Just My Luck

by Adele Parks

  Adele Parks was born in Teesside, North East England. Her first novel, Playing Away, was published in 2000, and since then she’s had twenty international bestsellers, translated into twenty-six languages. She’s been an ambassador for The Reading Agency and a judge for the Costa Book Awards, and is a keen supporter of The National Literacy Trust. She’s lived in Italy, Botswana and London and is now settled in Guildford, Surrey, with her husband, son and cat.

  Praise for the novels of Adele Parks

  Lies, Lies, Lies

  “Gripping, moving and elegantly written.”

  —Marian Keyes

  “Brilliant, moving and deeply satisfying, Parks is the queen of the domestic dark side.”

  —Veronica Henry

  “Compelling and suspenseful.”

  —Catherine Isaac

  “I devoured Lies, Lies, Lies... [S]o engaging, well written. It is one of those rare books that earns the title, unputdownable.”

  —Sally Hepworth

  “Engrossing and emotional, Lies, Lies, Lies had me gripped from the very first page to the final shocking finale. Adele Parks just gets better and better.”

  —Lisa Hall

  I Invited Her In

  “Packed with secrets, scandal and suspense, this is Adele Parks at her absolute best.”

  —Heat

  “Wow! What a read. Intense, clever and masterful.”

  —Lisa Jewell

  “A beautifully written tale of revenge and retribution, full of unexpected plot twists.”

  —Daily Mail

  “A gripping read from the brilliant Adele Parks.”

  —Hello!

  Also by Adele Parks and MIRA

  The Image of You

  I Invited Her In

  Lies, Lies, Lies

  Look for Adele Parks’s next novel, available soon from MIRA.

  Just My Luck

  Adele Parks

  For Jim and Conrad.

  I won the lottery.

  Contents

  The Buckinghamshire Gazette

  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

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Author’s Note

  THE BUCKINGHAMSHIRE GAZETTE

  November 9, 2015

  Elaine Winterdale, 37, a property manager, has been handed a suspended prison sentence for failing to maintain a faulty gas boiler that caused the death of two tenants from carbon monoxide poisoning.

  Reveka Albu, 29, was found dead with her son Benke, 2, by her husband, Mr. Toma Albu, 32, at a property they rented in Reading, on December 23, 2014.

  Following an investigation by the Health and Safety Executive, Ms. Winterdale was today sentenced at Reading Crown Court for breaches of gas safety laws after she failed to arrange gas safety checks to be carried out at the property over a three-year period, despite assuring her employer, the owner of the property, that she had done so.

  In June 2011, an employee of National Grid Gas visited the property to replace the gas meter. The boiler was labeled as “immediately dangerous” due to “fumes at open flue” and was disconnected. A report was left with Mrs. Albu and subsequently a letter was sent to Ms. Winterdale, which she failed to respond to or pass to the owner of the property.

  The boiler was not repaired. For three years the only heating in the home was from one borrowed electric heater.

  On October 22, 2014, Mr. Toma Albu was away from home overnight and returned to find the flat warm; his wife informed him that after repeated petitions Ms. Winterdale had finally arranged for the boiler to be reconnected.

  On the evening of December 23, 2014, Mr. Albu returned home after a double shift to find his wife and son dead. Tests showed Mrs. Albu’s blood contained 61 percent carbon monoxide. A level of 50 percent is enough to be fatal.

  Ms. Winterdale pleaded guilty to seven breaches of the Gas Safety Regulations and was given a sixteen-month prison sentence, suspended for two years. She was also given 200 hours community service, was fined £4,000 and was ordered to pay costs of £17,500.

  CHAPTER 1

  Lexi

  Saturday, April 20

  I can’t face going straight home to Jake. I’m not ready to deal with this. I need to try to process it first. But how? Where do I start? I have no idea. The blankness in my mind terrifies me.

  I always know what to do. I always have a solution, a way of tackling something, giving it a happy spin. I’m Lexi Greenwood, the woman everyone knows of as the fixer, the smiler—some might even slightly snidely call me a do-gooder. Lexi Greenwood, wife, mother, friend.

  You think you know someone. But you don’t know anyone, not really. You never can.

  I need a drink. I drive to our local. Sod it, I’ll leave the car at the pub and walk home, pick it up in the morning. I order a glass of red wine, a large one, and then I look for a seat tucked away in the corner where I can down my drink alone. It’s Easter weekend, and a rare hot one. The place is packed. As I thread my way through the heaving bar, a number of neighbors raise a glass, gesturing to me to join them; they ask after the kids and Jake. Everyone else in the pub seems celebratory, buoyant. I feel detached. Lost. That’s the thing about living in a small village—you recognize everyone. Sometimes that reassures me, sometimes it’s inconvenient. I politely and apologetically deflect their friendly overtures and continue in my search for a solitary spot. Saturday vibes are all around me, but I feel nothing other than stunned, stressed, isolated.

  You think you know someone.

  What does this mean for our group? Our frimily. Friends that are like family. What a joke. Blatantly, we’re not friends anymore. I’ve been trying to hide from the facts for some time, hoping there was a misunderstanding, an explanation; nothing can explain away this.

  I told Jake I’d only be a short while, and I should text him to say I’ll be longer. I reach for my phone and realize in my haste to leave the house I haven’t brought it with me. Jake will be wondering where I am. I don’t care. I down my wine. The acidity hits my throat, a shock and a relief at once. Then I go to the bar to order a second.

  The local pub is only a ten-minute walk away from our home, but by the time I at
tempt the walk back, the red wine has taken effect. Unfortunately, I am feeling the sort of drunk that nurtures paranoia and fury rather than a light head or heart. What can I do to right this wrong? I have to do something. I can’t carry on as normal, pretending I know nothing of it. Can I?

  As I approach home, I see Jake at the window, peering out. I barely recognize him. He looks taut, tense. On spotting me, he runs to fling open the front door.

  “Lexi, Lexi, quickly come in here,” he hiss-whispers, clearly agitated. “Where have you been? Why didn’t you take your phone? I’ve been calling you. I needed to get hold of you.”

  What now? My first thoughts turn to our son. “Is it Logan? Has he hurt himself?” I ask anxiously. As I’m already teetering on the edge, my head quickly goes to a dark place. Split skulls, broken bones. A dash to the hospital isn’t unheard-of. Thirteen-year-old Logan has daredevil tendencies and the sort of mentality that thinks shimmying down a drainpipe is a reasonable way to exit his bedroom in order to go outside and kick a football about. My fifteen-year-old daughter, Emily, rarely causes me a moment’s concern.

  “No, no, he’s fine. Both the kids are in their rooms. It’s... Look, come inside, I can’t tell you out here.” Jake is practically bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. I can’t read him. My head is too fuzzy with wine and full of rage and disgust. I resent Jake for causing more drama, although he has no idea what shit I’m dealing with. I’ve never seen him quite this way before. If I touched him, I might get an electric shock; he oozes a dangerous energy. I follow my husband into the house. He is hurrying, urging me to speed up. I slow down, deliberately obtuse. In the hallway he turns to me, takes a deep breath, runs his hands through his hair but won’t—can’t—meet my eyes. For a crazy moment I think he is about to confess to having an affair. “Okay, just tell me, did you buy a lottery ticket this week?” he asks.

  “Yes.” I have bought a lottery ticket every week for the last fifteen years. Despite all the bother last week, I have stuck to my habit.

  Jake takes in another deep breath, sucking all the oxygen from the hallway. “Okay, and did you—” He breaks off, finally drags his eyes to meet mine. I’m not sure what I see in his gaze, an almost painful longing, fear and panic. Yet at the same time there is hope there, too. “Did you pick the usual numbers?”

  “Yes.”

  His jaw is still set tight. “You have the ticket?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, it’s pinned on the noticeboard in the kitchen. Why? What’s going on?”

  “Fuck.” Jake lets out a breath that has the power of a storm. He falls back against the hall wall for a second, and then he rallies, grabs my hand and pulls me into the room that was designed to be a dining room but has ended up being a sort of study slash dumping ground. A place where the children sometimes do their homework, where I tackle paying the household bills, and where towering piles of ironing, punctured footballs and old trainers hide out. Jake sits down in front of the computer and starts to quickly open various tabs.

  “I wasn’t sure that we even had a ticket, but when you were late back and the film I was watching had finished, I couldn’t resist checking. I don’t know why. Habit, I suppose. And look.”

  “What?” I can’t quite work out what he’s on about. It might be the wine, or it might be because my head is still full of betrayal and deceit, but I can’t seem to climb into his moment. I turn to the screen. The lottery website. Brash and loud. A clash of bright colors and fonts.

  The numbers glare at me from the computer—1, 8, 20, 29, 49, 58. Numbers I am so familiar with, yet they seem peculiar and unbelievable.

  “I don’t understand. Is this a joke?”

  “No, Lexi. No! It’s for real. We’ve only gone and won the bloody lottery!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Lexi

  £17.8 million.

  £17.8 million.

  £17.8 million.

  No matter how often I say it, I can’t make sense of it. In fact, the opposite is true. The more I say it, the less real it seems. I can’t imagine what it means. Not really. Our numbers are on the screen. They are still there. I’ve checked a thousand times, just in case, but they are there. And the other numbers, too. The numbers saying how much our winning ticket is worth—17,870,896 pounds. So much money! I rush to the kitchen and grab the ticket off the noticeboard, suddenly terrified that a freak gust of wind has blown it away, or that one of the kids has knocked it off when they pinned up their letters from school. Although this makes no sense because in the entire history of our family life, neither of our two kids has ever pinned up a letter from school. I’m much more likely to find them crumpled up at the bottom of their backpacks. I stare at the tiny hole made by the tack; the ticket is slightly creased at the corner. How can this scrap of paper be worth seventeen-point-eight-million pounds? It’s unbelievable. It’s incomprehensible. What does this mean for us? I turn to Jake to see if he is making any more sense of this. Jake beams at me.

  It is the widest, most complete smile I have seen him wear for years. I’m reminded of our early days together. When we were nothing other than hope and happiness. It makes me splutter laughter through my nose.

  “Are you sure this is right?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve checked. I’ve watched the draw six times on YouTube. They’ve announced that there is a winner. Just one. Lexi, that’s us! We are rich. Rich beyond our wildest dreams.”

  I giggle again because the phrase is crazy. Rich beyond our wildest dreams is something people only say in pretty dreadful plays or movies. My body is tingling. I can feel every nerve end. It is almost painful. “Wow. I mean wow. What shall we do?” I ask.

  “Well, we need to call it in.”

  “How do we do that?” My fingers are cold, immobilized, but on the other hand I feel hot and no longer solid. I am melting. The two glasses of wine I downed now feel like six. Shock, I suppose.

  “I don’t know. It must be on the website or something.” Jake starts to dart around the screen, hitting buttons. I can’t believe it. Don’t dare to. It can’t be true. It’s too lucky. It’s too wonderful. I am quivering, Jake might be able to hear my teeth chattering. I notice his hands are shaking, too. “Here it is. The National Lottery winners’ line. We have to call them.” Jake pauses and stares at me, his eyes gleaming, bright but unfocused. He picks up the house phone and hits the buttons to dial the number on the screen. We almost never use the landline, but the occasion demands gravitas, and somehow the dusty, neglected phone on the desk feels more serious than a mobile. “I think we’ve won the lottery. The whole amount. The jackpot.” The person at the other end of the phone must ask Jake if he bought the ticket, because he looks confused and a bit irritated when he replies, “No. My wife actually bought it. Well, yes, she paid for it... Yes, yes, she’s here with me now.” He offers the handset to me. “They want to talk to you.”

  I somehow manage to stumble through the security questions that confirm where and when I bought the ticket. I suppose some people might find winning tickets or steal them. The lottery company has to be certain I bought ours fair and square.

  “Can you please write your name and address on the back of the ticket now, if you haven’t already done so,” advises the woman on the other end of the line. She sounds calm and measured, which I find comforting but bizarre. I wonder how many times this woman has spoken to winners, to people whose lives will never be the same again following this particular phone call. I wonder what it must be like to be her. I’m struggling to be me. I feel I’m having some sort of out-of-body experience. I can’t concentrate or reason when she says, “Well, congratulations, Mrs. Greenwood. You are indeed a winner!”

  “The whole lot?” I just can’t believe it.

  “Yes, Mrs. Greenwood. The whole lot—17,870,896 pounds sterling.” The number, massive as it is, rolls fluently of
f her tongue. I start to giggle. It’s impossible. Earlier on I thought this was the worst night of my life, but now the night has turned around completely. What am I talking about? My life has! “Now, Mrs. Greenwood, we have people here who’ll take you through the process, and for us to do that most effectively we’ll need to know, will you be taking publicity?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” I imagine the lottery company like it if you take publicity. A good-luck story in the papers must mean more tickets are bought, but my instinct is to keep this to ourselves.

  “You don’t have to decide now,” she replies smoothly. “One of our winners’ advisors will be in contact with you shortly. They’ll send an email or call you, and then they’ll fix up a meeting. Probably for Tuesday next week. Usually it’s sooner, but as it’s a bank holiday on Monday, Tuesday might be better for you?”

  “Yes, yes, whatever you think.” I don’t want to cause any inconvenience, make someone work on their bank holiday.

  “You can talk through the matter of publicity with them and they will tell you everything about what happens next.”

  Jake grabs the phone from me. “Will he bring the check?”

  Even at this distance I can hear the amusement in the woman’s voice. “No, there is a tiny bit more paperwork to be done first. Bank account details, et cetera.”

  “When will we get the money?” I scowl at Jake. He is being crass. I am not sure what the elegant response to winning nearly eighteen million pounds is, but I doubt it is demanding the money like a highway robber.

  “Our advisor will be in touch, but if everything runs smoothly, as I’m sure it will, you’ll most likely have the money in your account by Wednesday. Thursday at the latest.”

  “This Wednesday?” asks Jake, beaming.

  “Yes.”

  After the call finishes, we just stare at one another, amazed.

  Then through some silent communication, developed after nearly twenty years of marriage, we simultaneously pounce on one another and kiss each other in a way that we haven’t since the first week we dated. Urgent and jubilant, grateful and eager. Pushing away all other thoughts and just staying in the moment, we have fast, intense sex on the desk. For the past ten years—possibly longer—sex has been limited to the bedroom. The exciting, novel nature of this hungry and triumphant sex naturally means it is soon over. I pull up my joggers and laugh, a little self-consciously. “Now you really have hit the jackpot.”