Just My Luck

by Adele Parks

  * * *

  “Do we even need to interview Jake Greenwood?” Gillian asked her boss, Mick. “I mean I think it’s quite obvious what’s happening here. It’s open-and-shut. I believe the Greenwoods. These so-called friends of theirs are a bunch of sharks. There are more holes in their stories than there are in my kitchen colander.”

  Mick weighed up the situation. The money was already in the Greenwoods’ account. Some of it spent. The lottery company did not have a legal responsibility to do any more than pay out to the ticket holder, providing there was a reasonable proof that the ticket holder had bought the ticket. That was not in doubt. The lottery company was involving itself in an effort to de-escalate this situation. No one wanted a scandal.

  All the lawyers in the room shuffled their papers. Gillian was right: there were a number of inconsistencies and now a mid-interview statement change.

  “I agree we can all go home right now,” said Ms. Walsh. It was a hot day, her shirt was sticking to her back. She was imagining a long, cool shower.

  Terrance Elliott, the Heathcotes’ lawyer, looked pained. He clearly thought they probably should call it a day, his clients having been the least reliable throughout the inquiry. He was disappointed. He had become embroiled in this because he thought the Heathcotes were good sorts—the type that paid their taxes, never cheated on insurance. Jennifer baked cakes for the school fair, Fred loaned out his power tools to his neighbors. They followed these rudimentary human standards. He hadn’t wanted to see them cheated. However, it soon became apparent that their morality was vague and untested. When Jennifer claimed she was in the loo at the most significant point in the evening, he’d gathered it was because she didn’t want to tell a lie but nor did she want to sell her husband up the swanny, either. Mr. Elliott had rather admired her for that. Even if she wasn’t being scrupulously honest, she was being loyal. But then Fred changed his story, admitted he’d had a few and that they had left the syndicate after all. Rather embarrassing for all concerned. Terrance Elliott didn’t want to judge, but he also didn’t want to risk his own reputation. It was obvious that the Heathcotes and Pearsons had pulled out of the lottery. Damned bad luck, but there you had it.

  “I’d like to interview Mr. Greenwood,” insisted Piper-Dunn. “There still might be a case.” He was an experienced lawyer and knew that perhaps the Heathcotes’ unreliability could work in the Pearsons’ favor. Confusion could be a friend of the lawyer. Results could stand very proudly apart from either justice or truth. Clarity was the killer.

  Mick Hutch sighed. “I think you are most probably right, Gillian, but we ought to talk to Jake, if only to be seen to be fair and consistent. We’ve spoken to everyone else.”

  Gillian stood up and opened the door to the hot, stuffy room. Jake Greenwood was sitting on a bench outside. She beckoned him in.

  “Mr. Greenwood. Thank you for your patience, and thank you for agreeing to talk to us about the night in question.”

  Gillian was being playful using the hackneyed phrase “the night in question.” She thought Jake was a bit of a joker. Not a joke. He was too attractive for women to think of him as a joke but certainly someone who liked to have a bit of fun. She wanted to put him at ease in order to get the best from him. She wasn’t certain he would be his own strongest advocate. She had been able to depend on Lexi to present herself well, but Jake was less careful. She sensed he played things a little fast and loose; she wondered whether this was a new thing—since the lottery win—or was an established trait. People interested Gillian. Through her work she came across different sorts from all walks of life.

  Jake flung himself into a chair and leaned back in it, like a boy who didn’t want to be in a maths lesson. He listened to the introductions with a barely disguised sense of impatience. “You’ve already spoken to my wife, Lexi,” he stated.

  “Yes, we have.”

  “Then you know exactly what happened. I can’t imagine I can add anything more. We were both there. She’s good on details.”

  “Well, yes. But we have interviewed the other two couples separately.”

  “Because you are trying to catch them out?”

  “Because we are trying to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Same thing. They’ll trip themselves up. I bet their stories didn’t line up. Or if they did, that will just be because they have rehearsed.” Jake scoured the faces of the lawyers for clues as to what had been said, but they remained inscrutable.

  “Okay, well, as you can imagine, we’re not in a position to tell you what they said just yet,” Gillian replied. “Not until the inquiry is over, but we would appreciate it if you could give your own account of Saturday the thirteenth of April.”

  “They pulled out of the syndicate.”

  “As simple as that?”

  “Well, that’s the important bit, isn’t it? They are greedy monsters who are kicking themselves because they pulled out and then we went on to win. And win big. You want the facts?”

  “We do, indeed.”

  “Here are the facts. Yes, we have been in a syndicate for fifteen years. And yes, we chose the numbers as a group, way back when, and it’s true that we haven’t deviated from the numbers ever. But none of that matters. The only thing that matters is the fact that they pulled out the week before the win. They clearly expressed a distaste, no, a disgust, with the whole concept of the lottery, so they are not due a penny.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “They called it ‘common.’ Well, they were calling us ‘common,’ really. They said they didn’t want to be part of it. They were very specific.” The room was silent. Suddenly everyone felt the unexpected heat of the long day. Shirtsleeves were rolled up and the window was open, but there was no relieving breeze. Everyone sweated, like cheeses on a board. Limp and indolent, the lawyers fought the urge to loll, forced themselves to stay upright.

  “What is going to happen now?” asked Jake. “The money is already in our account.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Are you going to force us to hand some over to them?”

  “That’s not in our power.”

  “Then why are we even having this conversation?”

  “Because there might be private legal action. It’s our duty of care to report if we believe there is any misappropriation of cash.”

  “And do you?”

  Mick Hutch took the lead. “As far as I can see, there is no proof that you were in a syndicate at the time of the win. No written contract, no informal notes. It’s a case of their word against yours.”

  “So, we are done here?”

  “No, not quite,” said Mr. Piper-Dunn. “I think the Pearsons may very well pursue this matter. There’s likely to be a private investigation, independent of the lottery. I’m certain they will want to pursue all legal routes. We’ll be requesting a second interview with Mrs. Heathcote. If she stands by her statement, we’re still three voices against three. That’s still a case.”

  “Three?”

  “Mr. Heathcote has admitted he did pull out of the syndicate,” said Ms. Walsh.

  “He did!” Jake could hardly believe his ears.

  “But he also admitted to consuming copious amounts of alcohol. His testimony isn’t consistent or reliable,” added Piper-Dunn.

  “And Jennifer?”

  “Mrs. Heathcote was in the bathroom at the time of the altercation,” stated Mr. Elliott.

  “Jennifer was?”

  “As you were no doubt aware.”

  Jake looked confused. “Well, yes, of course, but I never imagined for a second she’d admit that.”

  “Well, she has. She says she didn’t pull out of the lottery and even if her husband did, she’d still have a claim. Three against three,” commented one of the Pearsons’ lawyers. “This is not over, Mr. Greenwood.”

  CHAPTER 15


  Lexi

  “We need to get at that woman.”

  “Which woman?” The limo driver is holding the door open for us. Jake sweeps past in—it has to be said—an imperious manner. I fling an apologetic smile at the man. He’s been waiting for us for three hours. As we couldn’t all fit in the Ferrari, and Jake wouldn’t travel to the inquiry by train or in our old Volvo, he booked us a car and driver for the day. An actual chauffeur with a limo, a bit like the one that collected us on the day of the press announcement. It seats ten people and there are chilled drinks in the bar. I guess it is usually hired to ferry indulged girls to their prom, or wild guys on a stag. It’s embarrassing. He wouldn’t tell me how much it cost when I asked. At least it was somewhere for the kids to sit and play on their screens whilst we answered questions. We brought them along because we thought they might have to contribute a statement to the inquiry. I’m pleased and relieved that, at least, didn’t happen. I shuffle in the leather seat, uncomfortable with the phrase “get at.” My husband sounds thuggish, ruthless. I just want everyone to calm down.

  “Jennifer,” he states.

  “Jennifer?” I’m surprised. I glance at the kids, who are sitting facing us; Jake’s gaze follows mine. Emily and Logan are wide-eyed, pale, and worry pours from them. They’ve been anxious since the press conference blew up. Naturally. One minute they are at school moaning about the lunches and homework, the next in New Bond Street hell-bent on a shopping spree to end all shopping sprees, and then they are witnessing their father on the wrong end of a punch. It’s a roller-coaster ride.

  Jake throws out a smile. “Hey, it’s going to be fine, right. There’s nothing to be concerned about.” Emily rolls her eyes, Logan shrugs. They both turn their heads and look out of opposite windows. Unconvinced. It was easier when they were babies.

  “Why do you need to get to Jennifer?” I ask quietly. “She’s on the fence. Her testimony was ambiguous.”

  “Ambiguous how?”

  “She said she was out of the room when it was discussed. I guess she could fall either way.”

  “But she wasn’t.”

  “No.”

  “Why would she say that, rather than stick to her story? Doesn’t that weaken their case?”

  We are whispering, aware of the children. “It does, which suggests to me that she’s open to some sort of deal.”

  I fight a surge of anger that is simmering and threatens to boil. “And Fred?”

  “That’s the strangest thing of all. Fred has admitted that they pulled out.”

  “He did!”

  “Yes, isn’t that odd?”

  “I can understand it. Did he say he heard Carla and Patrick pull out, too?”

  “Maybe. Yes, I think so. I don’t know. I need to talk to Jennifer.”

  “Do you, though?” I ask.

  Jake doesn’t acknowledge my comment as he pulls out his phone and sends a text. Presumably to Jennifer. I glower. We haven’t been in touch since the thirteenth of April. She was once one of my best friends. It’s unbelievably sad. Jake must see the grief skitter across my face. “Look, don’t worry about it. Leave it to me.” He stares purposefully at the kids, and I know he’s trying to remind me of what we are in danger of losing. He’s reminding me of my loyalties and duty.

  It is frustrating that neither of them has their earbuds in. Usually it is virtually impossible to get their attention, but I know that whilst they are pretending to be focused on the cars and tarmac whizzing by, they are no doubt acutely tuned in to what we are saying. Maybe this is why rich people have to drive around in such big cars—so they can whisper about deals, wins, pacts and treaties. “What a mess. It’s all so grubby,” I mutter.

  Jake plays with the cuff links on his shirt. They are new (Deakin & Francis). His suit is new, too (Tom Ford), as is his shirt (Brioni), and tie (Stefano Ricci). Even his socks and underwear are new (Calvin Klein). He looks crisp, sharp, expensive. “I’m a whole new man,” he said gleefully as he got dressed this morning. I had to root through the discarded receipts in order to establish how much this new man had cost. Unbelievably, over ten grand. I guess that is far from grubby. “Surely we should just leave this alone now. Let it all die down. The lottery company will believe us as Fred has backed up our story.”

  “That’s not going to happen. The Pearsons are still going to fight us. We need Jennifer onside. I have to talk to her. You can’t just hope for the best, Lexi. You also have to plan for the worst. There are millions at stake here.” Jake reaches across and squeezes my leg. The squeeze sends a thrill and a throb through my body. It’s weird, even after all these years, I’m still basically putty in his hands. Carla and Jennifer used to say I was really lucky that my husband could still make me feel that way. Sometimes I’m not sure. For a few moments neither of us can trust ourselves to speak. Eventually he says, “I’ll drop you and the kids off at home first and then go straight to Jennifer’s.”

  “Without me?”

  “Yes. This will be better if I handle it.”

  We drive home in silence. The thick soupy miserable sort that floods homes with grief and regret.

  When we get back to the house the kids go to their separate rooms. Close the doors behind them. I guess Logan will be playing Fortnite and Emily will probably be indulging in another round of online shopping. I sigh. I know I need to get them back to school and into a routine, but I’m getting no support from Jake on that, and obviously they are reluctant. I haven’t got the energy to fight them all.

  Whilst Jake is out, I text Fred and thank him for his statement. He texts straight back and we swap a few messages. I pick up a magazine and try to read it. I find my mind wandering and I read the same three lines of the same article about twenty times. I hunt about for my old copy of Mansfield Park by Jane Austen. I studied this text for A level and have reread it about ten times since. It’s reassuring, civilized, orderly. I’ve always liked the message Austen advocated: decency prevails. This novel is comfort food for the brain, and I need to get out of my own world. Odd, when I’m living the dream.

  When Jake finally returns, he’s carrying a number of cardboard bags, the fancy sort that are fastened with ribbons and have rope handles. The driver helps him unload the car. Clearly, he’s found time to indulge in another shopping fest. The kids dash down the stairs to see what goodies he’s bought. I can’t talk freely in front of them but am desperate to know what’s gone on. “Did you talk with Jennifer?” I whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “I offered them a million pounds each if she changed her testimony and confirmed our stories. Close down the Pearsons completely.”

  “You did what?”

  We’ve been together long enough for me to know that he always goes on the attack when he feels guilty or wronged. “It’s not what I wanted, Lexi. But I don’t think we have any choice.” Jake dumps the packages he was carrying on the floor and storms out of the room.

  Our house isn’t big, there aren’t a huge number of places available to go to sulk or rage. Jake slams a few doors as he stomps around the house, but his vehemence needs more space. It needs to be exercised out. He goes outside into the garden and to my utter surprise starts digging in the vegetable patch.

  I watch him. I hear the shovel hit the earth and then my husband’s grunt, the earth being thrown to the side. What is he doing? The vegetable patch needed turning over, but he is shovelling with such force it looks like he’s on his way to Australia. I know him, he’s very physical. When we were at uni, he played a lot of team sport every weekend and on Wednesday afternoons. But, besides that, if ever he was stressed by an assignment or upcoming exam, he would have to find another physical outlet. He’d go on a run, go to the gym, have energetic sex. I guess today he’d rather dig into the garden than me.

  I sigh and force myself to fill the kettle, open a cupboard, find a couple
of mugs. I root out the tea bags and milk.

  I take two steaming cups of tea out to the garden. “Fancy a cuppa?” It is the universal peace signal, everyone knows that. Jake slows down, then nods, throws his shovel onto the ground. We both sit down on the low wall. That’s when I notice that he hasn’t even changed out of his suit. His brand-new, cost-an-arm-and-a-leg suit. There is mud caked on his trousers, all the way up to his knee. I’m angry with him but picking my battles. We’re teetering, unstable. I’m not going to row about something that the dry cleaners can fix.

  “Is it going to be okay?” I ask.

  “Of course,” says Jake. His tone isn’t as confident as his words. “We’re winners, Lexi. You have to trust me.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Hearing the door open, she turned and glared at him. She wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to meet him at all. The text finally arrived. It simply said, Usual time. Usual place. It was insulting in its brevity. It was tardy and isolated. She wanted to ignore it. But it was too tempting. She needed to hear what he had to say, how he would justify himself. So yes, here she was, usual time, usual place. They had met at this hotel almost every Tuesday afternoon for over two years, exceptions being Christmas, spouses’ birthdays and last week. They had picked this particular hotel because it was convenient for him as it was not too far from one of his big clients; his boss thought he put a lot of hours into securing their ongoing profitability and loyalty. “Long, boring meetings,” he always claimed. She didn’t work at all. Tuesday afternoons were handy for her because she had her hair blow-dried on Monday, her nails done Tuesday mornings. On Wednesday she liked to swim at the club, Thursday was yoga classes. She often shopped on Fridays or met a girlfriend for lunch. He fitted in perfectly to her life on a Tuesday afternoon. Just another treat.