Lucky

by Rachel Edwards

  DestinysChild: Are u there?

  It took less than a minute for the reply to arrive onscreen:

  StChristopher75: Hi, what’s up won big?

  DestinysChild: F***** up big more like!

  StChristopher75: How come?

  DestinysChild: I stole twenty-two thousand pounds and lied. Then I stole and lied to fix it. Then I missed a funeral.

  StChristopher75: U borrowed, remember? And who’d u kill?

  DestinysChild: No one!

  StChristopher75: In that case, I wouldn’t worry about it.

  DestinysChild: I do worry.

  StChristopher75: Why? Spill.

  A thrill of closeness; a surge of intoxication. Sod it.

  DestinysChild: I’ve committed fraud. Actual fraud.

  StChristopher75: You’re kidding.

  DestinysChild: I wish. I put hundreds on a card and rang it in as stolen. I’m drinking so I don’t freak out. There you go. Hate me?

  StChristopher75: Could never hate you.

  DestinysChild: I don’t recognise myself. My relationship with the truth is changing.

  StChristopher75: Bit heavy. This is called chat for a reason.

  DestinysChild: I’m lying and I’m losing.

  StChristopher75: Aren’t we all?

  DestinysChild: Not you!

  StChristopher75: News travels fast.

  DestinysChild: Yes, congratulations on your win!

  StChristopher75: Cheers.

  Just that. He did not want to talk about it. She had over-emojied. He had doubtless endured a flock of new ‘friends’ messaging him since he won £55,000. She should have held off, toned it down.

  DestinysChild: I’m drunk.

  StChristopher75: Best way to be.

  DestinysChild: Don’t feel the best tbh.

  StChristopher75: Try a coffee. Perk u up.

  DestinysChild: Got anything stronger?

  StChristopher75: Crack?

  DestinysChild: Go on then.

  StChristopher75: My bad, used the last of it to upgrade my vodka tonic. Honestly, don’t sweat it. People do worse. Maybe u need a good dance.

  DestinysChild: You inviting me to all this clubbing you do?

  StChristopher75: No, the party, remember?

  DestinysChild: Haven’t said I’m coming yet.

  StChristopher75: U R coming though, right?

  DestinysChild: Why?

  StChristopher75: U promised me a dance. Plus u can’t miss a night of free cocktails and retro tunes – old men like me dancing to Shabba Ranks.

  DestinysChild: Sounds tempting.

  StChristopher75: Do it. It might surprise you. We can hang out.

  Hang out. She smiled. His attempts at cool had that effect on her. Might he affect her in other ways, up close? Full-on attraction would be a pain in the arse, to be honest, but she could do with a laugh and a dance. VIPs, free bar … the money that Cozee made, it had to be a decent night out. More than that, she needed all the help that Chris could give her.

  Etta leaned back in her chair. Choices lay ahead, a crossroads. Ola was out. She was being watched. She had annihilated the sausage and almost done in the gin, but StChristopher75’s playfulness was pulling her up from the blurred depths of her tumbler. Here was a guy for whom the sun always shone, one perhaps also man enough to help in her hour of need.

  Her hand dangled the knife by her side, then let it drop into the mouth of her handbag. She did not care. Stuck at this junction, this weird and wonky intersection, she found that, at that moment, she cared for nothing at all. Impossible, therefore, to decide which way to go. How to move forward? From an unmined seam of resilience, she found resolve: she would not turn back. Etta took a deep swig of gin.

  DestinysChild: They had better do crack cocktails. And play a tonne of Shabba.

  She puffed gin fumes out through her nose, a low hum buzzed her throat.

  He came back fast.

  StChristopher75: Brilliant!

  DestinysChild: Gtg c u soon.

  With that juvenile farewell tapped onto the screen, she had moved forward. Only time would tell where to.

  Etta reached into her bag for the empty gin bottle and threw it into her wastepaper basket. She reached in again, with care, feeling for the greasy knife. She paused: it might be wise to keep protection close to hand. With a swift shake of her head, she pulled the handle out before it could cut her or ruin her bag. No, carrying a knife was not her at all.

  Still: she was being watched.

  Before she could try to sleep, she had a task; it was urgent and already too late. She opened a new email.

  Dear Government,

  You might like to know that Cynthia May Jackson passed away on 4th June 2018.

  It’s over. She’s gone. Please remove her from your deportation list.

  Kind regards [DELETE]

  Many thanks [DELETE]

  Yours?

  Etta Oladipo

  On behalf of Cynthia May Jackson (deceased).

  She drained the last of her drink. Now she was ready to spin.

  Several games deep, the pink light flashed on once more:

  StChristopher75: Winning yet?

  DestinysChild: Never enough.

  StChristopher75: What did u think of my pic?

  DestinysChild: I had thoughts.

  StChristopher75: Do tell.

  DestinysChild: Nothing like that.

  StChristopher75: U don’t have to worry, I won’t tell him.

  DestinysChild:

  StChristopher75: U solved the problem that u … borrowed?

  DestinysChild: I wish. I’ve made it worse.

  StChristopher75: How?

  DestinysChild: The credit card thing. And I lost more money, lied more. That funeral I missed was my best friend’s mum, so that’s really not good. And I drank too much the whole time. Other than that, it’s gone really well.

  StChristopher75: Woman as good-looking as u should have an easier life.

  DestinysChild: You think?

  StChristopher75: I do. I’ll take care of it.

  DestinysChild: You can’t. I’m someone’s girlfriend.

  StChristopher75: So? An attraction to beauty is in my DNA. As a friend, looking out for u is part of my job description.

  DestinysChild: Not meeting up with other men is part of my job description.

  There was no comment. Nothing for thirty seconds, two minutes. Five. She had panicked; a major flirting mis-step. Of course she would meet him, she needed to meet him. A loan, that was all.

  Seven minutes, now. She had blown it. Come close, hesitated and failed.

  Who watched? Those dead flowers had left a sticky trail across her mind.

  She could not go to sleep yet; perhaps with her phone on charge next to her, and with the loo light on, she might drop off in the end …

  No, that was a lie. She had no rest, no peace. It was all spin.

  By the time she had whirred down to her last £50, the room reeked of devastation. No reply from Chris. She dug her nails into the back of her hand; tears sprang but no blood. What was this to her, a goddamn game? He had given her an easy out and she had ballsed it up. The one person who could drag her out of this diabolical mess, and she had gone and scared him off.

  A pink dot blinked. Him! He was there:

  StChristopher75: If I were you, I’d start looking for another job.

  ‘Ha!’

  He was still interested. She had to tread carefully, cold was bad, too keen would be worse. She put her laughter onscreen:

  DestinysChild:

  This time, the response was immediate:

  StChristopher75: So you’ll come?

  DestinysChild: Please tell me your full name.

  StChristopher75: Chris Wise.

  DestinysChild: Wise, glad one of us is. I knew StChristopher75 stood for Chris, but wondered at first if you might just like travelling, like me. I’m Etta.

  StChristopher75: Hi. Here’s my link to Facebook, so you c
an check me out there first too, OK?

  DestinysChild: I will, thank you. Pleased to virtually meet you.

  StChristopher75: You too, Etta whoever.

  Etta waited a few seconds, her fingers wondering whether to tap out the words.

  Just form-filling. Worth it for Ola, for love.

  DestinysChild: OK, Chris, I’ll come.

  Chapter Eight

  SATURDAY, 30 JUNE 2018

  It decided to stay hot. A stout, disgusting heat steamed from the days that sweated out of the tail-end of June. It permeated Etta’s limbs, browned her skin and broiled her temper. Her mother had always delighted in telling her that she was made for the heat, ‘just like me, but even more like your father. African sun hot hot!’ Right now, she was not made for the heat, she was stupid and sick and wrong with the heat, and on the 17.39 to Paddington. Was this down to the weather, or some new phase of malfunction? If she were to die of fever, or heatstroke, at least it would all go away.

  ‘Nice party spirit,’ she mumbled to herself.

  She scuffed the sweat from her brow with the heel of her palm. Her phone buzzed, she checked it:

  Ready for Shabba? C u in there! Maybe 5 mins late. X

  That ‘x’. A kiss, their first. Interesting. Was he hoping she would melt over text, send a kiss back? This Cozee player was a player.

  The surfeit of heat surged from her chest to her forehead. Weather presenters kept chatting on about ‘this ongoing heatwave’ as if searing English summers were still an uncomplicated delight for the planet. She fanned herself with the free paper.

  Calm yourself.

  The VIP Summer Party would be the perfect setting in which to eyeball Chris Wise at last. The cocktails and the music and the easy laughter of winners should make a helpful backdrop to the main action of saving her own life. Etta’s plan was to enchant him at a platonic, yet compelling, level. She would not sleep with him, course not, but she would not repel him either. Some might call it a high-risk strategy but, these days, that was all she had. Others would not get it. Others—

  Eyes smarting, she tapped on her phone.

  Joyce, please text me back, will you?

  —might call it rank prick-teasing, but she only planned to excite Chris’s admiration, and intention was everything, right? They had already shared secrets and laughs; tonight, they would drink and dance. She would put in the work. She would exude the sparkle of DestinysChild, tempered by her own earnest need. She would make damn sure they got on, ignite his desire to help. She might even allow him a hint of the real Etta Oladipo.

  Fifty minutes into her journey, Etta was stalling. She had spent the afternoon sipping with steady determination, but the train to Paddington offered neither trolley nor buffet car and was undoing all her good preloading work. She would get back on it at Paddington. Pulling in now.

  Head down to avoid the eyes of commuters as they prayed to get home quickly in that cathedral of parallel platforms and intersecting lives, Etta all but ran. She crossed the concourse to her concession of choice. Expedience shone on the shelf; her eye was drawn to the gleam of a screwtop bottle of plummy red. She plucked it.

  She would need a cup and the pretence of a companion.

  ‘Could I have a couple of paper cups please?’

  The man at the counter lowered his head and fixed her in a stare; the whites of his eyes creamy around black, questioning irises.

  ‘You no wanna wait ’til you get home then, is it?’

  ‘What?’

  He raised his heavy monobrow. Had he caught a trace of stale wine on her breath, spied a purple tongue?

  Style it out.

  She gave a patient smile. ‘We’re having a picnic.’

  ‘You like drinking, is it?’

  The smile died. ‘Yeah. It is.’

  She took the receipt, left the judgement on the counter, and bundled herself out of the door.

  Next stage: the 205 would allow for refreshment on the top deck. She found the right stop as a bus pulled up and, although still too early, she got onto it. Upstairs, an old-school instinct drew her to the back seat; a couple of kids and a pensioner sat ahead. She unscrewed and poured. Her indignation – which was in fact shame, all dressed up to go out – started to fade as the bus rumbled along Edgware Road towards the hotel; her stress receded as the alcohol bumbled through her bloodstream. After ten minutes of getting intimately acquainted with bumps in the road, her mood brightened as the sky mellowed: hard seat, scuffed handrails and yet this rose-gold, improbable evening!

  At 7.40 p.m., Etta stepped off the 205 and was winding her way up the pavement to the Rockingham Plaza. In her bag were her heels and the bottle with its remaining inch of wine. It had deadened the worst of her nerves. Her stupid, ever-twisting nerves: what should she dread, beyond being found out? Over there, in that monumental hotel with its erect flags flying, amongst all the chancing strangers, she could shine as authentic and true.

  Almost a hundred metres to go; her judgement might be fuzzing but she had been a sprinter in her youth. The beige-and-gilt monolith was looming closer; time to transform. She ducked into a side street, swigged the last of the wine, and ditched the bottle in a bin. She tugged the zip on her bag hard, swayed in surprise as a shoe hit the pavement, steadied and put both heels on. Then she stashed the scuffed trainers in her cavernous bag. She straightened, checked her make-up in her phone and moved on.

  She walked through the revolving doors like a pro; first win. The lobby was echoing, busy and clean, and almost as distinguished as it hoped; only the rivers of sad swirl carpet that flowed left and right indicated that its ambitions may have been thwarted at some point in the nineties. Etta was still impressed: it might be faux-luxe, but they had rooms at £260 a night.

  The party was in the Wilmington Suite. She walked on and through, not stopping to smile at the concierge, but tilting her chin up as if she was a woman who might check into such hotels often, reducing her sway and sharpening the look in her eye.

  The Wilmington Suite was on the ground floor. At the doors, two women stood behind a table of name badges. Etta scanned for Chris.

  ‘Name, please?’ the older woman asked.

  ‘Et …’ She looked again. ‘DestinysChild.’

  ‘Um … yes. Here you are.’

  The younger woman, more of a girl, passed her the badge and started enthusing at her:

  ‘Hi there, I’m Lou!’ She pointed at her own name badge. ‘You’re going to have an unbelievable time tonight! The bar is free! Go in and try one of our lucky shots, they’re ace! We love all our VIPs, just find me if you need anything! Welcome, go have fun!’

  As the girl spoke in her barrage of exclamations, all Etta could do was smile and nod. She had clocked that there was no StChristopher75 on the table – he had to be already in there. She walked through the double doors into the function room.

  There, in her face, was a room full of proper mad celebration: silver and pink balloons frosted with ‘10 Years of Cozee Winners!’, colossal foil garlands and miles of curl-n-twirl ribbons, posters of VIPs holding outsized cheques. In an alcove, a six-foot cake sculpted in pink and silver, gold coins cascading down its tiers. Brilliant. Diabetes-inducing doctrine: spin more, win more, eat your cake and ’ave it.

  She had arrived.

  Two-dozen people were milling about with drinks in their hands. More young people weaved between them dressed in Cozee polo shirts: carrying trays of branded shots, handing out free tickets for a prize draw, grinning wide enough to dazzle and disarm, using the swagger of their toned, tanned bodies and their upbeat voices to pump out the impression that everyone in the room was living it large. Etta felt exhausted just looking at them.

  Etta turned and saw, alone by the free bar, a man who had to be Chris. Same eyes, same chin, although he had let his hair grow longer. She eyed him as he waited to be served; she was taking a moment to gain the advantage, drinking him in. He was exuding a strong, well-lived appeal. His faded flower shirt had a clumsy
mend beneath the pocket, a touching, unexpected scar of frugality. Divorcee, she was now sure. A light kick in her guts: yes, she could get her head around chatting to him for the night. He lifted his shoulders for a moment, leaning into the bar as if stretching out a stiff lower back.

  She shifted her weight on her feet and hung back for a second more. It was clear that a clumsy approach might ruin her chances: this was a sensitive man, but nobody’s fool. There was something promising in the way he rubbed at his chin, put a finger to the lines at his eyes. Kindness, an open nature.

  She was going in.

  Etta walked up to Chris at the bar. He was texting now; her own phone could well ping in moments.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, looking for a name badge. He was badgeless.

  ‘Hello,’ he replied, ceasing his texting.

  ‘Hi, are you Chris? Sorry, StChristopher75! It’s Etta. I’m sorry, I thought I was early. I hope you haven’t been—’

  ‘Sorry? No, sorry, love.’ He had a strong northern accent. ‘It’s not Chris. I’m Rob.’

  ‘Rob?’

  ‘You might know me on Cozee as MightyMouse.’

  ‘MightyMouse!’ She reached for an olive to take the taste of disappointment out of her mouth. ‘Oh yes, I’ve seen you on there. Hi! DestinysChild.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘First time?’

  ‘Yes. Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but I’m actually looking for a friend. StChristopher75?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know, love. First-timer too. On a mission to buy a new car so been spinning a bit crazy-like, you know. They made me a VIP.’

  ‘Right. Congrats. Listen, I’m just going to grab a wine and, you know, circulate a bit, find my friend.’

  They stood side by side in silence as the barman served them drinks, after which Etta nabbed another olive and moved away from the bar.

  Which one was he, then? She had looked at his photo quite a few times, but she now realised that his face, pleasant as it was, had no startling or quirky features and she did not know whether it was a recent picture. With no idea of his height, or current weight, Etta realised that there were a number of men who could fit the Chris Wise bill. Was he the tall one coming from the direction of the Gents? No, too stacked: she had not particularly got giant from his photo. Was he the one in the linen suit, laughing with the toothy woman? Similar face, but no. Her fingers twitched to her name badge and she resolved to wander around, nursing her free drink, open-faced but cool. She would hunt him down. She felt giddy, both exhilarated and as if she could not get enough breath.