Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

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  Table of Contents

  Other Books by Andrea Bramhall

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  About Andrea Bramhall

  Other Books from Ylva Publishing

  Collide-O-Scope

  Welcome to the Wallops

  Four Steps

  Once

  Coming from Ylva Publishing

  Wendy of the Wallops

  Fenced-In Felix

  OTHER BOOKS BY ANDREA BRAMHALL

  Norfolk Coast Investigation Story:

  Collide-O-Scope

  (Book #1)

  Under Parr

  (Book #2 – Coming 2017)

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to Astrid for giving me the chance to try out my very British sense of humour on the world. *snigger*

  To Gill for not telling me I’m an idiot—or worse, not funny—and for giving this a try. And to everyone at Ylva for their tireless work behind the scenes.

  To my beta readers for this one, Louise and Emilia—your encouragement has foisted this creation upon the poor unsuspecting folk who will pick it up. You should be ashamed of yourselves. *wink* Thanks.

  And most importantly, to anyone who dares to pick this up: Thank you…and I’m sorry.

  DEDICATION

  In a material world where power and possessions mean more than people it’s worth remembering that

  “money often costs too much”—Ralph Waldo Emerson

  CHAPTER 1

  GENNA

  My ears are taking a bashing, and I have to admit, I’m having a hard time concentrating on driving. But you know what? Rosie is having a ball, wiggling around in the back seat with her glasses sliding down her nose and her blond hair falling across her face. Singing along to Liberty X’s “Sexy.” You’ve got to see it to believe it. Trust me. Abi’s next to me, grinning. It’s that gorgeous grin that puts a dimple in her right cheek. The one that makes me want to touch it. No. Not going there today. I shake my head and focus on the road before I have a bloody accident. Not what I need right now. Not that there’s ever a good time for an accident, but when you’re driving your girlfriend’s car, also known as “her first love”, while she’s in bed after working yet another bloody night shift and you’re on a day trip out to the safari park, it’s really not a good time.

  “So what was Ruth’s excuse this time?” Abi asks.

  I shift in my seat. I hate it when I have to explain why Ruth, my girlfriend, doesn’t want to spend time with Abi and Rosie. Who are Abi and Rosie and why doesn’t she want to spend time with them, I hear you ask? Well… I’ll come to that shortly. “She was working again last night.”

  “More overtime?”

  “Yeah.”

  Abi lifts her eyebrow. “The NHS must be even more understaffed than I realised. She hasn’t had a night off in months. That’s got to be against the Geneva Convention.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “She loves being a nurse. She takes her responsibilities seriously. That’s all.”

  “But not her responsibility to you?”

  “She isn’t responsible for me.”

  “I know she isn’t. I said to you.” She turns in her seat so that she can look at me while I’m driving. Normally, I love that. Right now, though, it makes me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. “Everything all right?”

  Nope. My girlfriend hasn’t wanted to make love to me so far this year, and now it’s October. I think she works every night to avoid me, and I’m not all that bothered because I’m actually in love with someone else and always have been.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine, thanks.” I smile at her. I hope it’s one of those genuine ones. You know, the kind of smile that someone trusts and that makes them believe the fib you just told them. Abi doesn’t smile back at me. Fail. “What about you? How’s everything going?” When in doubt, deflect.

  Abi sighs and shakes her head, but at least she starts to talk about other things. “I’ll tell you about w-a-n-k-s-t-a-i-n later.”

  Wankstain, aka Rosie’s teacher, aka Mr Prentice, is a real smear on the education system. He has no time for anything that means he has to do some actual graft with actual kids. And with kids like Rosie, it’s even worse. Because Rosie is a lot of effort. I love her to death, but she’s hard work. Sweet, loving, kind, generous, but hard work. Rosie has Down Syndrome, and everybody and their dog have been trying to get her into a special school for the past three years. But there’s a problem. She’s high functioning. She can tie her own shoes—well, she can with the velcro ones—she can spell her name, and she can go to the toilet. At eight, that’s high functioning. Too high functioning to warrant a huge amount of money from the welfare system to fund her going to a special school with kids who need a lot more help with the basics than Rosie does. I get that. I understand that there are those with greater needs. And there’s no way Abi can afford to send her to one. The costs really are astronomical.

  But I know Rosie. And she needs more than a normal state school can provide. Even if she did have a better teacher than Wankstain. She needs one-to-one help in the classroom because she’s vulnerable and easily manipulated by the other kids. Instead, there’s a teaching assistant that helps four of them at the same time. Two kids with ADHD, one with autism, and Rosie. It’s not the teaching assistant’s fault, but she can’t cope with all that. No one could. The ADHD kids take delight in winding up Adam—autism kid—and then rolling around in fits of giggles while he starts ripping the room apart and Rosie’s left to her own devices. Last time I saw them, Abi told me that one time, Rosie ended up wandering out of the classroom to go to the toilet and the bell went, and she ended up locked in. Rosie was in there for over half an hour while Abi was tearing her hair out, ready to call the police because she thought Rosie had been kidnapped.

  Yeah, I know. It’s a shit school, but what can you do? You get what you get in this life, right?

  “Okay. Anything else interesting going on?” I ask.

  Abi shakes her head.

  “Any job possibilities?”

  She looks out the window. “No.”

  Abi used to be a social worker but resigned when Rosie was born. Single mum, special needs baby—she just couldn’t make it work. But now that Rosie’s back in school, Abi’s trying to find something. Maybe just part time, you know? To help make ends meet. I don’t know how she’s done it all these years. I know Rosie’s dad hasn’t helped at all. He can’t. He’s a doley himself. Sorry, a doley’s what I call a lazy, good-for-nothing who never gets off his backside to earn an honest wage. He just draws it from the dole, the benefit system, aka my bloody tax pounds at work. Hasn’t got two pe
nnies to rub together… Well, he has, but they both get spent in the pub.

  I shouldn’t think of him like that, really. He is my uncle after all. But he’s a proper prat. I know what you’re thinking now: that makes Abi my aunt and me a disloyal cow, right? And I’ve got to admit, I did have a bit of a problem with this when I first realised that I had a crush on her way back when, at the dawn of time, like, six years ago or something. But think about it like this: Abi and Uncle Kevin had a one-night stand—beer goggle induced, I’m sure—and she got pregnant with Rosie. They never had a relationship, they didn’t get married, and she can’t stand him.

  If I had to apply that criteria to every woman who’s had contact with my uncle, well, I’d have to call every woman in the north-west of England “aunt.” I mean about the no relationship, no wedding, and can’t stand him bits. I seriously doubt he’s slept with half of Greater Manchester, despite what he says, or that he’s got seven kids to seven different women.

  Still think I’m a disloyal cow for telling you he’s a prat? I’m mean, you’d think you’d learn to bag it after one unwanted kid, but not my genius Uncle Kev. So, as far as I’m concerned, it takes more than a one-night stand to make an aunt. Rosie is my cousin, there’s a DNA link. My sperm donor—don’t get me started on my own dad—and her dad are brothers. Genetic link. Abi is not my biological aunt. We’re clear on that, right? Good. So don’t look at me funny when I tell you I’ve been in love with her since I realised I liked girls, or rather women, instead of lads.

  Do you think girlfriends can sense it when you’ve got feelings for someone else? Do you think this is why Ruth’s so distant and doesn’t want to make love with me? I mean, I care about her. I really do. We’ve been together for three years, lived together for two. We’ve built a life together. I think, in my own way, I do love her. It’s not that kind of passionate, all-consuming, sexy kind of love that you read about in books or see in films, though. It’s that kind of comfortable, know-what-you’re-getting kind of love. Like a comfy pair of slippers. It’s more real. I mean, real people don’t go round ripping each other’s clothes off every couple of minutes, do they? They don’t have that burning passion to be with each other every minute of every day. That’s just make-believe, right? A fairytale.

  We live in a terraced house in Edgeley. Just one in a row of terraced houses with inadequate parking, narrow streets, and too many kids sitting on garden walls that aren’t theirs, drinking cheap bottles of cider, and smoking stolen cigarettes. It’s not the greatest place in the world. But it’s home and it’s ours. Ruth’s a nurse in the Accident and Emergency department at Stepping Hill Hospital. I can hear you thinking: What does she look like? Well, she’s got dark hair, short with messy spikes on top, and really dark brown eyes, like Green & Black’s dark chocolate. Five-foot-eight, skinny as a whip. She says it’s from running around like an idiot at work. She’s thirty-five and sexy as hell.

  “Anyway, I want to talk about happy stuff. This is your birthday trip, after all,” Abi says. Rosie starts singing “Happy Birthday” and giggles.

  I shrug. “Okay, what do you want to talk about?”

  “I think, as you’re the birthday girl, you get to decide.”

  “Anything.” As long as I’m with you, I don’t care. “I really don’t mind.”

  Abi sighs. “Fine, what do you have planned for tonight? Are you and Ruth going out on the town?”

  I shake my head. “She’s working again. She couldn’t get cover for her shift.”

  “But it’s your birthday.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it does. She should be with you tonight.”

  “I’m twenty-four, Abi, not four. Her job is important. People rely on her. We’ll do something next time she’s off.”

  “Did she even remember it’s your birthday?”

  Probably not. “I’m sure she will have. She was already asleep when I woke up this morning, and I didn’t want to wake her up. Anyway, enough dissecting of my relationship. What about you? Anyone look promising?”

  In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never known her to have a relationship with anyone. She always says she’s too busy with Rosie and happy enough as things are.

  She laughed at me. “Don’t be silly. I’ve told you, I’m happy as things are. I’ve got Rosie, I’ve got a ton of good friends,” she says, and smiles at me. “I’ve got you. What more do I need?”

  When she says things like that, it makes my belly go all funny. Sort of warm and, I don’t know, squishy. I know that sounds weird, doesn’t it? But that’s the only thing that fits close. Squishy. I just wish she meant what she said the way I want her to. I wish I made her feel squishy too. Stop it, Genna. Get a grip. That’s not how it is. Never has been, never will be. The sooner you get over this, the better.

  “What about Claire? Are you going out with her instead?”

  “No.”

  Claire’s my best mate. Well, she was my best friend. Then six months ago, she started to drop hints that I should break up with Ruth. She might be right, but she wouldn’t specify why she thought it was the right time. She just said that it was apparently clear I don’t love Ruth and that I should just get out. I do love Ruth. Anyway, when I told her to keep her nose out, she took it literally, and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since. Six months. So much for best friends.

  “She still not been in touch?” Abi asks.

  “No.”

  “So why don’t you call her?”

  “Why should I? I wasn’t the one in the wrong.”

  “No, but sometimes you have to bite the bullet and make the first move regardless. Or you’ll miss out on something that you’ll regret in the end.”

  “Mum, there’s an efilump and a grafe.” Rosie leans as far forward in her seat as she can and points between us to the huge sign for Knowsley Safari Park.

  “Elephant and giraffe, sweetie,” Abi corrects.

  “S’what I said.”

  I chuckle. “Are you ready to go and join the monkeys?”

  “You mean see ’em?”

  I pull off the motorway and follow the sign posts all the way to the gate. “Maybe,” I say and pull up at the ticket window. “Or maybe I’ll decide to leave you with them all.”

  Rosie squeals. “No, no, no. Mum, don’t let her.”

  “Two adults and one monkey, please,” I say to the teenaged girl at the ticket window.

  “What kind of monkey?” the girl asks. Obviously I’m not the first to make this joke. Her response was far too smooth.

  “A stinky baboon,” I say, playing along.

  “Right, I see. Well, they cost extra. The stronger the smell, the more they cost. We have to fumigate after they’ve been round or it upsets the warthogs.” She hands me tickets after I pick up my jaw and pay the standard child and adult fees. Extortion at half the price.

  “Where to first, baboon?”

  Rosie giggles. “Monkey pen.”

  “See? I knew you needed to see your relatives.”

  “They’re your relatives too,” she shouts indignantly. Abi snorts a little laugh.

  I think about our mutual family. She’s got a point. “Monkey pen it is.”

  Knowsley Safari Park is well signposted, fairly logically set out, and busy as hell. Especially on the weekend, which it is, and during the half-term holidays, which it also is. So it’s doubly hellacious driving around, bumper to bumper, with a very excited Rosie shouting at each and every tiny thing she sees. I love it. I always love it when she has a blast. It’s like seeing the world over again. Colours are brighter when she tells you she sees them, rain’s wetter, and everything’s just…better. She just lives totally in the moment. Loving every second. No wallowing in self-pity or grumpy moods, no fear of the future. Everything just is. She’s like an antidepressant with legs.

  “Genna, that lion’s got hair like yours,” she shouts, pointing out of the window. The lion in question has a spectacular mane of red hair, no doubt
tangled and knotted and sticking up like a bad back-comb job from the eighties.

  Abi sniggers.

  “The colour, right?” I ask.

  “Uh-huh.” She plunges her fingers into my hair and pulls it out to the sides. “And how long it is.” She giggles when her hand hits the window before she can pull it all out straight. “Mum, can I have hair like Genna’s when I grow up?”

  “I thought you liked your blond hair. That’s what you said this morning.”

  “Oh yeah.” She lets go of my hair. “Like Mummy’s. I remember.” She scratches her head. “Maybe instead I could have some like yours and some like Genna’s. Then it’s like both of you.”

  Abi shakes her head. “We’ll see.”

  There’s really no point agreeing or disagreeing. She’ll have changed her mind by breakfast tomorrow, unless you make a big deal out of it. Then it sticks. You’re wondering what Abi looks like, aren’t you? I can hear your mind ticking. Okay, let’s see if I can do her justice. I’m going into Sophia-from-The Golden Girls mode. Picture this: It’s 2016, we’re sitting in a car, driving—and I use the term loosely—around the safari park. Blond hair, brown eyes, full lips that are just made for smiling, or kissing, and I already mentioned the dimple in her right cheek. Her hair is long, but she’s got it piled up under a hat today. One of those fedora ones that have made a fashion comeback. Not that that’s why Abi wears it. She’s been wearing it for years because she likes it. And fuck me, does it make her look hot. It’s kinda low at the front, and she’s got this habit of looking at me from under the brim and quirking just one corner of her mouth in a little half smile. Holy shit, but that look could chase the Pope out of his cassock. Me? It just makes me slide off my bloody chair. Sexy minx.

  Abi had packed a picnic: cans of pop, bags of crisps, a bar of chocolate, and sandwiches for us all. Ham and coleslaw for us, peanut butter and sliced grapes for Rosie—don’t ask. We munch on it all as we make our way slowly around the park from one animal enclosure to another. The animals are all doing animal things, which includes poo fights, normal fights, and, as Abi calls them, man-and-lady fights. She came up with this when Rosie once pointed out a couple of monkeys having a jolly good time, rutting away. Little exhibitionists.