Just My Luck

by Adele Parks

  Even when I was in my twenties, I rarely took advantage of weeknight happy hour deals. Jake and I preferred to go to bed early while our friends dashed around the city looking for people to get off with. We had each other and no interest in scouring pubs and bars to meet sexy strangers. Not that we were boring—we were young. In those days early nights did not mean sleep. Enough said.

  We both savored Saturdays, though, when we got dressed up, went out with a gang and danced at various low-rent nightclubs until my feet hurt. We’d drink enough to make singing in the street on the walk home seem like a good idea. Everything changes once you have children. It’s not worse, it’s just different. For the past fifteen years, weekday evenings have been swallowed in a never-ending round of cooking, bathing, storytelling and then, as the kids got older, in homework supervision, ferrying them to and from their friends’ houses, household admin. Basically, adulting. But Saturdays have remained fun. Largely because of our friendships with the Heathcotes and Pearsons. Our best friends. Where do I begin explaining all of this?

  “Saturdays is when our gang—the gang—get together. We have dinner, a few drinks.”

  We tell one another hilarious stories about our bosses, our families, the other school parents. Actually, we tell each other pretty run-of-the-mill stories, but because we usually put away a week’s worth of units in three hours the stories became hilarious. The incidents recounted may have originally been frustrating, saddening or aggravating, but they became amusing anecdotes. It is then that my shoulders loosen, I stop worrying about Jake’s inability to find a job that he is truly inspired by, or whether I’ve missed the optimal time for Emily to get braces, or whether Logan will be picked for the school football team and I just...relax. And laugh. Out loud. Sometimes until my sides ache.

  “Who exactly is in this gang?” The way Double Barrel 1 says “gang” makes it sound like I head up the Mafia.

  “Carla and Patrick Pearson, Jennifer and Fred Heathcote, Jake and me. We are good for each other. My frimily,” I add.

  “Frimily?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “That’s what I call us. I think I coined the phrase. We’ve often said we were more like family than friends. We met at childbirth classes when we were all preparing for the birth of our firstborns, over fifteen years ago now.”

  “Wow,” says my lawyer.

  I nod. I’m used to people being impressed by the longevity of our friendship. In a world where things are fleeting and unstable, where news is received in 280 characters and national treasures only expect to be flavor of the month for a week, longevity is coveted. A fifteen-year friendship means something.

  Or, at least, it is supposed to.

  “Time flies when you are having fun,” comments Gillian.

  I agree. “Gone in a blink of an eye, and yet none of us can even remember a time when we haven’t known one another. You know? Sometimes it seems odd that we weren’t together at college, let alone at each other’s weddings.”

  “So, it’s safe to say you are close?” asks Double Barrel 2, his posh ink pen poised to make a note.

  “Yes, we’re close. Or at least we were up until—” I break off. We’ve helped one another through childbirths, miscarriages, promotions, redundancies, house moves, new puppies and even losing parents. Every triumph and heartbreak. Even though the sitcom show Friends played out its final episode a year before we even met, the influence of the show was still profound. We would never say it aloud as it sounds daft but, on some level, I think the six of us have always seen ourselves as older, British versions of the twentysomethings who bounced around Manhattan. Frimily. All the eyes in the room are trained on me as I fight tears.

  What’s happened is so sad. Money is glorious. Money corrupts. Ruins things. I need to go further back. The past is safe.

  “When we met, we all lived in London. Clapham. The six of us formed the lottery syndicate when our first babies were very young and we were housebound because finding reliable babysitters in Clapham on a Saturday night was about as likely as finding the elixir to eternal youth.” I look up hopefully, but no one responds to my small joke. I make jokes when I’m stressed. It’s a much-misunderstood habit. I push on. “It was then that we started taking turns to host suppers. The evenings were often frantic juggling acts involving crying babies and badly prepared food, but we didn’t care—we called it a social life. Then Jennifer and Fred announced their intention to move back to Buckinghamshire, just before Ridley’s first birthday.”

  They had persuasively cited the many advantages of doing so. We all lived in one-or two-bedroom apartments in 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 N
ew 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 to show up. Because neither of her friends were there, Emily hadn’t bothered coming to the table. She’d shut herself in her room with a plate of toast and her phone. The younger ones had stuffed down their food as fast as humanly possible and then dashed off to play video games. Jake tried to strike up a conversation about work, but Patrick said as it was the weekend, he didn’t want to think about ‘the bloody office.’ There was definitely an atmosphere. Something was off.”

  “And did you have any idea what was off?” prompts my lawyer, Ms. Walsh.

  “No, not at first. No idea. But it became very apparent. The atmosphere was off because they had ganged up and decided to pull out of the lottery.”

  “And that was a big deal, was it?” asks Double Barrel 1. He throws out a laugh that is shot through with incredulity. Double Barrel 2 and 3 joins in.

  I glower at them. “Clearly, since we are all here.” I enjoy watching the smiles slide off their faces.

  “But before the win, why was it such a big deal? It’s just a game,” insists Double Barrel 1.

  Gillian coughs and wiggles on her seat. She and her boss throw a look between them. Working for the lottery company, they know, more than any of us, that it’s never just a game if money is involved.

  “Them wanting to leave the lottery was symbolic,” I explain.

  “How do you mean?”

  “They were dumping us, as friends. At least that’s what it felt like.”

  “Let’s stick to the facts, should we? Rather than feelings.”

  Double Barrel 1 is a smug toad. I remind myself I can buy and sell his butt now, and it’s some comfort. Still, I do as he asks. The outcome of this meeting will determine just how many times I can buy and sell his butt. I need to cooperate. They need to hear my story and they need to believe it.

  CHAPTER 13

  Lexi

  “Fred was talking about, oh, something or other, I don’t remember, his car engine? Tire pressure? It wasn’t interesting, then Jake interrupted to announce we weren’t lottery winners. Like he does pretty much every week. But that week, his interruption created an odd mood. The air was sort of heavy. I guess no one likes to be reminded that they’ve lost at anything, even if there was never any real expectation of winning.” I shrug. Who knows? People are strange. “I broke the silence by reminding everyone it was time to chip in to the kitty again. I collect a fiver off each couple every few weeks. As each game cost two pounds, the kitty lasts a little while.”

  “And does everyone always pay in advance?” asks Ms. Walsh.

  “Sometimes I forget to ask for the money, I just buy the tickets anyway. I’d done that for the preceding two weeks as it happened. It’s just a few quid. I only mentioned the money for something to say. But then Patrick demanded, ‘Why are we even doing the lottery?’ His face was flushed, his voice booming. ‘What’s the bloody point?’ he asked. He sounded angry. I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t just reaching for his wallet and casually handing over the cash. I guess it was the drink. I don’t want to be mean about this, but facts are facts. Patrick had downed two cocktails and polished off a bottle of red before I’d even served the main. By this point in the evening he was drinking whiskey straight. It was a bottle that my mother had bought Jake for his birthday.” I look at Gillian and Ms. Walsh. “I was wondering if maybe Patrick is misremembering things because of the amount he had to drink. I want to think the best of him, you know.”

  Gillian squeezes my arm again. My lawyer nods and asks, “In your estimation, did Mr. Pearson drink more than usual that evening?”

  “Yes, I think he did. Not an unprecedented amount—we’ve all seen each other quite the worse for wear at some point or other over the years—but yes, thinking about it, he probably did drink more than usual. Fred, too, actually. But he’s such an easygoing drunk. Just sort of dozes off in his chair.”

  “And Patrick isn’t an easy drunk?” probes Ms. Walsh.

  “He gets a bit edgy with alcohol.” I pause and then admit, “Or even without it. We’ve all got used to his short temper. His belligerence. Jake and I have privately wondered if perhaps Patrick is a tad stretched.”

  “Stretched? Do you mean at work? Workload? Financially?”

  “Possibly both. I don’t know for a fact. It’s just rumor at the school gate.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “I am reluctant to speculate. When I first heard the whispers, I dismissed them. It is hard to imagine. Patrick and Carla have always been financially successful. Big house, two family holidays a year. Patrick has his fingers in many pies, he talks about his investments a lot. Jennifer and Fred are comfortable, too, although they talk about money less. Fred insists his job is dreary and rarely mentions it beyond saying his boss is a wanker. Until our numbers came up, we simply got by.”

  “What happened next?”

  “We all started to talk about what we would spend our money on if we won. Just joking about, you know. That’s when Patrick turned quite nasty.”

  “Nasty?”

  “He shouted, ‘Will you cut the crap. All this talk about lottery wins is doing my head in.’ The more I think about it, the more I believe maybe he does have money issues and that’s why he’s making this stuff up. I almost feel sorry for him.” I stare right at Double Barrel 1. “You
need to know, even if the money was split three ways, that’s an enormous amount to us. We wouldn’t keep it from them if they were due it. But I’m not a pushover. I’m not going to cough up the cash after the way they insulted Jake.”

  “Insulted him?” asks Ms. Walsh.

  “Patrick said the lottery was common, that it was for losers.” I glance apologetically at Gillian and Mick Hutch. “He wouldn’t let it go. He said he only had ever done it to humor Jake. He was quite patronizing. Quite personal. Going on about Jake liking a wager, as though Jake was some gambling addict. He kept coming back to the common thing. He was behaving like a real snob. Going on about people on benefits, ‘doleys’ he called them, and he compared doing the lottery with taking your shirt off in public or having a tattoo.”

  “Well, none of those are criminal offenses,” comments Gillian tartly. She has a tattoo on her wrist, a small bird.

  “I know that. Jake has a tattoo. It was clear what Patrick was saying. He was saying we are common. I tried to reason with him. I pointed out that the school’s Parents Association runs a raffle every term. It’s the same thing. I challenged him on why he’d suddenly had a change of heart, after all those years.”

  “Yes, the exact question I was going to ask,” challenges Double Barrel 2. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well, I suppose people change.” I take a deep breath and stare across the table at the gaggle of lawyers who are opposing us. “Look, there’s no room for confusion. He was very clear about the matter. He said he didn’t want to be a killjoy, but they were going to pull out.”