Just My Luck(21)

‘Lexi, Jake. I’ve called you a lawyer, she’ll be here in twenty minutes,’ says Gillian.

‘Oh, I don’t think we need lawyers, do we?’ chips in Jennifer. ‘We’re all friends here, aren’t we?’

‘Are we?’ snaps Mum. ‘How was your trip to Fred’s sister’s last weekend?’ Jennifer holds Mum’s gaze but doesn’t answer her. Mum turns to Fred. ‘Your wife told me you were going away but that’s not true, is it? You didn’t go away.’ Fred looks confused, unsure how to answer.

‘Is that why you are lying about the syndicate?’ Carla asks. She doesn’t seem fazed by the fact her husband has just acted like a basic thug. I mean it was so outrageous, so disgusting! Why isn’t she more riled? She just continues interrogating Mum. ‘Your feelings are hurt because they didn’t invite you to dinner one particular night and so now you are trying to cut us out of the syndicate. Lie about us. Steal millions from us.’

‘No!’ say Mum hotly. ‘Well, yes.’

‘Yes, you are lying!’ Patrick throws a triumphant look Gillian’s way. ‘Well done for admitting it, Lexi, now let’s get this sorted out fairly.’

‘No, no, I am not lying. I’m just saying yes, my feelings are hurt. You left the syndicate. You are not our friends. I know you for what you are.’ Mum isn’t shouting, but she looks wrecked, I’m pretty sure she might cry any minute.

Gillian puts her hand on Mum’s arm. ‘OK, Lexi, Jake, I am advising you to stop talking until your lawyer gets here and we can get to the bottom of this.’

‘You think you can get away with this?’ demands Dad, ignoring Gillian to the max.

‘We’re just claiming what’s rightfully ours. We’re not trying to get away with anything,’ said Carla primly.

‘But you pulled out of the lottery. You said it was common,’ stutters Mum. I can hear the righteous indignation in her voice, but I wonder if other people will recognise it as that or just think she sounds a bit squawky.

‘That’s not how we remember it,’ says Patrick with a sneer. ‘I’m surprised at you, Lexi. Him—’ he points at my dad, ‘him I expect this sort of low thing but not you.’

‘Lexi bought the ticket,’ insists Dad.

‘There was an implied contract,’ argues Fred. He stares right at Dad. ‘I am owed a great deal.’ He is the colour of a tomato, most probably this is because he is lying; I don’t imagine that comes easily to Ridley’s dad but somehow the colour works in his favour. If you didn’t know him, you’d think he was pretty sincere. ‘You may have actually purchased the ticket, Lexi, but there was a kitty. We all chipped in, as usual.’

It’s unbelievable. I watch as my parents’ former friends all manage to pull their faces into complicated expressions that somehow communicate their regret and disappointment in Mum! They look totally innocent and credible. Honestly, they must have been rehearsing this! Mum looks like she wants to pull her hair out in fists, she probably wants to bang their heads against the wall – I know I do. The lying, thieving con artists!

Mum turns to Dad, collapses against his chest, she’s becoming increasingly unstable, hysterical. She bursts into frustrated tears and yells, ‘Just because you say a thing often enough doesn’t make it true.’

And I think of Ridley. His hand on the inside of my thigh. His chest rising and falling, as he took in fast, excited breaths, pushed them out again, as we moved together. ‘I know what I’m doing, we’re safe.’

I’ve never felt more alone. My mum is right. Just because you say a thing often enough does not make it true.





12


Lexi


Tuesday, 30th April

The room is full of suited and booted men and women. It’s a small space, airless. Too many expensive perfumes and aftershaves clash up against each other. It’s cloying. They all flash me efficient, practised smiles that are so brief they have gone before they’ve fully arrived. They hold out their hands for me to shake. No one has sweaty palms, or irritatingly weak grips, no one tries to assert their dominance by crushing my bones. It is all very sleek; these people know how to do things properly. That makes me feel more nervous, not less. I wish someone would make a mistake. I look for laddered tights, low flies; of course, there are none.

Our lawyer is Ms Walsh. She is a slight woman in her thirties. She looks as though a strong wind could blow her away but when Jake and I met with her on the day of the dreadful press announcement, I was struck by her fast mind and her no-nonsense approach. She remained calm and cool with us, I admired her for that. She’s someone who just wants to get on with the job in hand. Since we’ve become lottery winners, people mostly seem flustered around us; either sycophantic or resentful. It is refreshing to meet such neutrality.

There are two people from the lottery: Gillian and a man who I don’t know. ‘Mick Hutch. My boss,’ says Gillian, pointing her thumb at him whilst pulling her face into a fake grimace that suggests they like and respect one another.

A man in his fifties, who is a poster boy for pale and stale, introduces himself as, ‘Terrance Elliott, old family friend of Fred and Jennifer Heathcote.’ He is their lawyer. Yes, a family friend too. I met him last year, at their twentieth wedding anniversary party; we spoke for several minutes about ambulance chasers, but he obviously doesn’t remember me. The Heathcotes’ family friends are all accountants, solicitors, doctors.