Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  Now, however, I’m being bombarded with questions about my intentions for the money. Will I give more of it away? How will I decide who will get it? Do I intend to support lesbian and gay issues with the money because I’m a dyke? Well, they didn’t actually say that last bit out loud, but you can see it in their beady little eyes. All the dirty little thoughts. Perverts. Get your own sex life, and stop fantasizing about mine.

  That’s my job, fuck you very much.

  Ruth did come crawling out of the woodwork. She did surprise me with one thing, though—she came directly to me, not the vultures. That showed a little bit of something. Class? Nah, how about, conscience? Not bloody likely. Maybe she’s sorry? That she got caught? Absolutely. That she lost me just when I won the money? Totally. About cheating on me? Not a cat in hell’s chance. She made all the right noises, of course. “I’m so sorry, Genna” and “I know that I made the biggest mistake of my life, Genna.” Then there was the “Please take me back and I’ll never do that to you again, Genna.” But the pièce de résistance was “We’re soulmates, Genna. We were meant to be together forever.”

  Why did you screw every woman you could get your hands on, then, bitch?

  Rhetorical question.

  Yes, I’m ranting. Yes, I’m mad. Yes, I want to scream. And hit stuff. And smash mugs. Don’t know why I want to pick on mugs, but I do. If I still had my crutches, I’d have probably decapitated a member of the Vulture Club by now. Not sure if I’m happy or sad that I had Mum take them back to the hospital. Let me think about it some more.

  See? I’m no longer rational. Being cooped up is driving me bonkers. Ranting and raving, batshit, bloody bonkers. And, yes, I know that isn’t a word, but do not start with me today.

  Then we have the letters that get delivered every day. The first day it was about twenty letters. People who had lost jobs in the recession, asking for “investment” to get back on their feet. Mothers begging for money for hungry children. People who are sick.

  The next day, the postman actually knocked for us to open the door because he had a whole sack full of letters. I still haven’t been able to read them all. I started crying when a little girl asked me if I could send her and her dad to a football match. Her dad’s dying of lung cancer, and he always wanted to take her. But now they can’t afford it because he isn’t working and he’s just too ill.

  I carried on crying when a woman wrote how her son had been beaten up coming home from school. The thugs stole his mobile phone, bike, and trainers. They kicked him so badly that he had to have his spleen and a kidney removed, and he would never walk again. She asked if I could help buy him a decent wheelchair.

  I cried harder when a girl told me about her granddad living in a nursing home, where she goes to visit him. About how he thinks she’s her gran and talks to her about the war. And how there isn’t enough staff at the nursing home to take him to the toilet regularly, so he sits in his own faeces and urine until the appropriate toilet time. How his food is almost always cold by the time the nurses get round to feeding him. How he only gets a bath once a week—if there is enough staff. How she wishes she could get a job to earn enough money to pay for him to live in a good care home so that he could be clean and eat hot food. She asked me for a job. Not money, but a job. Doing anything I wanted, so she could pay for his care. She’s only sixteen. That one actually broke my heart. She wasn’t begging for a handout but a hand up, a chance to better herself and help someone she loves. I sent her details to Cathy to see if she could get her in my old job at the warehouse. I hope she does.

  I think I ran out of tears when I read a letter from a little boy. Simon. Age five and three hundred days, nearly six in brackets. His dad was a soldier killed in Afghanistan three days before the end of his second and final tour of duty. Simon and his mum now have to leave their house, and they have nowhere to go to. Could I buy them a house?

  I want to help them all. Every story rips my heart out. I wish there were more money, enough to solve all the problems of the world, so there would be no war to kill little boys’ daddies. And plenty of good nurses to look after the elderly. Or better yet, so they would find the cure for old age so there are no elderly. Cure cancer. World hunger. Everything.

  But there isn’t enough money to do all that. Not even if I give every penny away. The possibilities of the money are not as endless as the problems I want to solve. There will always be another Simon, age five and three hundred days. There will always be another old man in a nursing home. Another dad with cancer. People living on the streets. Children being abused. Drug addicts. And on and on.

  The list is endless, and I will never be able to do enough.

  I can’t read those letters anymore. They only make me more aware of how little I can actually do. In one of his parables, Jesus said, “To whom much is given much will be expected.”

  Okay, but where do I start? I just don’t know where to start.

  I’m so overwhelmed I nearly buy a house on eBay with a £185,000 pounds buy-it-now price, pick-up only. I stop when I look at the address. Isle of Bute. Where the hell is the Isle of Bute? Other options include Bulgaria, Spain. Quite a few in Spain, and in Greece. Greece is even selling islands on Ebay now. That’s how bad it is. Lesbos for sale, make your best offer, no minimum reserve amount.

  Tempting.

  Very tempting.

  I need to get away from here. I need to go where nobody knows who I am or why I have gathered this notoriety while I figure out what I need to do next. Where to start. I said I wanted to do good, start a charity or something, but I haven’t even gotten started on all that shit yet. I need to clear my head, get a little perspective back, and really start to focus on what I can do. Instead of being stuck on what I can’t. Time for a break.

  Perfect.

  Holiday away from the Vulture Club and all the Simons, age five and three hundred days.

  So the question now is, where should I go? Little holiday in the sun? I always fancied going on a safari and seeing all the big cats prowling the savannah. Maybe Australia or the Grand Canyon.

  I pace around my room while I’m thinking about this all, you know? All three steps in each direction. Bookshelf to window. Window to bookshelf. And back. And again.

  A holiday is the only realistic solution, but I really don’t want to go alone. How sad is that? Hi, my name’s Genna, and I have no friends.

  Okay, I know that isn’t true, but I really don’t want to go on holiday with my mum. I mean, come on. Newly single here. I might get lucky at some point and, trust me on this one, my mother would never let me live that down. Or worse, my mother could get lucky. Oh God. Brain, why do you do this to me? Claire doesn’t have a passport, hates planes, trains, and boats, so she’s a no-go. That only leaves me with one option.

  Abi.

  And Rosie, of course. Would Abi want to come on holiday with me? Would Rosie want to come away with me? Who am I kidding? Rosie would go anywhere with anyone except maybe her dad. But would Abi? I mean, we’re friends, right? Friends go on holiday together all the time. Right?

  Right.

  It doesn’t mean that I’m declaring my feelings for her or anything like that. It doesn’t mean anything other than I am besieged and need to get away and she is my friend, and I don’t want to go alone like a sad, unfriendable person.

  Unfriendable? Don’t start with me. I mean it. I’m a woman on the edge, and crutches aren’t the only weapon available.

  Okay. Here goes nothing.

  I pick up my phone and dial Abi’s number.

  “Hello.”

  “I need to get away.”

  “I’m fine. Thanks, Genna, how are you?”

  “Sorry. I need to get away. They’re driving me mad.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Haven’t a bloody clue. Can you and Rosie come with me? I know she has school but—”

  “Forget school. It’ll be there when we get back. Where do you want to go?”

  “You
decide.”

  “Rosie’s got a thing about boats at the moment. One of her teachers has been telling all the kids about the Titanic, and she’s besotted.”

  There wasn’t a happy ending to the Titanic, was there? But, meh, technology has evolved in the last hundred years…as have lifeboats…and the number of them required on each boat. I shrug. Won’t happen again.

  “A cruise it is. I’ll phone the travel agents and see what I can find.”

  “I’ll start packing.”

  CHAPTER 15

  ABI

  “I’m gonna go on a yellow sumbarine. Wiv ox’a’pussas and fisies and sumbarines. And…what’s them fings called again? Let’s ya’ breathe una’water?”

  “A snorkel, Rosie. And I’ve told you, it’s not a submarine we’re going on, it’s a boat,” I say.

  “Okay. Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Throw your teacher overboard and listen to her scream.”

  “Rosie Marie Kitson!”

  Her eyes are wide open, a look of complete innocence on her face. “Yes, Mum?”

  “Where did you learn that? Genna, stop laughing.”

  “One of the boys at school was singing it. He said his older brother taught him the proper words for the song. He said we only knowed the baby words, so he teached us the proper words.”

  “Rosie, those aren’t the proper words. Genna, stop laughing!”

  “But he said they were the proper words,” Rosie says.

  “He told a fib, sweetie. The proper words are the ones that I taught you when you were little. Those words are bad words, and singing that isn’t nice.”

  “Does that mean I can’t go on the boat with you and Genna?”

  “You can still come on holiday, sweetie, but you have to promise not to sing those words again. Okay?”

  “Okay. Sorry, Mum.”

  I slap Genna’s leg while she wipes the tears from her eyes. “You don’t help matters.”

  She grins at me with that bloody smile and those bloody dimples. “Sorry, Mum.”

  “Brat.”

  “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

  This is the point where it’s best not to say anything. If I do, the teasing and banter start to head towards flirting, and I know one of these days, she is going to figure out how I feel about her.

  “Hey, are you listening to me?” Genna asks.

  “Totally.”

  “Then what did I just say?”

  Shit, I hate when she does that. I always feel like an idiot. “I’m sorry, I was daydreaming about this holiday. What boat are we going on?”

  “It’s the Ocean Princess. And this is so much more than a boat, isn’t it, Rosie?”

  “Yeppers, it’s a floating palace,” Rosie says on cue.

  “Too right.” Genna’s grin widens, looking ever so pleased with herself.

  “Mum, have I been on an airyplane before?”

  “No, sweetie, we’ve talked about this. You haven’t been on an aeroplane before.”

  “Genna, have you been on an airyplane before?”

  “I have,” she tells her.

  “I made an airyplane at school out of a toilet roll tube and some foil and a cornflakes box. What is this airyplane made out of?”

  “I believe it’s made out of metal.”

  “Oh.”

  I can’t help feeling that Rosie is disappointed with this answer.

  “I made a boat at school too, out of a lemonade bottle, and some lollipop sticks were seats for my Lego men. But it sanked, and the Lego men drownded. What’s the boat made out of?”

  Genna tries to look serious at the plight of the water-logged figures when she says, “I believe it’s also made out of metal.”

  “Is everything metal?”

  “No.”

  “What’s not?”

  I smile as Genna patiently reels off item after item that isn’t made of metal for my inquisitive little girl. She never gets impatient with her or shouts at her. It is yet another way in which she is perfect. Damn it.

  The two hours at the airport fly by as we wait for the long flight to Singapore. I sleep through most of the plane ride and before I know it, Genna is waking me to get off the plane. Rosie is still asleep, so Genna reaches down and hoists her onto her hip, intent on carrying her off the plane. I grab our bags, shaking my head as I go. At least her ankle’s better now.

  The ship is huge. Nearly four hundred cabins, six bars, three restaurants, two swimming pools, a theatre, a casino, and a spa. With Jacuzzis. Genna’s booked us into a suite with a balcony. Two bedrooms and a living area for the three of us. Did I mention the Jacuzzi? We’re setting off tomorrow from Singapore to Kuala Lumpur, the first stop on a three-week cruise. Now, this is the life.

  It is opulent. Luxurious. Extravagant. Grand. Magnificent. It it’s all of that and more. And I can’t believe I’m here. With Rosie. And Genna. There is so much of me that wants to just let go and pretend we are the family I wish we were, but I know that will only make it harder the next time she meets someone and falls in love again. I guess I’m a glass half-empty kind of girl.

  “Rosie, I think you’ll have to share with your mum.”

  “But I want my own room. I have my own room at home. There’s not even another bed in that room, so I can’t sleep in there, Genna.”

  “But, sweetie, if you have that room,”—Genna points to the left—“and your mum has that room”—she points to the door on the right—“where am I going to sleep?”

  Rosie frowns at her. “Why aren’t there enough beds? Didn’t they know we were all coming to stay?”

  “Of course they did, but they thought that two people would share beds.”

  “But I don’t want to share a bed with my mum. I’m too big.” She looks at me and then whispers into Genna’s ear. Genna bursts out laughing before trying to smother it with her hand. Her eyes twinkle with mischief as she looks at me.

  “Lots of people snore, Rosie. That’s not too bad,” Genna says to her.

  Ground, swallow me up. Right now!

  “Well, I don’t like it. It makes my ears hurt.”

  “I’m sure your Mum doesn’t snore that loudly.”

  “She does. You share with her if you don’t believe me.”

  “I don’t think—”

  It seems that Rosie has decided that this is settled, wheels her Dora the Explorer roller suitcase into “her” bedroom, and closes the door behind her. Genna looks at me. Her cheeks are all pink, and she picks at her jeans. She does that when she’s nervous. She looks so cute I just want to hold her.

  “I’ll see if there’s an extra blanket in there, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  She’s already heading for the bedroom. The thought of her sharing my bed with me is as exciting as it is terrifying. I can feel my heart racing, and I know my cheeks are flushed as I follow her into the room. I know I’m probably going to regret this, but…

  “Genna, the bed is more than big enough for the both of us.”

  She turns to look at me so fast, I have visions of The Exorcist going through my mind. I’ve never seen her look so uncomfortable. Her cheeks flush, but the rest of her face looks pale, her eyes are wide open, and her lips part. Those gorgeous lips that I’ve wanted to kiss for so long. Stop it.

  “I don’t snore that badly unless I have a cold, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not. I don’t care about snoring. Ruth was a terrible snorer, and that never bothered me.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  She’s looking at me like she’s trying to see something inside me. It’s the look I’ve been seeing from her more and more, like she’s trying to decide if she should say something to me. She seems to get closer and closer to it. Then whatever it is she’s looking for, she doesn’t seem to find it. So she takes a deep breath and then blows it out. “I guess there isn’t one. Are you sure you don’t mind? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

  “Why on earth woul
d I be uncomfortable?” Other than the fact that I’ve wanted you in my bed for the last three years? Or the fact that I really want to kiss you right now? No reason at all for me to be uncomfortable with this situation that I can see. Can you?

  “You know, with me being gay.”

  “Genna, have I ever made you think that it’s an issue for me in any way?”

  “No, but I—”

  “Then trust me. I have no problem at all with it.”

  I have to touch her. She looks so vulnerable, so small right now. I just have to pull her into a tight hug, and I shiver as I feel the length of her body against my own. The wonderful curves she is forever trying to diet away feel like heaven in my arms, her hair tickles the skin on my throat as her head rests on my shoulder, and her arms link around my waist. I feel her take a huge breath before she blows it out slowly against my neck. I smooth my hand over her hair and gently kiss the top of her head, trying to memorise the feel of her.

  “We should probably check on the munchkin.” She pulls out of my arms and opens the door before she looks back at me. “Thanks.”

  It’s that smile that makes my heart flutter again. The one where her dimples come out in full force and her eyes actually sparkle. It gets me every time. My fingers ache to stroke her cheeks and feel where they crease, to feel her smile just for me. I want to go to sleep looking at that smile every night. I want to wake up to it every morning.

  Three weeks sharing a bed with the love of my life.

  Platonically.

  What the fuck have I just done?

  CHAPTER 16

  GENNA

  I hold Rosie’s hand, and we all walk down to the restaurant for dinner. She’s skipping along beside me, and I answer every question she asks me without hearing a single one of them. There is only one thing I can think about.