Just My Luck(57)

I realise that many will think impulsively giving Toma, a relative stranger, three million pounds was an act of insanity.

Maybe it was.

I should have told Jake by now. I really should have. I know that. But I haven’t. The right moment hasn’t presented itself. I’m beginning to think the right moment doesn’t exist. Jake will be livid, that’s for certain. He’ll see it as a betrayal. Maybe even cruelty or spite. I wonder how long it will take him to notice. Whilst he is very keen on spending the money we won, he hasn’t yet shown any interest in investing it or monitoring what is in our prestige bank account. He spends, spends, spends, safe in the knowledge that we have enough, we have plenty.

Jake and I are not seeing eye-to-eye on much at the moment. Whilst I’m dealing with all the correspondence regarding charitable endeavours, he’s dealing with the party RSVPs. As he left the house today, he oh so casually said, ‘You know, the Heathcotes have said yes to coming to the party.’

‘Have they?’

‘Which is a good thing.’

‘Is it though?’

‘Lexi, they changed their statement. We got what we wanted.’

‘Their son beat up our daughter.’

‘Well, technically, he didn’t beat her – Megan and her cronies did.’

‘Jake! Can you even hear yourself? OK, technically, he stood by and watched as our daughter, his girlfriend, was beaten up.’

‘They’ve been buffeting one another around since they were toddlers. Fallouts, scraps and make ups are a way of life to them. Emily is fine with this. Kids will be kids,’ says Jake with a shrug.

‘You know this is nothing to do with kids being kids.’

‘I think it’s important we make a clear and public statement that all that nonsense about them claiming to be winners is water under the bridge.’

I glared at him. ‘We don’t need to make clear and public statements about anything. We’re not running the country. How do we know something won’t kick off again? What if they hurt Emily again?’

‘Tensions were high. Things have calmed down now.’

The one thing I know about parties is that nothing ever calms down at them.

I sigh, check the clock. I should put on some dinner. They’ll probably be home soon. I decide to prepare a lasagne. We’ve been eating out a lot recently, still too high to consider anything as mundane as cooking. Maybe we’re ready for some home-cooked food, and lasagne is a long-standing crowd-pleaser in our family. Good, solid, comfort food that I regularly serve up when the kids are feeling overwhelmed with schoolwork, or after an important sports match or when Jake has had a long day at the office. Often on Tuesdays. He always used to work late on Tuesdays.

None of the above apply but I find I have a need to eat lasagne anyway. Reading the letters has been emotionally exhausting. I heat some olive oil in a frying pan, the gas is up too high and it snaps and spits. I pour myself a glass of red wine and put on the radio as I like to listen to Classic FM when I’m cooking. I don’t listen to classical music at any other time, usually I prefer listening to Sara Cox on Radio 2, but somehow the fugue and rondeau lift browning onions from a mundane chore to something a little more special. I add the passata, stock and grated nutmeg. I leave the dish to simmer for half an hour and then put a WhatsApp message on our family chat asking what time I should expect them. I hold the phone for a few minutes until the blue ticks appear that tell me my message has been read by everyone. I wait a little longer, hoping for a response, none comes. I see that all three are online, then Logan isn’t. A message tells me Emily is typing. And then she is not. She goes offline without giving me an ETA. I wait for Jake to pick up the mantle. I send another message. Just an estimate will do.

No response.

Charming.

The kitchen suddenly seems moody and morose. The gloomy clouds have thickened and although it’s only seven o’clock, it’s much darker than it ought to be on a May evening. A dark shape slips along the low back fence: the neighbour’s cat. Another shadow slinks on the ground. A wily fox.

Flicking on the electric light, I swallow the lump of irritation that sticks in my throat and continue with the prep regardless. Maybe they are just heading home and didn’t think it was worth telling me as they’ll be here in ten minutes. I spoon the sauce into the warmed and greased ovenproof dish, then cover with some fresh lasagne sheets and then cheat a little by layering on ready-made white sauce. I get great pleasure in repeating this process three times, scattering torn mozzarella over the top and popping the entire dish into the oven to bake. There’s something lovely and reassuring about producing a big slab of food where, just a short time ago, there was nothing.

I become aware that not only is it dark in the kitchen but a chill is sweeping through the house. A door slams shut upstairs and makes me jump. The wind is getting up outside and I have all the bedroom windows open. In the garden the trees are shuddering, their leaves rustling as though they are whispering and chattering amongst themselves, passing on slippery secrets. The sky is charcoal. Raindrops splash onto the kitchen window, fat and determined, the type that suggest an oncoming deluge. I run around the house closing windows. Last year we had a heatwave and either because we’re an optimistic nation or a dumb one, I think we were all expecting the same again despite the fact that the heatwave before last was in 1976. We really ought only to be hopeful every forty-two years. Funny thing, I made this jokey observation to my next-door neighbour this morning, a woman in her eighties who I have always pegged as a sweet old dear. We have rubbed along side-by-side for over a decade, passing pleasantries, helping each other when needed. She is tolerant when the kids make a lot of noise in the garden, Jake puts her bins out.