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

I try to understand what it means, her being here. Does she know yet that the bribe Jake offered her is never going to get into her bank account? What must she think about that? Then I notice her costume and I understand completely. She is wearing a skintight silky catsuit that is a clash of primary-colored diamonds of fabric, an elaborate ruffle framing her face and a cute pointy hat. She is the Harlequin. Pierrot’s competitor for Columbine’s heart. I am left wondering how it’s possible that I have been Jennifer’s friend for so many years and not been especially aware of her figure. She’s tall, a good five inches taller than I am. I’ve always known she had long legs, but now I notice the swell and curve of her breasts, her ramrod posture, her tight waist.

“Who told you what I was wearing?” I ask. I don’t see that there’s any point or room for dissembling.

“I think Jake let it slip,” she says with a smile that is as dishonest as it is broad. I want to know when. When she spoke to him and what else was said. But I won’t give her the satisfaction of asking. Her costume is a challenge. Defiance. A declaration of war.

“What was wrong with your own husband?” I ask suddenly. This just burst from me. I wasn’t planning on pushing the matter out in the open.

“Wrong with him?” She doesn’t catch my meaning at first or at least pretends not to. She must have known I’d find out sooner rather than later, considering Fred knows. I was going to keep quiet forever, pretend it was beneath my notice, their sordid little affair, but if I facilitate the secrecy I might be adding to their drama, the thrill. Calling her out is not the same as giving Jake up. Once the secrecy is taken away, this thing they had—or even have—won’t be as exciting. It will fall apart. I’m culling it. Whatever it is. Love or lust.

“Why couldn’t you just stick to him?” I challenge.

“Fred? There’s nothing wrong with Fred. I love Fred.”

“No, you don’t,” I say wearily.

She shrugs. “Well, maybe not. No. But I did, once, I think. I mean, there is nothing wrong with him exactly, but your husband is simply better. Don’t you agree? It was clear from the start that you had the catch. Except for the money thing. He just couldn’t hold down a job, could he?”

“That never bothered me.”

“Yes, it did.”

We speak with hideous honesty. A pair of women who have been the very best to one another and now the worst. We have known each other at our most courageous and magnificent and at our most vile and depraved. “Well, money problems are behind us now,” I point out.

“Yes.” The sudden intimacy of such cruel honesty only accentuates the void between us. “He’s a very wealthy man now. That lottery ticket win of yours has made him very wealthy.”

That’s a ridiculous understatement. From anyone other than J.Lo’s point of view, he is obscenely rich. I’m not naive, I know what this could mean. Wealthy men are catnip to women like Jennifer.

“You know, I never thought you were the one I had to watch. I’d always have thought Carla was more Jake’s type. She’s so much more—”

“Obvious?” interrupts Jennifer.

“I was going to say glamorous. Oh, well, they do say the quiet ones are the worst.” I didn’t watch closely enough though, did I? I can’t continue this conversation. I can’t pretend to be cooler, calmer, more in control than I am for very much longer. “Have a lovely time. Go easy on the cocktails, I understand they are really quite lethal,” I say, and then turn to melt into the crowd.

CHAPTER 31

Emily

The party is off the scale! I’m almost sick with excitement as I watch everyone’s reactions as they drive up and see the big top, the dance floor—it’s awesome. And when they hear that Radio 1 DJ Greg James is actually going to be gigging tonight—their faces! Scarlett, Liv and Nella are all over me. They stick to me like glue and even though I know I’m moving schools and according to both Mum and Dad (in a rare moment of agreement) I ought to be digging out new friends, I cling to my new—old ones, gratefully.

We hang around the vodka luge that Mum in her infinite naivete described earlier as a “really striking ice sculpture.” Ostensibly, the luge is for adults only and there’s even a member of staff standing by. He’s supposed to be policing who drinks from it, but he looks bored and only a smidge over eighteen himself so—big surprise—he doesn’t ask four scantily dressed girls how old we are. I do three shots in quick succession. The first one is disgusting. It burns my throat and makes me want to gag, but the second and third are easier. I realize that under the circumstances, this is the worst time for me to start drinking.

And also the best.

I shouldn’t be drinking because I’m pregnant. I need to drink because I’m pregnant. The thought makes me want to vomit with panic. I push it out of my head.

I watch as guests gather in concentrated, random groups that cluster together then effortlessly float apart as if their movements are part of an elaborate dance. Loads of people come up to me and say they are happy for me and when they do, Scarlett, Liv and Nella clap or bounce about, basically just act like cheerleaders because they just hear words, but I hear feelings and I’m not sure there’s not something dark behind the smiles and congratulations. Jealousy, bitterness, resentment. I taste it on my tongue, although it could just be vodka. I smell it in the air. Or is that hash?

I constantly scan the crowds, straining my neck almost, in a none-too-discreet hunt for Ridley. Normally, a girl being this desperate would lead to her mates taking the