Just My Luck

by Adele Parks

  At least that’s what she thought at the beginning. A sexy, charming, handsome treat. She’d always admired him. For years. She realized it wasn’t quite the right thing fancying your friend’s husband, but despite appearances she’d never been particularly hung up on doing the right thing. She thought it was overrated. Anyway, she might have left it alone if he hadn’t made it clear that he wanted her, too. He had instigated the affair. Hadn’t he? Or was it just one of those things? Inevitable? She didn’t believe in fate or anything dreamy like that. She was not a romantic and fate was the excuse for those too idle to cut their own paths. She thought that there were identifiable patterns in life that led to predictable outcomes. She thought his wife was a tad sanctimonious. He was competitive with most men, anyone who earned more than him, which her husband certainly did. He had a chip on his shoulder about that. Throw in a basic attraction. Ta-da! On some levels it went back a lot further than two years, a lot further back than the sex. There had always been a little flirtatious spark, just waiting to be lit. Often, he would agree with her opinion even if it meant disagreeing with his wife. He’d listen attentively to what she had to say, whereas her own husband sometimes cut her off midsentence or, worse, actually fell asleep. It was so nullifying. When the three families went on holiday together, and she was wearing a bikini, his eyes would roam her body. Explore. Challenge. If she ever asked for help putting sun oil on her back, he’d jump to lend a hand. On New Year’s Eve, what should have been a friendly peck on the cheek had always been a firmer kiss on the lips. Just brief enough to pass as pally, just long enough to suggest something more. He started to squeeze her tighter when saying hello or goodbye.

  Something shifted from friendly to fuck me.

  It finally happened at the end of one of their infamous Saturday night suppers. She’d hosted, which meant she’d been up and down from her seat all evening, seeing to other people’s needs. She’d hardly had time to take a bite. The drink had gone straight to her head. Evidently, it hit a different part of his anatomy. Hard. People were talking about leaving so she went to get their jackets. He was in the downstairs loo, just next to the coat cupboard. He emerged as she was rooting around. Had he been waiting for her? He didn’t mess about, didn’t ask with his eyes or his voice, he just put his hands on either side of her face and started kissing her. Not tentatively. Not apologetically. With real intent. She wasn’t a child or a prick tease. If she kissed a man, it was because she wanted him. Completely. There was no going back. They slipped into the downstairs loo and he took her from behind whilst their spouses were finishing their coffees.

  A sexy, charming, handsome treat.

  He was the one who first started talking about love, asking for more. Talking risks. Talking chances. At first he limited his declarations to specific parts of her body. He told her he loved her breasts, her arse, her eyes. Then he said he loved her laugh. He loved her cruelty. Finally, he said he loved her. That he was in love with her. No room for ambiguity. She had believed him. She had always been the sort of woman that men wanted to declare love to. And because she believed him, she allowed herself to think that maybe she loved him, too. Or at least if she didn’t love him, he didn’t annoy her quite as much as her husband did. But then last week, he didn’t show up. Last week of all the weeks, after her husband had found out about the affair and told her to pack her bags. He didn’t show up when she needed him most because he’d won the fucking lottery.

  Now she loathed him. He’d deserted her. She wanted to hurt him. Very much so.

  But she loved him. Could she get him back? She’d never hurt him.

  She didn’t know if she was coming or going. She might still be able to keep him onside so she had made an effort. She was wearing a figure-hugging dress. She’d had a wax and was wearing lacy, claret-colored underwear, just in case. Because there was a chance, wasn’t there? That he’d offer an explanation of some sort, that he’d still want her. Or at least take her. There was a lot of money at play. A lot. Nothing was clear-cut. And although it should have been a straightforward case of four voices against two, the two had stolen the march and so she had decided to make a two-way bet, cover off all bases. She had put on quite the performance today for those lawyers, but she wasn’t sure the people at the lottery were convinced by the claim she and Fred and the Pearsons were making. She had to use all her intelligence and charms to ensure everything turned out as she hoped. By saying she was in the loo, she was sending a message to Jake. When she received his text, she knew he’d got it. Loud and clear. She had never considered leaving her husband for Jake. When her husband discovered their affair and screamed at her to “just fucking leave, get out of my sight. Go to him,” she’d had no intention of doing so. She’d planned to stick around, see if things calmed down. She wasn’t the sort of woman who could live with a poor man. And Jake had, up until very recently, been a poor man. She could play with a poor man nicely enough, but she needed to be married to a man who was comfortably off. She liked living in Great Chester and could never have managed in Little Chester the way Lexi did. She didn’t want to have to work and chip in on covering the bills. She enjoyed having manicures, pedicures, blow-dries.

  Of course, Jake was now a very wealthy man. Obscenely rich, in fact. She had a lot to play for.

  Last week, when he hadn’t turned up to their usual rendezvous—when there was no call, no message, nothing—she had sat in the hotel bedroom and worried about him. The thought made her rage now. She’d seriously considered that he had been in a car accident, imagined him unconscious, his face bleeding and smashed against his steering wheel. She’d wondered about calling hospitals.

  But then Ridley and Megan came home from school and told their parents about the lottery win.

  She’d still waited for him to call or message. Still believed he would. Each time the tiny icon to say a message had arrived flashed on her phone or laptop, her heart leaped. But the messages were never from him. The silence stretched and physically tormented her as though she was being pulled apart on a medieval rack. She needed to speak to him more than ever. It was clear that he was trying to hide the win from them all. Even her. He had said he loved her. But people say all sorts of things.

  The betrayal burned.

  It frightened her to think that he didn’t need her now. A man as rich as he was would have his pick of lovers because there was always someone willing to buy and sell. Many someones. That was the problem with being a mistress—it was a transient role. Everyone knew that. The wife had some power, was propped up by children, society, shared history. Even if a mistress ever became a wife, she knew she had just opened up a vacancy. A more devastating thought was that he wouldn’t want a lover at all now. With this newfound wealth, maybe he’d settle for his wife again. Maybe he’d find he could buy up enough excitement and pleasure without having to have illicit sex on Tuesday afternoons. Perhaps all she’d ever been was the equivalent of an exhilarating thrill ride at an amusement park. He could certainly buy bigger thrills than that now. He’d driven his Ferrari right past her house, for God’s sake.

  Despite promising herself that she’d be charming, she found the moment he pushed open the hotel bedroom door and she set eyes on him—in his new expensive-looking clothes, with his new smug-looking expression—that her anger surged. Impulsively, she reached for something to throw at him. The first thing that came to hand was a hardback book about mindfulness. She flung it at him; the irony wasn’t lost on her. He ducked and the book sailed above his head, hitting the door behind him. He looked amused.

  She let loose a cry of frustration and humiliation. He moved swiftly across the room toward where she was sitting on the end of the bed. She was not lying on it or in it, as usual, but she had not sat on the desk chair, either. He would know that by sitting on the bed she was showing that she was still open to negotiations. He knelt on the floor in front of her. Leaned toward her so that their lips were just a fraction away from t
ouching. She lurched forward and bit him. “Fuck, that hurt, you bitch,” he yelled, standing up and swiftly moving away from her.

  “It was supposed to, you bastard.”

  Jake looked at his mistress: exciting, expensive, explosive. Secretly, he liked a show of passion. It turned him on when she was uncooperative, difficult. He had fully expected her fury. He hadn’t treated her well since the win, but they were not nice to each other. That had never been part of the deal. Not what they wanted from one another at all. They were always saying so. Even when he’d told her he loved her, he’d almost resented her for it—for making him weak and needy.

  “You fucking bastard. Where were you last week?”

  He admired her for starting with that question, the least expected. The most personal. He had failed to show up for their rendezvous and she was upset. Or at least paying him the compliment of pretending to be so. What a joke, considering everything else that was going down. He loved it that she was ignoring the question of the lottery when really it had to be all she was thinking about. She was such a game player. So exciting! “Buying a Ferrari.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’d rather fuck you,” he said, and smiled. She glowered.

  He shrugged. She wasn’t ready for him yet, but she would be. She’d wanted him when he was a loser. How much more she must want him now he was a winner. She was probably wet for him right now. This was just a game.

  “I suppose everything has changed now your wife won eighteen million pounds,” she muttered sulkily.

  “Nothing has changed.” She looked wary, vulnerable. He’d never seen her like this before. “And my wife and I won eighteen million pounds—give or take.”

  “She bought the ticket.” He shrugged, careless of the technicality.

  Relationships were all about power, who has it, who wants it. The balance, the imbalance. All longing was in the gap in between. She had always had the power. And now he did. Or at least, he had the money, and that was more or less the same thing.

  “What’s going on, Jake?”

  “I’m going to divorce her. I’m going to get nine million. Not as much as that of course if I have to split it three ways predivorce.” He watched her carefully, amused at how she was trying not to react. Something about her mouth betrayed her, though; it flickered as she suppressed her smile of triumph. He knew she’d never felt happier, more victorious.

  “I see, and if we had a third per family and both divorced, we’d still only have six between us.” It was a big sentence with all sorts of promises and lies enfolded into it. They stared at one another, long and hard, wondering whether they could trust each other. Or not.

  “You’re always a step ahead. Clever girl. So you see how important it is that you drop this silly claim that we were all still in a syndicate.”

  “What will you do with the money?” she asked, looking at him from under her eyelashes. It was a cliché but Jake didn’t care. It was a sexy as hell cliché. They were both breathing heavily.

  “I will do anything I like. And I like you.”

  “You used to say you loved me.”

  “Don’t split hairs.”

  There was a beat and then they jumped at each other. Clamped their lips and hands down on one another with a complete and visceral passion. His hands slid over her body—her full breasts, her tight waist, her delicious arse. He felt the muscled firmness of her through her clingy dress, he felt the exciting mounds and curves, he felt her nipples stiffen. She’d wanted this all along. Her anger was an act. A risk. A gamble. Her boldness caused his cock to harden. She arched toward him, slunk into him. He broke away, but only to pick her up and throw her back on the bed. She fell flat, lips and legs slightly open. Inviting him. His fingers slipped up under her dress, hers laced into his hair and drew him toward her again. Their mouths banged heavily on one another, almost painful, totally delicious.

  With a swift, practiced confidence he undid his trousers, pushed her dress roughly up her thighs and pulled her knickers away. He was inside her in a second, her hot flesh accepting him completely. He put his hands on the tits he said he loved and went at it. Victorious.

  CHAPTER 17

  Emily

  Wednesday, May 1

  Bloody fecking hell, this is the worst. I can’t believe the Heathcotes and Pearsons are trying to screw us over like this.

  It’s all my fault.

  Because I blabbed to Rids and Megan, they all had time to rehearse their stories and come up with some crap that is halfway convincing. I hate Ridley and Megan now. I do. I do! Mum looks really grim. Dad is trying to keep the shit together. He says everything is going to be fine and that the investigation will undo the Heathcotes and Pearsons. I hope so! They need to be exposed as the cheating lying shits that they are. Dad says we can tell whoever we like about the lottery win at school now, that we should take ownership of the win. Even without press coverage, I reckon people will believe me because of Dad picking me up last week in a Ferrari but, for the avoidance of doubt, Dad went out and bought ten Michael Kors Gemma tricolor pebbled leather totes yesterday. TEN!

  “They are big enough to get A4 books in,” he points out helpfully, as though that was the thing that excites me about them.

  “Yeah, they are gorge!” The leather is soft and smells amazing.

  Expensive. Everyone in my year talks about Michael Kors all the time, but only Evie Clarke has one and I’m not even sure if it’s genuine. “But why did you get ten?” I ask.

  “You can give them to your friends. You want them to feel part of the celebration.”

  As if I have ten friends. I had two. Ridley and Megan, and we kept to ourselves at school. We arrived at Glenwood Grammar a readymade gang, so we didn’t bother with anyone else. Thinking about it now, I’m not sure how wise that was, but it wasn’t a conscious decision at the time. We were glued by our parents and none of us thought to spread ourselves about. We were just grateful that we weren’t the ones desperately dashing about begging people to sit next to us or scanning the playground hopefully for someone to talk to during break.

  Plus, you know, we liked each other. Loved each other.

  I could never have imagined a time when that would change, a time when I’d need someone else. Rids did make some other friends, through his rugby mostly, and also because he’s pretty musical and plays in the orchestra (which he pretends to think of as lame but actually loves) and a band (which is just all-out cool). But even when we are playing hockey, Megan and I have each other and don’t need anyone else. We always partner up for the exercises, we chose each other for teams, etc.

  At least we used to.

  I don’t suppose that will be happening anymore. Jesus, I better make friends quickly or I’ll end up passing the ball backward and forwards with Miss Granger, the PE teacher who needs to wear a better sports bra. Social death.

  Way back, there was a brief time when I did sometimes try to mix. It was when we were about thirteen and people started having parties. I thought it would be cool to be part of that, you know, have a bigger group to arrive with and dance with and stuff, but Megan didn’t like it if I spoke to other girls. She said we didn’t need their dumb-arse mixer socials, and then when Rids and I got together I really never again questioned wanting to spend a moment with anyone other than the two of them.

  Rids.

  Ridley. Is he even my Rids anymore? I don’t think so. I have sent him, like, a thousand messages and he hasn’t answered one of them. I know I should be acting cooler and I should be the one ignoring him, but I can’t! He, apparently, can ignore me, though, which suggests he’s not my Rids. In any way, shape or form. I have to get used to that, I suppose. Yet. When I think of him, I sort of swell and sweat inside. I know that sounds so gross but it’s actually awesome. Or at least it was. Now my physical reaction is more like feeling someone is holding me under freezing water. I’m pani
cked. Flaying. Drowning.

  I guess that’s Dad’s point. He knows Mum won’t let me be off school forever so he’s sending me to school with ten totes so I can find ten new friends. I am not above buying friends. Monarchs have bought armies in the past. History doesn’t have a problem with that. Whoever says money doesn’t buy happiness is simply not shopping in the right place.

  “How is she supposed to get those to school?” asks Mum. True, Dad could barely get them through the doorway. I can’t quite see myself waltzing into maths with them bundled under my arms. “It’s a crazy idea,” she adds with a tut.

  “What did you get my friends?” asks Logan.

  “Video games,” replies Dad. He holds up a game bag that is bulging with blue and green plastic boxes.

  “Cool!” It sometimes makes me feel sick with envy how easy Logan finds life, but I also love it about him.

  “I got a selection because I didn’t know which of your friends had what.”

  Mum takes the bag off Dad before Logan can even get his hands on it. She peers inside. “All of these are certified for over sixteen or over eighteen,” she grumbles.

  “That’s what they’re all playing,” points out Dad.

  “Maybe, but there is no way you can hand them out to his friends. Leave the goodies at home, kids.”

  “What, we can’t give them to our mates?” Logan, who actually has mates, does the thing he always does when he’s fed up—his body sort of slouches extra-strength, basically it collapses in on itself.

  “Maybe, at some point. Their birthdays or something, or after I’ve discussed it with their mothers. Now get a move on, you’ll miss the bus.”

  I pack one of the Michael Kors totes with my schoolbooks—I pick the pink/fawn combo—and then I hide two more in my sports bag.