Page 9 of Little Miss Fortune

Acknowledgement. That must be what this feeling is.

‘If I get home and get a rejection e-mail—I will hunt you down for your fake promises.’

‘Yeah? I would be careful with your threats. It’s very easy to outrun a fainter. I fish, so I know where to find worms.’

Embarrassment is nothing new to me. I’ve learnt to live with it, like people live with mysterious rashes that come and go as they please.

I cover my mouth to hide my laughter. ‘This interview will haunt me forever, won’t it?’

‘If you have ammo on me, it’s only fair I have something on you.’ He tilts his head playfully. ‘See you next week, Fuko.’

Huh, he pronounced my name right.

We wave goodbye. I go home with a bit more pep in my step and breathe a sigh of relief when a phone call comes through to offer me a fixed-term digital marketing intern position with the possibility of a permanent role if my performance is satisfactory.

CHAPTER 3

Fuko, are you blue soup?

‘Happy Birthday, Fuko!’

‘Happy Birthday, employed Fuko!’

Three glasses of Prosecco clink against each other. Leon, Sashka, and I down them with a whistle.

It might be sad to have only two friends at my birthday party celebrating my 24th, the second return of my Chinese zodiac animal, the solidifying of my mid-twenties, my pre-silver anniversary, but they are the best.

We met at a secondary girls-only Catholic school, with none of us ending up being even remotely religious. You would think that their luck was obvious, given that Leon was born in the wrong body and Sashka was a stunning daughter of a Ukrainian oligarch, but it was actually the opposite of what you’d expect.

Leon was born Clara, daughter of working-class parents. Clara’s dad is a plumber, who loves beer, Tottenham games, and drinking beer at Tottenham games. Clara’s mother is a hairdresser, who used to do intricate girly hairstyles to shame other mothers for not putting the same amount of effort into their girls. When Clara came out as Leon, he had a bag with saved pocket money and documents ready, thinking he’d be kicked out of the house. Instead, his dad had tears in his eyes, saying he had always wanted a son, and his mother went shopping the next day because ‘no son of hers will be seen in public in those horrible grey trackies’.

Not only are his parents supportive and display Save Trans Kids stickers on their work vans, Leon was extremely lucky in everything else in life. His A-level grades were DDE (minimal requirement to most UK unis is CCC), yet, somehow, he swindled his way into the quite prestigious Durham Law School through clearing, by claiming ‘law is his true calling’. He dropped out of law school because it wasn’t but had made so many connections that he was just given a job as a programme curator at the National Gallery, knowing only a few things about art from rare QI or University Challenge episodes. Later, the art dealers’ team that specialises in selling authentic Banksy then snatched him up.

Leon also buys premium bonds and has won over £5000.

Because of his big luck, he is the mule that brings and delivers weed on those rare occasions that Sashka and I partake.

When she was 9, she walked in on her father having sex with her mother’s nail lady. Big bad luck. Her mother divorced her dad, taking Sashka (or Alexandra in full), half their money, and an apartment in Kyiv.

At 12, she was competing at the nationals for rhythmic gymnastics, but because of poor installation of the flooring needed for tumbling, the panelling caved when she landed a jump with her ribbon, causing a tear in her knee. Very unfortunate.

The biggest signifier of her great misfortune occurred when she travelled home from university for just a week. On the day she was due to return to the UK, Russia attacked, cancelling all the flights. Which was horrific by itself, but when she returned from the airport with her mother, their apartment was gone—the only apartment in the building and the only building on the street to be hit in one of the air raids, which she is still not fully recovered from, but forces herself to live happily out of spite.

Her father, still devastated because his wife divorced him after only a small affair, bought an apartment for them in London in hopes of rekindling the old flame. They didn’t, because now he is on the run from six different governments. The apartment is in Sashka’s name and is a stunning piece of architecture in Chelsea, but it had black mould, fleas, and mice, so even good things were followed by a series of bad things. She was also passed over for promotion in her creative agency at least three times, and she is not brave enough to start her own.

Because of that, it’s best if she and I let Leon curate the blunt and light it up in his mouth. When the paper is burnt enough, it appears in my hands like a magic wand.

I am not a smoker of any plants, tobacco or otherwise, so the ash irritates my airways with a violent cough.

‘All right, fresher,’ Leon mocks.

‘This is so strong,’ I say, passing it to Sashka, feeling a sudden and complete shift in my cognitive abilities.

‘Leon, what the fuck is this? This hits immediately.’

‘Only the best for my girls. Wash it down, c’mon.’ He pours another glass of bubbly for each of us.

For a party of three, the alcohol stock feels excessive. The bottles usually live in the wine rack, but Leon, being an amazing host, likes to give his guests options, so the table looks more like a cry for help than a sophisticated gathering before a night of dancing.