Just My Luck(14)

‘It’s in an industrial laundry. It doesn’t pay brilliantly. It’s shift work.’

‘Could I take double shifts?’

I smile. ‘Well yes, if you want to, I guess.’

‘I want. I’ve never been afraid of my own sweat. What else have I to do, besides work?’

‘I hope you might find some level of community there. Many of the workers are Eastern Europeans.’

‘Good. Sounds good.’ Toma nods. ‘I had hoped you called me in because you tracked down the name of the landlord.’

I shake my head. ‘Sorry.’ My stomach turns, I don’t like lying to him.

‘It’s OK. I know you are trying. I know you are doing your best for me.’

I am. I want to reassure Toma that everything will change for him very soon, but I force myself to keep quiet. Sometimes staying silent is the right thing to do. ‘Let me dig out the application form. It’s a formality really. They are keen to get labour as soon as possible. You could be in work by the day after tomorrow.’

‘Or maybe sooner if I walk my application to them right now. Those at the top of the mountain didn’t fall there,’ Toma says, and then he flashes me a rare smile that beams into my core.





8


Lexi


The people from the lottery company said we could have the initial meeting anywhere we liked. We decided it was easiest and most discreet to have them come to our home to go through the paperwork. I can’t help but feel nervous. Once we accept the cheque our lives are changed forever. No going back. But then I ask myself who would want to go back when so much good can be done going forward? Going back is crazy talk.

I pick up a carrot cake from the supermarket on the high street. I also feel the need to purchase some speciality teas. I don’t want to look flash, but I do want to be welcoming. I buy Teapigs, a brand I consider a treat, but I’m regretting choosing liquorice and peppermint combined; it might be challenging, would it seem pretentious? What was I thinking? Still, I can always brew a regular cup of builder’s tea.

I arrive home to bigger challenges than exotic teabags. I am surprised to find Emily sunbathing in the front garden, and a startling yellow Ferrari parked on the road in front of our house, incongruous against the leylandii hedge that needs trimming and the recycling bins that need emptying. I don’t know much about cars, I have little interest in them beyond getting me from A to B, but even I recognise the black horse on the badge. I’m unsure which I should ask about first: the surprise presence of my daughter or the car. Jake takes the matter into his own hands and calls out, ‘I treated myself!’ He laughs, delighted. His hands on his hips, his legs wide, manly, triumphant, he doesn’t take his eyes off the car to glance my way but adds, ‘And I picked up Emily because she texted me to say she was feeling unwell.’

‘How did you buy this? We haven’t got the money in our account yet.’

He beams at me now, pleased with himself as though he’s just done something brilliant like got a promotion or won the fathers’ race on school sports day. ‘I just took the winning ticket into the garage and waved it about. It was amazing. You should have seen their faces.’ He’s giddy, not himself at all. ‘I’m not sure they believed me at first, but I told them we’ve been doing it for years and that we always use the same numbers. That we – you – buy the ticket from the same WHSmith on the high street every week, during your lunch hour. They loved the story. Lapped it up. Everyone loves a winner, right?’

Well, that solves the mystery as to how the knowledge that the winner is local was leaked onto the internet. My own husband blabbed to a sales rep who obviously couldn’t resist sharing the scoop. ‘You took the lottery ticket into the garage?’ I’m amazed at his audacity, at his stupidity. I drop my handbag to my feet and gawp at the car.

‘Yeah.’

‘What if you’d lost it?’

Jake clocks my expression, which is no doubt a mix between concern and irritation. ‘Oh, right, sorry. It was stupid of me. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m just so excited!’ He puts his arms around me, hugs me tightly. He murmurs into my ear. ‘Sorry. My bad, but don’t worry, I didn’t lose it.’ His breath is warm and his touch familiar, I can’t help but sink into it. Emily looks embarrassed at our PDA and so Jake breaks away and starts to enthusiastically recite facts and figures about the car that make no sense to me. ‘Isn’t she a beaut? This is the 488 GTB. It has a three-point-nine-litre engine, five hundred and thirty horsepower. The performance is outrageous, the chassis is sublime.’ He strokes the bonnet, practically caresses it. ‘This model is big deal for Ferrari. It represents a change of philosophy for the company’s mid-engined supercar.’ I stare at him. He could be speaking a foreign language for all I understand. Or care.

‘This car doesn’t actually belong to me,’ Jake adds. ‘It’s on loan.’

‘Oh, thank goodness.’ My relief is short-lived though.

‘Mine won’t be ready for a few weeks. Mine is red and I’m getting some customisation done. That takes a bit of time. I found it hard to make a call between leather or carbon fibre door cards. I wish you’d been there to help pick. She’s sensational, right?’

‘How much?’