Just My Luck

by Adele Parks

  Lexi parked up and got out of the car. She was not going to take this lying down. Not after fifteen years of friendship. She was going to confront Jennifer and ask her why she had lied. If it was because she was cozying up with the Pearsons and she and Jake were being left out in the cold, then she would rather know. She might even decide to put a bomb under that relationship and light the bloody fuse. She could.

  She decided to go straight around the back of the house into the garden. Catch them by surprise and not give them a moment to come up with some bullshit excuse as to why they weren’t driving to Birmingham to see Fred’s sister.

  She walked up the back path. The moment she dipped into shadow, she regretted leaving the house in such a hurry. She should have picked up a cardigan. The sun was losing its power, and in the shadows the solid chill was the victor. Earlier today the breeze had caressed, now it nipped. Suddenly she lost her confidence in the idea of intruding when she heard Fred yell something or other—she couldn’t quite make out what, but he sounded seriously het up. Jennifer hissed something back at him, her tone too low to catch. Ah, a domestic. That’s why Jennifer had pulled out of the evening’s arrangements. Nothing insidious, just a row. Lexi felt relieved. And then instantly she felt mean for being relieved. She didn’t like to think of her friends rowing. An insect buzzed past her ear and she instinctively ducked away from it, then froze, not wanting her movements to draw attention, although they were unlikely to notice her as they were deeply embroiled in their drama. It was not like Jennifer and Fred to fight. Carla and Patrick, yes, they were volatile, caustic. Jennifer and Fred had a much calmer, civilized relationship. Some might go as far as to say that their relationship was so civilized it was borderline dull. A partnership, an economically based partnership. Jennifer had a good life being married to Fred, but not a passionate one.

  “You are fucking him,” yelled Fred. “Just admit it!” He sounded drunk. His words were slurred but loud, insistent. What was he talking about? “You. Are. Fucking him. Just admit it.” This was embarrassing. What could Fred be thinking? Jennifer wasn’t having an affair. She’d have told Lexi. How had Fred come to believe something so out there?

  “Keep your voice down—the neighbors.” Lexi should just turn around, walk away from this private mess, but she crept farther up the path so she could see her friends, not just hear them. She was only human. She saw the couple face one another, like warring gladiators, every muscle tense. Ready to pounce or run. Lexi could see the tension pulse in the tendons of Jennifer’s neck.

  “I don’t care about the fucking neighbors,” snarled Fred.

  “Then Ridley.”

  “You should have thought of Ridley before you started fucking Jake fucking Greenwood.”

  No, no, no. No! Lexi’s bones turned fluid. Her body sloshed about underneath her. Jake, her Jake? No. That can’t be right. Fred had got this wrong. Jennifer was going to tell him so. This was ludicrous. The moment stretched out to an eternity. Jennifer did not say anything to correct her husband. She didn’t say anything at all. Lexi couldn’t tear her eyes off Fred’s face, which looked swollen with betrayal and despair. She didn’t know it, but her own was twisted with shock. The birds tweeted merrily, oblivious to the noxious words that were being thrown, each one a blade, hacking at their lives. A neighbor’s dog barked repeatedly, indicating they weren’t at home after all. Lucky Jennifer, she didn’t have to worry about her neighbors overhearing the domestic. Lucky bloody Jennifer.

  “I followed you, Jennifer. For fuck’s sake. I didn’t want to be right, but week after week the same bill from the same hotel.”

  “I told you, it’s the cost of spa treatments. That’s the cost of a massage and a manicure.”

  “Stop fucking lying, Jennifer. I checked. The hotel doesn’t have a spa. It’s the cost of a room. I’ve been paying for the room that my best friend fucks my wife in every Tuesday.” Lexi was sitting on the ground. She didn’t remember sitting down, but perhaps her body had known she might fall and had protected her. She dropped her head into her hands. She couldn’t look at them. This couple who were ripping her life apart with their accusations, their lies. She heard the sound of breaking glass. Maybe Fred had thrown or dropped his glass. She heard him sob. A grown man crying was always a hideously painful sound. Tuesdays? Jake always worked late on Tuesdays. An aphid landed on Lexi’s arm. She flicked it off and found herself momentarily concerned for Jennifer’s roses; might they get infected? Because that is how it had always been—they were concerned for one another, they looked out for one another. Then Lexi’s brain caught up with her instincts and she wished a blight on Jennifer’s roses, her home, her family, her whole rotten life.

  The adrenaline surge that Lexi had felt as she’d stormed up the back-garden path had vanished as quickly as it had arrived. She didn’t feel combative—she was broken. It felt like someone was hitting her repeatedly in the chest. Her knees were shaking as she forced herself to stand and then hurry back to the car, her breath jagged, catching in her throat. She sliced through a cloud of midges that hung in the air. No, no, no. Fred had this wrong. He had to have it wrong. Jake having an affair with Jennifer? She would know that about her husband. She would have found out. People who had affairs were always found out, weren’t they? The thought was ludicrous because as it formed in her head, she simultaneously realized that was exactly what had just happened. She had found out. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to scream. Pull out her hair. Lie on the road. She flung herself into the driver’s seat and fought the urge to bang her head against the steering wheel, over and over again, until she could gain some clarity. She did not. Instead, she slowly turned the key in the ignition and drove away.

  CHAPTER 29

  Emily

  Saturday, May 25

  I am wearing a pair of bed shorts that I got from Jack Wills when I was about twelve. Back then, Mum chose nearly all my clothes and she bought everything big and comfortable.

  Now they are tight, like a second skin, but I still like them even though they are frayed and faded. I wish Mum had not washed Ridley’s hoodie. He left it at my house just before we broke up because he had been kicking a ball around in the garden with Logan and then they used their hoodies for goalposts. He went home in his T-shirt and forgot all about the grubby hoodie. Mum popped it in the wash along with my clothes, but now I wish I had stopped her because I miss the smell of him. I wear it at night anyway. But it doesn’t smell of him now, it smells of me. Sweat from restless nights where sleep eludes. Although my smell is strangely unfamiliar to me. Am I imagining it or is there a strange new hormone?

  Oh hell.

  Oh, bloody hell.

  Bloody, bloody hell. How can this be happening?

  I can’t sleep at night or through the day. In a way I’m glad I can’t. If I did, I’d have to wake up and remember the reality all over again. My reality.

  The win—yippee! A baby—fuck me!

  I can’t have a baby. I’m a baby myself. I know this. Not just because Mum calls me her baby, but because I just am. But how do I stop having it? I mean, I know about abortions and stuff. I’m not a fucking idiot. But how do I go to a doctor and tell them that’s what I need?

  I am a fucking idiot.

  Will he be prosecuted? Technically underage sex isn’t just that anymore, is it? It’s pedo stuff. It’s a big deal. I don’t want Ridley to go to prison, but on the other hand if he was in prison, he couldn’t do the things he used to do with me to anyone else. But even so, no. I don’t want him to go to prison.

  Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I just want this to go away. I can’t think about it right now. I won’t. I just won’t.

  I get up, pull off my bedclothes and climb into my costume. I check how I look in the long mirror. In our old house I had to stand on my bed to get a look at my outfit because my mirror was only face height and not very big. Now I have an honest-to-God dressing room with two full-lengt
h mirrors facing each other, so there are an infinite number of me—stretching into the distance, getting smaller and smaller until I disappear. My outfit rocks. I spent ages on Amazon trying to source a Zendaya outfit. I wanted a really cool version, not some cheap polyester crap that meant I was in real danger of going up in flames if I stood too close to a hot light. In the end, Sara had an exact replica made for me. It’s so gorgeous! A silky tiny cami and velvet hot pants. It’s sweet and flattering in a girl-next-door way. Sara thought that I might regret going too subtle, so she also had an exact replica made of Zendaya’s purple performance outfit, too. It is so much more glam and sexy! It has a sheer neckline that is cut to the waist, gold boots, even a pink wig. I take off the sweet number and climb into the purple. I zip up the boots, stand tall. Place the wig carefully on my head. Check my reflection again. Transformed. It’s a relief to step out of me. Mum is going to hate it. It’s awesome! I smooth my hands over my stomach, still flat. I’m not sure when you start to show, but I’m glad it’s not tonight. Tonight, I have to be hot and cute and perfect. Which means a flat stomach.

  The late-afternoon sun floods into my new übercool bedroom. I only have to flick a switch and the electric blinds would close, but I don’t. I like the way the warmth and light falls into the room, onto my body, which is sticky and hot. I move my hands across my hips, my bottom, my waist, remembering the pleasure we once gifted each other that was beyond words. I’d never felt that way before Ridley. I didn’t know people could make each other feel like that. What if I never feel that way again? What if no one’s touch can ever bring me to life like that again? I knew everything about Ridley’s body before we started to have sex. Or so I thought. I had shared bubble baths and paddling pools with him as a toddler. That stopped as we got to school age, but still we were in and out of one another’s homes, tents, gardens, kitchens, lives. So I knew that there are tiny blue veins on his eyelids that you can only see when he’s sleeping, I knew he had a chicken pox scar on his jaw (right-hand side) and a birthmark on his thigh that looks like a melted chocolate button. I knew he had a line of hair that ran downward from his tummy button and a thatch of dark hair under each arm. I did not know what that body could do.

  And now I do, so I can never be the same. We can never be the same. Being friends isn’t enough. Suddenly I don’t like the heat or the sunshine or anything at all. I can’t face the party. My body feels heavy, leaden with memories and consequences. My dad keeps saying life is great, everything is wonderful now and always will be. I want it to be. I want to believe him. But Mum keeps asking if I’m okay, if everything is all right and I feel I might collapse under her scrutiny. I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I force my eyelids to stay wide-open, but a fat tear slips down the side of my face anyway. I brush it away impatiently. I have to go to the party. I have to talk to him. Him first.

  CHAPTER 30

  Lexi

  I tightly grasp the party planner’s laminated timetable in my hand, not unlike a toddler grasps a security blanket. The first version was printed on stiff creamy card, but as the weather forecast suggests there might be another downpour later tonight, the planner had the plans laminated so that I could refer to them no matter what the weather. She’s very plan-y, I’ll say that for her. She considers every eventuality. I can’t help but think if she was running the country, we’d probably clear the national debt in the next decade. She’s not though, is she? She’s arranging parties for people with more money than sense. And I firmly count us in that bracket when I spot staff handing out glittering monogrammed glow sticks studded with Swarovski crystals.

  The party is, by anyone’s estimation, tremendous. As I’ve had little to do with the planning, I am surprised and impressed by the props and design. It’s not just a party, it’s an amalgamation of a funfair, a circus and a movie set. People have understood it was going to be spectacular and have made a big effort with their costumes. There are a lot of girls and women in basques and fishnets, wearing top hats. There are men dressed as bearded ladies, lions and ringmasters, depending on their self-view—funny, cuddly or Alpha respectively. There are a lot of people in random spangly things and endless clowns. This is not the place to come if you suffer from coulrophobia.

  I glance at the plan every few moments, but no matter how often I read it the details won’t stay in my head. The party planner has listed out where and when each event is going to take place throughout the evening. Obviously, like at most parties, there will be eating, drinking and dancing, but there are also magic acts, performers and photo opportunities that I have to be aware of. I have never encountered a precision-timed party before, and I’m finding it overwhelming. At the children’s parties we’ve thrown in the past, the only clock-watching we did was because we were counting down the minutes until the bedlam ended. We have hosted Christmas parties before. We’d invite all our friends and neighbours to bring a bottle/drink a bottle at our place. If I was feeling very efficient, I sometimes stuck a few mince pies in the oven. I’d expect thirty-odd guests to those parties; tonight, we are expecting just over three hundred. I had no idea we knew so many people. Having read over the RSVPs, I’m still not convinced we do. Jake made good on his promise to invite everyone and anyone we knew or have ever known, however vaguely, and we’ve had an extremely high acceptance rate. Only a handful of people have said no and that was because they’re out of the country. I’m surprised, but Jake was right—even the kids from the new school have said yes.

  “You can’t overestimate just how thrilling our win is to other people,” commented Jake smugly this morning. We were lying in bed, perusing the guest list. His attitude to the response was unadulterated joy. Mine was barely disguised panic.

  “I’m nervous about the large number of unknown faces that will be arriving tonight,” I admitted.

  “We have a lot of security. I think they’ll spot the difference between a fifteen-year-old rich kid we haven’t met but has come to party because they’ve been invited and a fifty-year-old pierced thug who has come to rob us. Not exactly tricky.”

  I’ve never before heard Jake stereotype using a piercing as shorthand for trouble. That’s the kind of thing Patrick does.

  We all arrived at the party together at six o’clock. The early start was Jake’s idea. He wants the night to last forever, but that’s not possible—even money can’t change the space-time continuum. The children disappeared the instant we stepped out of the car. They melted into the crowds, keen to hunt out their friends, old or new, I’m not sure. Jake wasn’t at my side for much longer—there were too many outstretched hands that he had to shake, numerous pats on the back to be received. Inevitably, we became separated as people demanded our attention. Everyone appears to be giddy with excitement and overawed. We are repeatedly congratulated on our win, and the party, the cocktails and our costumes are all admired. I’m wearing a Pierrot, sad clown costume—loose white blouse with large pom-pom buttons and wide white pantaloons, a frilled black collar and skullcap. I’ve completed the look by painting my face white, I have black lips and I’ve drawn a fat tear on my cheek. Jake disapproves of my costume. He doesn’t like that I’m dressed as a man. He wanted me to wear a figure-hugging, sparkling something or other. He derisively refers to my outfit as my “monotone mime costume.” But Jake is missing the point. The Pierrot has been a stock character in circus and pantomime for centuries; he creates pity in audiences as he pines for the love of Columbine, who usually breaks his heart and leaves him for Harlequin, the colorful one. The defining characteristic of Pierrot is his naivete. He is seen as a fool, often the butt of pranks, yet nonetheless he is loved. His redeeming feature is that he’s trusting.

  I thought about my costume long and hard.

  The baggy getup and the white face offer me some much-needed anonymity. Once I’m not by Jake’s side, who is dressed as a ringmaster—no make that the ringmaster)—I am not easily recognized. I am able to drift through the gentle din
of polite early-party chatter and clinking glasses. I breathe in the heady perfume of the sun-scorched meadow and delicious food aromas without anyone really bothering me.

  There is no denying it—the entire party looks amazing. I have never attended anything so stupendous in my life, and I don’t suppose many, if any, of the guests have, either. Every detail has been stage-managed to create an awe-inspiring, magical spectacle. The waiters, dressed as acrobats, are all incredibly fit and attractive. Bulging biceps and taut abs are everywhere I turn. They are carrying trays of brightly colored cocktails, poking out of which are slices of toffee apple or candy floss and red-and-white straws. There are dozens of primary-colored light bulbs hung in festoons crisscrossing between the trees. It’s still too early for them to be anything more than eye-catching, but they are most definitely that. There are ice sculptures of roaring lions and seals balancing balls on their noses dotted about, and enormous beanbags surround firepits and chocolate fountains that have encouraged pockets of teens to cluster. The teenagers are even enjoying themselves. I see this because they are not sat in a line, heads bent devoutly over their phones. They are talking to each other, laughing, shoving and then hugging one another. There are a lot of similar-looking girls in tiny, glittering outfits with dyed blond hair and dark roots that extend to about the ear. I understand this is deliberate and fashionable because when I once commented that it looked careless, unkempt, Emily rolled her eyes. “That’s the point, Mum.”

  Their young faces are still taut and keen. Later this evening I imagine they will be flushed with drink, maybe drugs, maybe sex, but right now they ooze innocence and hope.

  I scan each teen group for Emily, Megan or Ridley. Habit. I’ve done this since they were babies. Checked their whereabouts, their comfort levels. Swooped in if one of them needed taking to the loo, feeding, or if there was a dispute to be managed.