Lucky

by Rachel Edwards

  ‘I …’ She tried to read the older woman’s face. ‘No. Thank you.’

  Etta lowered her head and sipped at long-dead coffee until Jean had shuffled back to her corner. She took cold, bitter sips until the paranoia – surely what it had to be – had percolated through her mind, draining down and away, dissipating into the muscles of extremities which gave twitches of reassurance: her tapping foot, a flex of her fingers. She would be OK.

  The end of the day called Etta home to the spare room.

  She had been mining diamonds and rubies – £20! £55! £17! – for some unknowable length of time, until the lump of coal leapt out, leaving black smuts across her screen. Bonus over, but her account read £492. She was still winning.

  Etta clicked onto My Account and changed her username from EO1984 to DestinysChild. Just for luck.

  By 6 p.m., DestinysChild had lost all £492 of her winnings and deposited another £300. Twenty minutes later her Cozee account stood at £1,320. The bonus rounds, won on three or four different slots, had triggered an explosion of joy that made her eyes roll back in her head. Just mind-boggling, ridiculous luck.

  Etta knew then: she was made for Cozee. And Cozee was remaking her.

  She was still in the spare room when she heard his voice.

  ‘I’m back!’

  ‘Hey you!’ she cried.

  Ola had come home at precisely the wrong time. Chat was insisting that a new slot – Aztecarama – was offering these crazily boosted bonus rounds only until 9 p.m. and it was twenty to. Making a face that it was better he could not see, she shut down and went to greet him.

  ‘How was it?’ she asked, features readjusted.

  ‘Actually, not too bad,’ Ola replied. ‘More interesting than I had expected.’

  ‘Meet any nice people?’

  ‘One or two, I suppose.’ He picked up his bag and moved to the stairs. ‘There’s still dinner, right? I was going to take a shower, but I wan chop.’

  ‘Go ahead, shower first.’

  As she heard the pump kick in and the water start to stream, Etta considered sprinting upstairs. But she did not breach the boundaries of their unlovely kitchen. She continued to do nothing to the supermarket lasagne, heated long ago in the oven. She half-arsed the salad and burnt the garlic bread as the reels spun her thoughts. Aztecarama would be going batshit with bonus rounds right then, she could sense it. She would run to the spare room, if she could get away with it.

  Ten minutes later (there had been time!), Ola ambled into the kitchen, wrapped only in a towel, and gathered her into another hug.

  ‘Missed you in the shower.’ He kissed her.

  She met his lips while pulling away.

  ‘Olala, are you going to eat like that? Get dressed, the plates are hot!’

  ‘He he he, woman. Don’t nag me o!’

  Still laughing, he went to pull on his dressing gown. What must she do, for this evening to succeed; what must she not do, how must she look? His damp body warmed her, as ever, but she could no more engage with his muscles than juggle the cutlery she held in her hand. She had to focus.

  Upon his return, she served him up the pasta.

  ‘It is good,’ he said after a few fast mouthfuls. ‘Not your usual recipe though, am I right?’

  His arch gaze fixed on the foil tray wedged at the top of the recycling.

  She styled it out. ‘Detective!’

  ‘Ah! You know I am genius!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No really. I’ve cracked the angle on the Science It! piece they want me to write. I’ve worked out the way of explaining the action of Ecstasy on the brain in layperson’s terms, found a way of explaining how MDMA triggers serotonin …’

  Etta smiled as he went on and on. She got the gist, she usually did. But right now serious cash prizes were waiting to be taken down and all this sitting, and smiling, and admiring, and playing along while he—

  ‘… brain cells made of supermarket bloody lasagne. Etta! I can tell you’re not listening. Tcha!’

  ‘I am. I was! Sorry. But give me a break about dinner, will you, please? I was expecting to have a busy evening.’

  He looked at her from under lowered brows, a boy-child with a grudge.

  ‘Next time,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll make my extra-special one for you.’

  Ola folded his work back into his pocket and sat up straighter.

  ‘So. They have given you homework again?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Etta.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Too busy for her man, these days.’

  ‘Don’t start, Ola.’

  ‘Actually …’ he put down his fork. ‘It’s true. You say I’m always away, but at least when I am back, I am back. These days when you’re here, you are not really here.’

  Etta flushed. ‘Why are you being weird all of a sudden? Like you said, you’re the one who is away all the time. Why is that anyway?’

  ‘Oh, come on, don’t—’

  ‘I’m not joking. How do I know you’re not—’

  ‘What, woman? When I am working all the time to support our lives, what am I doing that is so wrong, Etta? Please, I dare you to tell me.’

  He stared at her; she stared at her plate, wondering whether she could set free that one word which would tip their evening into a searing silence.

  ‘How do I know,’ she said, ‘that it’s not another Zagreb?’

  Ola made a low noise at the back of his throat – humh – and said:

  ‘That is unfair.’

  ‘Yes. It was.’

  ‘So, you are going to bring all that up again?’

  ‘I’m not bring anything up, Ola. It lives with us the whole time, forever, like a disease.’

  ‘Yes, like you’ve got a brain fever.’

  ‘No, like we’ve got herpes.’

  ‘Etta!’

  ‘Well, how do you want me to be? I still don’t understand why you did it.’

  ‘I’ve told you, over and over, I did not do anything.’

  ‘But you wanted to. And I can’t understand it. How could you even get into that situation?’

  Ola gave a heavy sigh:

  ‘I was away from home and a bit messed up. That horrible conference. Every single person having a bad time and collecting endless business cards to remember it by. I felt isolated. I was drinking. You felt so far away.’

  ‘But why didn’t you just call me?’

  Ola closed his eyes. ‘As I told you, I did meet this woman. But I did not want to hurt you. I did not want to … to …’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘I did not want to want her!’

  Etta took a step back, as if she had been slapped. That one firecracker fact exploded into the kitchen, bigger than the mechanics of the denied infidelity. Hotter and more dangerous. She had wanted to fire his anger, but had got burnt.

  ‘Are you happy now?’ said Ola quietly. ‘I wanted her.’

  ‘So then,’ said Etta. ‘You made sure you got what you wanted.’

  ‘Oh Etta,’ said Ola. He rose and walked out of the kitchen. Seconds later their bedroom door closed.

  He had wanted someone else.

  He had not screwed her.

  But he had screwed them.

  Etta swallowed hard, but the tears fell all the same. That night two years before when he had first explained that something had nearly happened in Zagreb. They had talked through until dawn, sending increasingly conciliatory words across the chipped wooden surface. By the time sunlight had flooded the kitchen they were getting married. Someday.

  Now she had brought it all up again. That cruel twist of the knife had hurt her too. She would spend the night in the spare room, making secret amends.

  Etta cleaned up the kitchen and went to the spare room, taking a glass and three quarters of a bottle of Malbec with her. Ola, meanwhile, had plugged his laptop in next to hers to charge, there on the desk. He never did that, these days. It was an obvious aggression: he was pissing on her parade, reclaimin
g the territory and marking it like a dog. That man! He was attempting to take over the one space that had organically evolved into her own. Notionally a shared study, it was actually hers: its wardrobe housed an overspill of clothes she could not face giving to charity just yet. Her mother and late father smiled at her, draped in their wedding finery, from a landlord-approved hook on the wall. If Ola was forced to work at home, he preferred the kitchen table, its proximity to brain-sustaining snacks and drinks. He was making a loud point.

  Etta was more into making money. She spun the reels, over and over, and lost another £700. That was that. Every penny she had left of her salary, taken out via her personal account was now gone. Her late dinner grumbled low in her abdomen. What point had she just made?

  She needed to sleep on it, to dream up a plausible story overnight. She went to power down her laptop. The green charging light of Ola’s computer winked at her.

  Seconds later, she had powered his machine up and was looking for a Word doc called ‘Motsdepasse’. In Ola’s ordered world no prying opportunist, hacker or thieving rascal could possibly speak French.

  There it was, in the Home folder. Every password that mattered to them, right there. This trusting document set out all their credit card, account details and passwords, in case a wallet should be lost, or a handbag stolen. He did try so hard to look after them. The list of accounts, licences and online registrations in alphabetical order, so orderly and proper:

  Library Online Account

  Licences – Cars

  Licence – TV

  MO Money

  Mortgage

  MOT

  She found what she needed and took it.

  Etta soon felt water rising in her eyes, beading above her brow. The night was melting; it was so hot, precociously sticky for May. Was that down to high pressure or low pressure? Climate change, no doubt. A large part of her yearned to go through to their bedroom, lie down and rest her head on Ola’s chest. To whisper the truth, every last word of it, into his sleep-bound ear. But there really could be no rest for the wicked.

  So: hello Merlin’s Miracles.

  Shuffling up the spare bed, she propped herself up against the wall, plugged in her headphones and deposited £500. In an instant she became an Arthurian knight, on a quest to accrue money in place of glory. Whir, blur, £470, £460, £490 … £590! She withdrew the £90 and carried on as if starting again. Every time she went back over £500, she creamed off the difference. She found her rhythm. Then, Merlin waved his wand! Etta sat up as if her own buttocks were giddying the grey mare up the drawbridge.

  OK, here we go …

  Onscreen, three vast oak doors, complete with coarse grain and strap hinges, lay ahead. One would open onto the Holy Grail and all its riches, the others onto a medieval dung heap of self-loathing. She hovered the cursor: middle, no left, no middle. Click.

  The door yawned wide to reveal a golden goblet fashioned from the old World Cup trophy and bathed in graphics of purest light. Etta gasped as a jingle started up and serious cash began effervescing up at her from the grail’s very lip: £400! £250! £100! £150! £700!

  This was it; this was the sweet liquor of the Cozee experience.

  This was what it was to be mind-fucked by free money. You had to be assaulted by cash coming at you. Bam-bam-bam! It was a feeling like nothing else.

  Winning, really winning, was intense. Done right, it was an unparalleled multi-sensory experience. Etta liked to do it right. Her earbud headphones ensured that the beguiling music, turned up to a vibrant volume, played deep into her ear canal. Her mind was macerated in pleasure. She let mock folk rock lead her into the experience, beyond mere watching; inside it. The watching, though, was spectacular. There were colours of candy and gemstones, primaries and purples; a whole Hatton Garden of brilliant-cut diamonds; brash, beautiful gold, and enough silver to make you betray your own reason. In case the emos did not bite, there was Vampire Wonderworld with its half-light of black joy and white pain. Something for everyone. The games that enticed Etta tended to be the brightest, the most delicious, those that exploded into honey-sweet kaleidoscopes as soon as you hit a bonus. Colours, then: all your favourites, hand-picked by you. Dancing, flashing, cavorting, cartwheeling, sambaing, swaying and doing the Shaku Shaku. The eye was brutalised with pleasure.

  She hovered the arrow over Withdraw; £2,800 was sitting there. It was 1.57 a.m. She had already dreamed, now she just might sleep.

  She got as far as the door. Then she turned around, sat and powered up once more.

  Merlin, make my night.

  You had to ride your luck while it lasted, even at 2 a.m.

  A pink light was waiting for her. The message flashed onto the screen:

  StChristopher75: Thought you might be up.

  DestinysChild: Yes. On a mission!

  StChristopher75: Good wins?

  DestinysChild: Yes, ty. Merlin, almost £3k.

  StChristopher75: Wdwdwd

  DestinysChild: How about you?

  StChristopher75: Couldn’t sleep, apu.

  DestinysChild: Sorry. So, 1975 … you drinking cocoa in your slippers right now?

  A ten-second hiatus. Too much?

  He finally answered:

  StChristopher75: Yes. Slippers are the number one accessory for all that geriatric clubbing.

  DestinysChild: OK, I get it, 1975 – you’re not really THAT old.

  StChristopher75: Damn right.

  DestinysChild: Thanks for sharing your Cozee wisdom btw.

  StChristopher75: Pleasure. You newbies don’t know you’re born. I’m a natural winner, me

  DestinysChild: Glad to hear it!

  StChristopher75: Stick with me, kid.

  DestinysChild: Oh yes? Why should I do that?

  StChristopher75: Cos I bet I’m just what u need.

  DestinysChild: Bold claim.

  StChristopher75: Fortune favours the brave.

  DestinysChild: Brave or naughty?

  StChristopher75: Both. And lucky.

  DestinysChild: I’ll bear that in mind.

  StChristopher75: Do that. Gtg.

  DestinysChild: Me too. Stay lucky.

  The pink light blinked off – he was gone.

  Etta laughed, without a sound and to no one, then moved the cursor away from Withdraw. Merlin liked her and a £30K target was not so much; she could end it all, tonight.

  Spin, spin, spin: she crested along on desire, good intentions and a 2010 Barolo.

  She was aroused. This was bliss. This was indeed Ecstasy.

  More, more. Again!

  Yes, she was unequivocally aroused. What to do?

  Autospin: On.

  Etta let her eyelids droop and settled into the rhythm of the reels. She slipped her free hand down the waistband of her knickers. Down, there, she played on.

  StChristopher75 was flirting with her.

  (Lucky, she thought, as she stroked.)

  He had singled her out.

  He had good chat, so probably good looks.

  (Through her lashes: three wizard staffs on the reels: £100.)

  He was brave, and lucky.

  Was he naughty?

  (Stroke faster for yes.)

  Was he rich?

  Might he save her?

  Yes.

  (Three wizard hats. £200!)

  She would show Ola.

  Yes.

  She would show Ola.

  Yes!

  She would show … oh, oh! Oh!

  Ecstasy … She floated free, outside herself.

  Five minutes later, hand firmly back on the mouse, Etta was no longer blissed out. Her buzz had proven more costly than any drug-fuelled high, and it was not lasting as long. Terrible play, just now. This game was sucking her large deposit down to nothing like a Camelot courtesan on the king’s honeymoon. Merlin was a bitch.

  Spin, spin, spin.

  £1,100, £1,080, £1,060 …

  Too hot, too close. Merlin had to appear.

&n
bsp; £340, £320, £300 …

  She lost all notion of time, she lived in the fluid moment. Spinning in her ecstatic void, swept along on a cool tide of novelty and hope, warmed by limitless red wine, she soon reached her last £20 and then … nowhere, nothing. £0.00. All £2,800 gone.

  She had been slaughtered. She was slaughtered.

  Her eyes roamed the room, seeking an escape. A fly had died on her window ledge. Was that climate-change heat? Suicide?

  This could not be the end. She needed more funds.

  Motsdepasse.

  Within seconds another £5,000 was on Cozee, waiting to be processed into wins.

  Etta exhaled, long and slow. A Rubicon had been crossed, one five-grand deep. She was tempted to hate herself but instead crept downstairs through Stygian gloom and returned with another bottle of red.

  Play on.

  The overcooked fly trembled, spindly legs pointing upwards on the windowsill. They used to bury you in the sky, didn’t they? The Z people. Zars … That lame RE project she had giggled over with her classmate Victoria Barnes: A for Anglican, B for Buddhist …

  Spin, spin, spin.

  Time was stuck; it was suspended. As her balance dipped, Etta had the sensation that it was herself, not the reels, revolving in the middle of the night.

  Spin, spin …

  Zoroastrians! The end of the religious alphabet. This fly was being purified as it putrefied, a comforting thought as Etta hit £0.00 once more. Zero.

  It was too damn hot. It was 3.32 a.m. And Merlin’s Miracles had royally screwed her over.

  She padded downstairs and took the last bottle from the rack.

  Try Cash King. Spinderella’s Ball. Try.

  Etta deposited, drank and gambled with a devotion as pure as any she had known. She was changing their lives, she would see it through. At some point, a silver light shone through the gaping curtains, two bright shafts illuminating the wine bottles in the bin.

  It was 5.57 a.m. She had failed and won, won and failed all night. The worst kind of gambling. The only kind of gambling: no lie on earth could save her today. Etta shut her eyes, and out came a madwoman’s sighs. She had managed to withdraw £380, which would hit her bank account in forty-eight hours. Bar that – no getting around it – she had lost all £22,000 of their house deposit.