Just My Luck(58)

‘I think all your summers have come at once, haven’t they? And your Christmases too, come to that. You can’t complain about the weather. You can’t complain about anything ever again,’ she said. Then she chuckled but it wasn’t a nice old lady chuckle, it was a fake laugh, spiked through with aggression.

‘I didn’t really mean a good summer would be nice for me specifically,’ I stuttered. ‘It would be nice for everyone.’ She glared at me over her glasses. The message was clear: I am no longer entitled to want anything, not even a sunny day.

The downpour is relentless now. I listen to the rain slap the garden patio, our roof, the windows. A drum roll, a constant growl. It’s drowning out my classical music so I turn that up to an uncomfortably high volume. I wonder how far they have got with putting up the marquee. This rain will be a problem if the top and sides aren’t on yet. Although, however much of a problem it is, I’m sure the party planner will have a solution. She’ll buy electric fans to dry the place out, heaters to warm it up. She’ll buy carpet for the fields. Money can’t solve everything, but it certainly helps when it comes to party planning. I send Jake another message.

How’s the progress with the tent? I’ve made a lasagne. Are you on your way home?

His response:

We are all in the pub. Sheltering from the rain. We’ll grab something to eat here.

A thought jabs my mind, I wonder who ‘we are all’ is referring to exactly. Him and the kids? The party planner? Other people? Who else? I didn’t used to be a jealous woman. I never watched Jake the way some women feel the need to watch their husbands. I never anticipated infidelity. Even when we were very young and both quite striking, when we had chances and choices, I trusted him. We felt solid. Recently I’ve felt we are on shifting sands.

I carefully take the piping hot lasagne out of the oven. The delicious smell of cheese and tomatoes floods the kitchen. I don’t want to cut into it just for me, it seems like a waste. Never mind, it will be better tomorrow anyway because it will have settled. I open myself a tin of baked beans and put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. I suppose I could go and see them at the pub but it’s too wet to walk, I’m not insured on the Ferrari and they have the Audi. Anyway, Jake didn’t suggest that I join them so I feel it might be strangely intrusive. They all (whoever they all are) have spent the day together party planning; it will be awkward if I muscle in now. Besides I still have the letters to plough through.

I decide the best way to try to keep track of the requests is to input the details into a spreadsheet. I can log whether funds are for research or relief, education and ongoing development or emergency aid, animals or people, elderly or the young, home or abroad. It still strikes me that it will be a near-impossible job to rank one worthy cause above another, but it feels like a start. It doesn’t take long for me to become absorbed. The next thing I know, I look up and see that it’s late. It’s pitch-black outside; as the lights are on in the kitchen, my image reflects back from the black windows as though I am staring into a mirror.

I am alone.

I mean obviously I am alone, the others are at the pub, but I am shocked by my reflection. I’m a small woman; however I’ve always thought of myself as strong, centred. The reflection that shines back at me exposes a woman who looks isolated, frail and intense. So much has gone on in the past few weeks, I think I’m managing everything, but am I? My hair needs a wash. I should have a blow-dry. I love a blow-dry and it’s not as though I can’t afford to treat myself. The truth is I’ve been avoiding going to my hairdresser’s, avoiding all the fuss that will inevitably ensue. All eyes on me, the same barrage of questions. ‘I bet you can’t believe your luck?’

‘No, no I can’t.’

‘What are you going to spend it on?’

‘We haven’t quite decided yet.’

‘A house? Car? Travel?’

‘Probably.’ I have encountered this script sixty, seventy, eighty times in the past few weeks. I know I disappoint people. They want me to be more effusive, more committed. They don’t understand my reticence. I am wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the same ones I wore yesterday. I should do my nails too. They are bitten and chipped. I do not look like a lottery winner. The party is in five days’ time. I’ll have to up my game for that. I can’t present myself like this – it’s not what people are expecting. Jake would be disappointed. Jake likes painted nails.

As I stare at my reflection, which I fear appears wizened, even vulnerable, rather than wild and winning. It strikes me that anyone outside might see me this way too. If they were looking.

I shiver at that thought, unsure as to where it came from.

The rain is still falling persistently. I hear the sound of the plastic recycling bins being scraped along the side path. The wind most likely blew them over and now that fox I saw earlier will be hungrily rooting through the smelly food bin. There will be a mess to clean up in the morning. I think the shed door must have blown open too because I hear that swing and bang, swing and bang.

Then something about the light in the hallway changes and catches my attention. Our front door is partially glass-plated and light from the garden lamp floods onto the hall carpet. A momentary dimming, a flickering, suggests someone has just walked up the path. I walk into the hallway but something stops me putting on the light in there. I see a shadow at the front door. At first I think it’s Jake and the kids home at last, but I didn’t hear the car and there’s none of their familiar chatter heralding their arrival. The shadow looms as whoever it is approaches the door. I wait for the knock, but it doesn’t come. I watch as the door handle moves. The door is locked but I’m turned to stone knowing that whoever it is on the other side just tried to come in without knocking.