbers under thirty-one are more frequently chosen. Therefore, if you did win the lottery you were more likely to have to share your winnings. He said we’d want to win with different numbers, so we would be less likely to have to share. Patrick picked fifty-eight and Carla changed hers from twelve to forty-nine because she likes to keep her husband happy.” Fred smiled fondly. “That was typical Patrick. Not only expecting to win, despite the crazy odds, but also gunning for the biggest win possible. You have to admire him. And he was right of course. A clean win.” Suddenly Fred’s face darkened. “Except for the Greenwoods, trying this shady stuff.”

“You maintain that the syndicate was still active at the time of the win?”

“Yes, I do. We chipped in to the kitty that very evening.”

“You did?”

“Yes. I threw in a tenner, took Carla’s fiver as change. There was no suggestion that we didn’t want to play anymore. Why would there be? It’s a bit of fun.”

“And your wife saw you put that money in the kitty, did she?” asked Ms. Walsh. “She saw you recommit to the syndicate.”

“Yes, she did. She was sitting right next to me.”

“Interesting,” murmured Ms. Walsh. She couldn’t resist. She flashed a look at Gillian and Mick to be sure they had spotted the inconsistency.

“How so?” asked Fred.

“Well, your wife says that she was away from the table at the time of the discussion on whether or not to recommit. She says she definitely didn’t pull out of the syndicate but perhaps you did.” Gillian watched as color, vitality and hope drained from Fred Heathcote’s face. She looked to the floor, fully expecting to see a puddle underneath his chair.

“She said that, did she?” Fred’s voice choked in his throat.

Mr. Elliott jumped in. “I really don’t think we should be discussing other witnesses’ statements.”

Heathcote glared at Elliott. They had gone to school together, endured masters and bullies. But Fred knew his friend was vaguely infatuated with his wife and would not be able to stop himself siding with her. Fred’s godfather was a lawyer—he should have gone with him.

Fred paused. He appeared to be weighing up something important. “I’d like to change my statement please.”

“You would?” Ms. Walsh looked delighted. The Pearsons’ lawyers all steadfastly held their faces in studied expressions of neutrality, waiting to see what would come next.

“Yes, I’d had a fair bit to drink. To be honest, and I don’t know if I do recall everything as clearly as all that. I think I did put the money in the kitty at the beginning of the night, but towards the