Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  “Don’t do it again. You can tell me anything. Anything. You’re my best friend. I love you, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Stop cruising the merchandise, and let me go. I’ve got my eye on a hottie.”

  “Oh yeah? Who’re you eyeing up?”

  “The stunner with the blue rinse and cable knit jumper.”

  “You keep your mitts off my Gran. She’s too good for you, ya’ heathen!”

  I feel a tap on my bum and turn around to see Rosie looking up at me. I squat down so we’re eye to eye and grin at her as she pushes her glasses up her nose.

  “Hi, Rosie.”

  “Hi, Genna. My mum wants to talk to you when you’re ready. You’re ready now, aren’t you?” She grabs hold of my hand and pulls me to the table where Abi is sitting, reading, and rereading the information that Mr Frasiers has already distributed.

  She’s as gorgeous as ever. Of all the women that had children with Uncle Kev, Abi is the one I really don’t get. I mean, she is stunning. She’s got blond hair to her shoulders, brown eyes that look like melted chocolate, and lips that I could kiss for a week straight. She’s got about four inches of height on me and tops out at five foot eight. She’s wearing a cream-coloured sweater and brown pants, and I know that when she stands up, they’re going to cling everywhere and make her arse look ah-may-zing. I don’t care that she’s older than me. She is totally the hottest woman I’ve ever seen, and I wish to God that she was gay…or bisexual. Hell, I’d settle for curious, as long as she experimented with me.

  What am I saying? No I wouldn’t. A curiosity relationship with her would probably kill me.

  “Hi, Abi.” She looks at me with tears in her eyes. I squat down next to her so we can hear each other better. She hugs me and starts to cry.

  “Rosie, you didn’t need to bring Genna over straight away.”

  “It’s okay, Abi. Are you okay?”

  “I know you said you were going to give some away to family, but I never thought you’d do something like this. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You don’t need to. This is for Rosie. I want to make things a bit easier for you both.”

  I want to give them both more, but I can’t think of a way to explain why they are being singled out for special treatment. I don’t know how Abi would react to “I want to give you everything I have because I fancy the arse off you.” Sounds like that Demi Moore film. What’s it called? Oh yeah. Indecent Proposal. I can think of more than a few indecent proposals I’d like to make.

  Focus, pervert. She’s talking to you!

  “There are some things about this trust that I don’t understand, though. It says that if anything happens to me and I’m unable to make decisions for any reason, control of the trust goes to my mum or back to you to make the decisions for Rosie.”

  “Yes, I thought that would be more in Rosie’s interest than for Uncle Kev to be burdened by the extra money.” We both look over to where Uncle Kev is ripping up bits of tissue the waitstaff have brought for all the weeping women in the room. He’s rolling it into balls and firing them out of a straw at the arm-wrestling twins, then trying looking innocent when they search for the culprit.

  “That was very thoughtful of you,” she mumbles. “He might be good looking, but if I knew then what I know now, there wouldn’t be enough beer in Manchester to get me in bed with that man.” She points over at Callum’s mum. “Nina was saying that the trust passes to the kids at twenty-one.”

  “We can’t do that in Rosie’s case, I’m afraid. She’ll be a vulnerable adult once she reaches twenty-one and will still need someone to be executor of the trust. That will be the case throughout her life. That’s why the stipulation about who takes over the trust if you can’t.”

  “But I can use it in any way that benefits Rosie?”

  “Yep. It’s not my place to say how you spend the money, but I’d probably say pay off the mortgage first thing.”

  “Oh, I will. It will make such a difference. I can get her into the special school with this. You’ve no idea what a difference this will make to Rosie. Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome. You know how to get hold of me if you need anything.”

  Rosie’s playing with some of the other kids, running in circles around the centre of the room. When I finally stand up and make my way around the rest of the table, she races over and wraps her arms around my legs.

  “Genna, come play with me.”

  “I can’t just now, sweetie. I need to talk to all these people here. Can I come by later and see if you still want to play then?”

  “I want to play now.”

  “I know.” An idea forms in my brain. “Could you do me a big favour?”

  “What?”

  I point to Cathy. “My friend over there is pretty lonely, and she doesn’t get to talk to kids at all. Would you go over there and ask her about her doggies?”

  “She’s got doggies?”

  Works every time. “Yep. Two of them. She might even have some pictures on her phone.” Rosie scampers off, a very happy camper at the prospect of an evening cheering up a lonely dog owner. The rest of the table is made up of Nina and Callum, Patrick and his mum, Sharon, and Shannon and her mum, Sophie. Callum’s complaining about being sat with the little kids, but he does thank me when his mum tells him to. The rest of the kids are still running in circles with the occasional floor-sliding exercise thrown in for good measure.

  I make my way around each and every one of them. Everyone’s full of thanks. Everyone’s full of tears. And hugs. There have been many, many hugs. Then I get round to Gran Collins, Uncle Kev, Auntie Rita, Tyrone, and Tyson.

  “Lads, what do you say to Genna?” Rita says.

  “Why can’t we have them money now?”

  In stereo.

  “That’s not what I told you to tell her.”

  Blank looks.

  I mean, really blank.

  “I told you to tell her thank you.”

  “Oh, right.” Tyrone shovels the last forkful of beef into his mouth. Tyson doesn’t say anything, just eats his last roast potato.

  “It’s all right. That’s not why I’m here,” I say. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t—”

  “Have you told your father?” Gran Collins asks.

  This is why I avoided Gran Collins.

  “No, Gran. I don’t know where he is.” Well, I didn’t before I overheard you earlier.

  “He’s in Canada.”

  “Is he?”

  As I said earlier, it doesn’t surprise me that she knows where he is. Nor that she’s kept this information to herself since he left us all. Does it surprise me that she thinks it’s relevant to tell me this now? No. I can see where she’s going with this. Do I want to hear it? Hell no!

  “Yes. So I’ll tell him to get in touch with you,” she says.

  “No.” I stare at her. I can feel my face getting hot.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean, no, you won’t tell him to get in touch with me.”

  “But he’s your father.”

  No, he was the bloody sperm donor. I bite that one back. It wouldn’t be appreciated. “Well, it would have been nice if he’d remembered that before now, don’t you think?”

  “Hey, now, come on—”

  “No, Gran.” This is the woman who’s lied to me for God knows how long. He might be her son, but I’m her granddaughter. That should count for something. I should count. My feelings. My needs. I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about a kid needing to know that she’s loved. That she’s important to the people who brought her into the world. I’m talking about making a child feel worthwhile. As much as Mum loved us, as much as she tried, him walking away like that cut deep. I mean, what must be so wrong with me that he could do that? He could walk away and never look back? What’s so wrong with me?

  “He might be your son, but he’s no father to me. Twenty-two years ago, he walked out on us, and not a pee
p since. Not a birthday card. Not a letter. Not even a phone call in all that time. Not a thing. Kev’s hardly father of the year, but his kids know what their dad looks like. And they even have been known to get a birthday card from him. You’ve known where he’s been the entire time, so why didn’t you tell us?”

  “That’s in the past now—”

  “No, it isn’t. You didn’t tell us because he didn’t want to know. He still doesn’t want to know. But now that there might be some money in it for him, you think he’ll be interested in the kids he walked out on. Well, I’m sorry but I’m not interested.”

  “You can’t stop me from telling him, he’s my son and your father.”

  “Actually, Gran, that piece of paper you signed, the one that says you agree not to tell anyone or you have to give the money back, plus interest? Well, that includes him.”

  Michael is standing next to me now, his hand on the small of my back.

  “But he’s your dad.”

  “No. He’s not. I mean it, Gran. If he starts sniffing around, I’ll know it was you, and I’ll take this contract to court.”

  “You’d do that? To your own Gran? Your own family? Your own flesh and blood?”

  “The same flesh and blood who has known for the past twenty-two years where my dad is and never told me? Yeah, I would.”

  “I don’t believe you, girl.”

  Of course she doesn’t. She doesn’t know how deep this cuts, or she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—have lied to me. That’s when I realise that she doesn’t know me. I’ve spent countless hours in her company, but she doesn’t know me. She hasn’t bothered to pay attention. I’m not worth the effort to her. I wasn’t sure before if I would be able to carry out my threat, but now I am.

  I lean over the table. Eye to eye with the old girl. “Try me.” I straighten up again. “Tyrone, have you met your Uncle Graham?”

  “Yeah. He stayed at Granny Collins’s house when he came for Christmas. He gave me a cool new watch for Christmas.”

  “Did he now?” I’m livid. “So that’s why you told me you were out or busy every time I tried to drop your Christmas pressie round last year? Ended up meeting you in John Lewis’s, treated you to afternoon tea, and gave you your cards and pressies. So that you didn’t have to tell me he was there. Or see him. Or him me. Michael has never met his own father. But Tyrone got a cool new watch off him for Christmas. Fan-bloody-tastic! What did you get, Tyson?”

  “A new mobile.” He has the good sense not to look at me as he mumbles.

  “A new phone. From my father. Who’s never sent me a Christmas card. The father Michael has never even met.” I’m talking really slowly. I’m trying to contain the rage I’m feeling. “Is that what family means to you, Gran?”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Well, to me, family is not avoiding your kids. It’s not lying and sneaking about. And it’s not him!”

  It’s actually Claire and Abi who pull me away from Gran’s table.

  “Who do you think you are to tell me what I can and can’t do, ya’ little upstart?” She stands up and leans forward as they pull me away. “Always did think you were too good for us, didn’t ya? Thought you were somethin’ special. But let me tell you, you’re nowt but a stuck-up little ginger freak that’s not good enough for our Graham.”

  “Steady on, Mam,” Uncle Kev says, one hand on her arm.

  She tears her arm from his grasp. “Get off me, ya’ spineless piece of shit.” She narrows her eyes at me further. “I don’t blame that lad o’mine for one minute for not wanting anything to do with a pervert like you. And I’ll not be told what to do by anyone. And certainly not by you.” Spittle flies from the corners of her mouth, and finally Uncle Kev and Aunty Rita force her back into her seat.

  But I’ve got one more thing to say. “I mean it, Gran. One word of this to him, and you and me are finished.”

  “Genna, come away now.” Michael pulls on my arm now too. I walk away slowly and go back to Mum’s table. She has a vodka and Coke waiting for me. God bless a mother who knows her daughter well. I down my drink and sit while I wait for the red mist to clear from my eyes and my next drink to arrive. I mean, I knew. All these years, I knew she knew where he was and wouldn’t tell us. But that he’d been to her house and she’d outright lied to me, well, that fucking hurt. That he’d been there enough to have built up a relationship with my cousins? Well, that hurt even more. That she’d never said was one thing, but that she’d had lied to me? Blatantly. To keep me from knowing he was there. How could she do that? Why would she do that? I’m a grown-up now. It’s not as if I’d be suing him for child support. Does he hate us that much? Her words echo around my head. Freak. Pervert. Not good enough. Not good enough. I can feel the tears in my eyes as those three words hit every insecurity I’ve ever had. Not good enough.

  I close my eyes and listen to Cathy on her never-ending quest to be cheered up by Rosie.

  “Cathy?”

  “Yes, Rosie?”

  “Why has your doggie got a white face? Is it sick? Why did you take a picture of your doggie when it was sick?”

  “No, sweetie, she isn’t sick. That’s just the colour her face is. She has black fur on her body but a white face.”

  “So how can you tell if she’s sick? My mum knows that I’m sick ’cos I have a temp’ture and my face goes white. Do doggies not get sick?”

  “Well, they can. But my doggies only seem to get sick when they’ve been eating grass. So, as long as I don’t let them eat grass, they don’t get sick.”

  “Oh. Why do they eat grass? What does it taste like? Does it taste like lettuce?”

  “Well, they eat grass because they’re little piggies—”

  “You said they were doggies. They look like doggies, not piggies. Why do your piggies have fur?”

  Oh, bless you, Cathy, I think I owe you another million.

  A hand touches my shoulder, and I open my eyes to see Claire smiling at me. “You okay, hon?”

  I shrug as she drops down into the seat next to me. “No, but what the hell. Feel like getting pissed?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “How are we getting home tonight? Oh yeah, where is home for you right now?”

  “I’m stopping at Mum’s till I find a new house, anyway, and those limos are waiting outside for us. Whenever anyone wants to go, they’ll take ’em.”

  The profiteroles and trifle are starting to make the rounds. The kids are all digging in with gusto. The mood of the grown-ups seems a bit deflated, and I wonder if I should go around and soothe a few ruffled feathers. Fuck ’em. They should be soothing my feathers for a change. Granny’s the one in the wrong. Not me. Right?

  Two bowls of profiteroles and another vodka and Coke later, I’m not so sure. But I’m twice as adamant. Claire’s talking to Michael, and they both look far too conspiratorial as they look over at me. Definitely time to split up that little lovefest.

  “Claire, talk to me. We have loads to catch up on,” I say.

  “Yeah. So, what’ve you been up to?”

  “Not much, really. Lost my best mate. Won the lottery. Caught my girlfriend shagging your ex. Gave away millions. The usual crap. You?”

  “Ah, I’ve been way too busy to be bothering with the likes of you. So much, I barely know where to start. Caught my girlfriend shagging your girlfriend. Dumped the bitch. Debated for a good six months whether or not to tell ya. Lost my best mate in the meantime. Got demoted at work ’cos I was too distracted to concentrate properly. Still haven’t figured out how you can get demoted from tea girl. Maybe I’m the tea boy now. I digress. Moved back to my mother’s. No, wait, that was you. Then I got given some money by this mad, drunken, ginger bint, and then I struck out with her Gran. I just can’t catch a break.”

  I’m being given shit by my best mate while we’re drinking together. All is right with the world. Two tables down, two of the kids, Charlie and Samantha, are arguing over the last profiterol
e on their table. Samantha, determined to claim her prize, leans forward and licks the treat in Charlie’s bowl and grins as evilly as a three-year-old can. Then she picks it out of the bowl and stuffs it in her mouth. Charlie does what any self-respecting four-year-old should in this situation and punches her in the stomach. End result? Charlie gets his desired profiterole, albeit half-eaten and looking a lot less appetising as Samantha bends double and introduces it to his shoes. The commotion draws everyone’s attention. Rosie looks away from Cathy’s dog pictures and wrinkles her nose before heading over to Moira and tapping her on the arm as she tries to wipe sick off Samantha’s chin.

  “Has it been eating grass?”

  Kids. Apparently, you’ve got to love them.

  CHAPTER 9

  ABI

  “Rosie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you spoken to Genna yet?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Stuff.”

  “Too busy doing stuff to say thank you to Genna for helping you get into your new school?”

  “Duh.”

  Apparently, sometimes mummies ask stupid questions. “Well, don’t you think that’s a bit rude?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, Genna gave us a lot of money to let you go to this school, and you really like it, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should say thank you. It’s polite.”

  “Okay.”

  “So you’ll call her now?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m going to write her a letter.”

  “Oh. Okay. Do you need some help?”

  “No.”

  I watch her rummage through her paper drawer.

  “Mum, what’s the right colour paper to say thank you?”

  “I don’t know that there is a right or wrong colour, Rosie. Why don’t you just choose your favourite?”

  “Has to be right or it’s rude. I need to use the twitterwebs. It’s clever.”