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

I move around from one group of people to the next. A mixed bunch, they remind me of the sort of friendship groups Jake and I used to make on holiday when we were much younger. Transient people from many different walks of life. All with stories and histories, and none of those histories are shared. It makes an interesting party. There is a freedom in talking to these people who have been brought together through chance and circumstances. They did not go to school together; nor do their children. They did not meet at child birthing classes. They don’t even live in the same neighbourhood, but are scattered across the town and county. Their lives aren’t intrinsically entwined through years of responsibility or habit; there is a sense that they are choosing to spend time together because they value the moment. Within the first hour of being at the party, I encounter people from five or six different birth countries. Yet, despite having come from different places, we have all arrived in the same spot this Saturday night. A terraced house in a small British town, and everyone seems happy about it. Their viewpoints may not have originally been the same, but they have found commonalities, unity and harmony. They want to make the most of it.

We want to make the most of it. I count myself in among this melange of people who wish to harvest joy tonight.

The air has a sense of energy and delight. People excitedly try one another’s dishes—it appears the catering was a case of everyone bringing the dish they most like to prepare. No one was given instructions as to whether that dish ought to be sweet or savory. However, as cling film and tin foil lids are peeled back it seems that the rich thick stews, spicy meatballs, pretzels, strudels, dumplings, buns and breads were designed to complement each other as precisely as if Sara the party planner had written up elaborate directions. There’s a big bowl of punch. If anyone knew the ingredients at the beginning of the evening, by the time I try it, the mix is certainly unclear. It’s sweet; I can taste pineapple and rum, and then I witness someone add a bottle of vodka. It’s careless and crazy, but I couldn’t be enjoying myself more. Toma also catches his friend Vladislav adding the vodka. “Good man, fulfill our cultural expectations,” he says, slapping his friend on the back. He turns to me. “You better eat plenty of syr smazeny,” he warns.

“What’s that?”

“Breaded fried cheese.”

“Sounds perfect,” I comment, and dive in. I meet the couple Toma lives with, Joan and Frank. An English working-class, salt-of-the-earth pair. Frank has brought his slippers with him to the party. Joan rolls her eyes at this but doesn’t seem too disgruntled. “It’s a party, Frank, you are supposed to dress up.”

“Like this one?” he asks, pointing at me. I just laugh because his ribbing is well meant.

Joan is concerned about the washing up and spends most of the evening in the kitchen, rinsing glasses and moving food from one plate to another to “clear some space.” It seems every time a dish is finished, another one lands on the table as more guests stream through the door. Not only does each and every one arrive with food and drink, but their entrance precipitates ever-increasing cheers of excitement. “Probably ’cause they’ve brought drink,” comments Frank with a grin.

Joan tuts, rinses another plate under the tap and says to me, “I hear it’s you we have to thank for finding us our Toma.” I smile, sip my wine. “He’s like a son to us. We’re going to miss him.”

“Yes.” My voice sounds gravelly, as though I’m chewing sand. It feels that way, too. I put down the wineglass I’m holding. It’s empty. I’ve lost count of how much I’ve had to drink, which means too much. I should check my phone. See how my own party is going. I should really return to it. But I don’t because it feels distant and I feel detached. I can hear music playing here and that grabs my attention, holds it fast, more than the thought of my own party. It’s not the pop tunes, blasting from a phone and a speaker, that had people jiggling in the sitting room earlier, but someone has actually started to play a guitar. Requests are being made and whilst I don’t recognize the song that is being sung, many do and lots of people join in. Raucous and tuneless in some cases, as though self-consciousness had never been acknowledged. I stand at the doorway nodding my head, never more aware of my limiting British reserve. Then Toma taps me on the shoulder, takes my hand and leads me away from the singing, through the kitchen and out to the back garden.

He took my hand. I let him.

I hold tight and tell myself it is natural, normal, not in any way wrong. Even though I am a married woman. Even though his thumb is caressing my hand and the warmth of him is shooting through my body like a firework.

The back garden is only a few metres wide, but it is surprisingly long as it falls away to the railway track. There are a number of people smoking and vaping on the small patio near the house. Toma cuts through them with polite determination. We head toward the bottom of the garden. There has been enough rain this spring to mean the grass on well-kept lawns is lush and green. The grass here has bald patches that suggest children’s robust play; the plastic playhouse and stray football confirm as much. There is a washing line, trailing the whole length, where plastic pegs perch, waiting to secure a new load of clean clothes. There are closed dandelions, buttercups and less attractive weeds sprinkled everywhere like freckles on a redhead. We