Just My Luck Page 6

  “I’m upset, too.”

  “Yeah, but you are rich upset and that’s never as bad.” He flashed me a fast grin and then ran off to catch up with Megan. It was confusing because in that moment I sort of thought I had everything and nothing at the same time.

  Driving in Dad’s new car was fun, but I couldn’t get Ridley and Megan out of my head. “Can I leave school, Dad?”

  “Maybe. You could take a year out, get tutors as we travel. Or just take a year out and drop back a year when you return. You’re young in your school year and, anyway, there’s more to life than classrooms. Your mum and I need to flesh out a plan. You can certainly change school if don’t like the one you are at. We can send you to a private school if you want.”

  “Yeah, I think I do.”

  That’s when he said we should loop back and pass the Heathcotes’ and Pearsons’ houses just one more time. God, that engine is loud.

  CHAPTER 10

  Lexi

  I instantly like the lady from the lottery, Gillian. She looks just like someone who could work alongside me at Citizens Advice Bureau. Sensible, bordering on mumsy. She has dyed blond hair; her roots are a mix of a darker color and some premature gray streaks. She probably does her own color in the bathroom at home, like I do. This is somehow reassuring. Gillian wears secretary glasses and carries a large handbag that is functional rather than beautiful.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” I offer. I’ve laid out the cake, plates and mugs. I would have put out cups and saucers if we had any—we don’t. Emily says maybe we should buy some now. I also forgot to buy paper napkins.

  “Oh, yes please. Just straightforward builder’s with milk, no sugar,” says Gillian, in the tone of a woman gasping for a cuppa after a long car journey.

  “I thought champagne would be more appropriate.” Jake is holding the bottle aloft.

  Gillian flashes a fast look between the two of us; we are being weighed up. I do the same when sat opposite clients at the CAB. The advice I offer is always the same, but has to be delivered in a myriad of ways depending on what sort of person I am talking to.

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having. Champagne is always lovely, but I’m driving so only half a glass for me. I have a lot of information for you, so I guess it depends how good you are at keeping a clear head,” Gillian replies with a diplomatic chuckle.

  Jake is already twisting the wire that encases the cork. He bounces into the kitchen to pour. Gillian and I sit in silence until we hear the pop sound. Then Gillian smiles. “You have so much to celebrate.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  We toast. Jake downs his as though it’s going out of fashion, then immediately refills his glass. Gillian begins to pull documents and files from her large handbag and sets about pegging our dreamy unreality into something that approaches a practical proposal.

  “We need to set up meetings with accountants and financial advisors. As you can imagine, it wouldn’t do to pop this sort of money into a high street bank. You can get it to work harder for you if you talk to the wealth management arm of your bank.”

  “Wealth management arm?”

  “Looking at who you currently bank with, I’d suggest Coutts. Have you heard of them?”

  I think of the elegant branding on the side of a massive, seemingly impenetrable building I sometimes pass on the Strand, in London. Only ever pass—I’ve never dreamed of going in. Curly, rich-looking black lettering on a creamy background. Coutts is the royal family’s bank. “Will they accept us?” I ask.

  “Without a doubt,” Gillian says, and smiles.

  “Money talks,” chips in Emily.

  “Money shouts,” laughs Jake.

  I’m uncomfortable with Emily being privy to this conversation about finances. In the past, we’ve always avoided talking about money in front of the kids. Although that was because previously all our discussions were about whether we had enough and if not, how could we make more?

  “My notes say you are undecided about publicity, but we’ve been online and there’s already a leak that the winner is local to this area. Is it to do with...?” Gillian tactfully trails off, but swivels her eyes to the front garden where the car is parked.

  “Yes,” I confirm. “My husband lacks discretion.”

  “Ah, but I make up for it in enthusiasm.” Jake taps his fingers in a way that imitates someone hitting a cymbal. Emily laughs. Gillian smiles politely. I swear the man doesn’t take drugs, but he’s as high as a kite.

  “Well, I suggest you take publicity now. With the leak and a Ferrari parked on your road, it will only be a matter of time before the local press reveal who has won the seventeen-point-eight-million pounds. If that happens, you can’t easily control the narrative. If we take the lead, then we can help direct and manage the publicity so that it’s the least intrusive.”

  “Control the narrative?” I ask, bemused.

  “Well, there’s a lovely story to be told here,” says Gillian with a reassuring smile. “Family of four, big win, people will relate.” She means ordinary family. We’re quite ordinary. She’s just too polite to put it into words. She could, I wouldn’t mind. I am okay with being ordinary. I smile. If it’s a little stiff, Gillian doesn’t seem to notice. “We can introduce you to publicists and even image consultants if you want.” I have no idea what an image consultant is, but I nod anyway. I want a team...support. “In that case, if you are taking publicity, we need to set up a little ceremony to hand over the enormous check. That can be a lot of fun. How about this Friday? Does that work?”

  “Yes, I only work a half day on Fridays, I’m sure I can swing it,” I say. Again, Jake and Emily giggle between themselves. Clearly work and school are not considerations for their availability.

  “It can take place wherever you want, but I’d suggest not in your home. Maybe at a local country house, somewhere grand for the photos. We’ll invite the local press and radio stations. We’ll talk you through the sort of questions they are likely to ask. We can practise answers if you like. There’s nothing to worry about. It won’t be huge. This isn’t a national story.”

  “It’s not?” I’m relieved.

  “Not really. You’d need to have won sixty million upwards to make the national press.”

  “Imagine that,” says Jake in awe.

  “I took the liberty of scouting around the area this morning, in case you did want to go in this direction. This manor house hotel looks lovely. Just the ticket.” Gillian hands over her iPad. “I’ve already spoken to the events manager there. They can accommodate us, if you like it.” There are pictures of the stately home hotel, Camberwell Manor. I know of it; they host big weddings and corporate balls. I’ve never visited, but somewhere in the very back of my mind I’ve always thought it might be the perfect venue for Emily’s wedding in, say, fifteen years’ time.

  “Very nice.” I nod.

  “Yup, great. I always wanted to take the publicity. I think it will be fun,” comments Jake. “Only one thing. Will we have to wait until Friday to get the actual money? We were originally told it could be in our account by Wednesday.”

  I close my eyes, embarrassed by his greedy keenness.

  “The check is symbolic. You can’t actually cash it,” points out Gillian.

  “No, thought not.”

  “However, of course we can get the money in your account sooner if that’s what you want.”

  “It is,” replies Jake firmly.

  CHAPTER 11

  Emily

  Friday, April 26

  The lottery company arranges for a car to pick us up so that both Mum and Dad can have a glass of champagne at the press conference without anyone suggesting they will be driving home under the influence. Dad says he could have “just the one” and still drive and that he wants to drive there in the Ferrari. Mum says he can’t because even if he is technically u
nder the limit, it will make a very bad story if any of the journos notice. Dad says Gillian said we’re not as big a story as all that. He sounds disappointed by this. Mum says we don’t want to become a bigger story for the wrong reasons and anyway we can’t all fit in the Ferrari. Logan says if Dad is driving then he wants to go with Dad because the Ferrari is dead cool. Mum pushes us all into the lottery car, which is a stretch limo and not too shabby anyway. She says she doesn’t want to hear another word.

  Final!

  Camberwell Manor is pretty grand in an old-fashioned way. There’s a graveled, tree-lined driveway. Inside there are lots of ancient, scruffy rugs on the wooden floors and lots of paneled walls. Posh people like both things. It’s not how I’d decorate a country house if I had one. I’d go all modern, channel the surprise of the unexpected, but I can see its appeal. We are shown into a high-ceilinged room that has pictures of strangely proportioned horses and insipid country scenes hanging on the walls. There are about twenty chairs set up facing a lectern. We are offered drinks. I ask for a cappuccino, but someone brings both Logan and me Coke—full fat so I don’t touch mine. A few journalists start to arrive. They are polarized; they either strut hastily through the door, sweating because they seem to think they are late and want everyone to know they are busy and therefore in demand, important, or they saunter, clearly prepared to linger over the elevenses on offer and make the “job” last all morning. Dad says it depends entirely as to whether they are staffers or freelancers. A couple of them are struggling to carry lots of equipment—tripods and real cameras—as though the iPhone hadn’t been invented. None of them are sharp and sassy like I thought they’d be. I guess they are all slightly disappointed that the internet has been invented and Fleet Street is no more. I know that Fleet Street was an exciting journo hub in the ancient past from some novel I read by Evelyn Waugh for English, and also from Dad, who often talks about disappointing careers.

  The journos are all local and it’s obvious that they know each other. They happily chat among themselves, asking after one another’s kids and partners. It sort of starts to feel like a party. Not my kind of party but a parent party. They smile at us, and we shyly smile back, but Gillian, the woman from the lottery company who seems to be our sort of rich-person babysitter, has made it clear it’s best not to say too much to the press until we make the announcement, then there will be an open-floor question-and-answer session. Whilst the journos tuck into the cakes that Gillian has arranged, our family largely holds back. Only Logan bothers. He eats three éclairs and a doughnut in about five seconds. I think the rest of us are a bit nervous, even Dad. When the journos have taken up most of the seats, Gillian stands behind the lectern.

  I listen as she tells the world—okay, the dozen journos that work on local papers, mags and radio stations in just one of England’s counties—that we are lottery winners and, suddenly, hearing her say that makes everything seem really real and brilliant. This last week we’ve been on shopping sprees, Dad has bought his badass car, we’ve booked a holiday to New York, all of this stuff has been absolutely bloody awesome. But somehow, unreal. I think Mum in particular has been worried that someone was suddenly going to take it from us, and her worry has sort of hung around in the background for everyone else. She is a constant worrier. Gran calls her worry bones, Dad calls her worry head, basically her entire anatomy is devoted to worrying. I beam at her and she beams back. Suddenly and simultaneously, we believe it. We are okay. We are winners.

  At that exact moment, Carla and Patrick Pearson and Jennifer and Fred Heathcote bustle into the room. Carla’s voice rings out, loud, brash, confident and—to be honest—a bit annoying.

  “We’re close friends, we’ve come to congratulate. Let us in.”

  It’s a command, not a request. The guy we met when we arrived at the hotel, who was standing behind a desk that said Concierge, is obviously not heavyweight security. He politely steps aside and allows the Heathcotes and Pearsons access. All eyes are on them. Gillian waits patiently for the newcomers to find a seat. But they don’t sit. I glance about for Ridley and Megan. There’s no sign of them. Since our row on Tuesday I haven’t heard from either of them. Not a word! Unbelievable! I haven’t been into school this week. I can’t face it. There’s literally no point to school if I don’t have Ridley and Megan. Mum has gone nuts with me practically every day because she hasn’t really bought the excuse of my having a bad stomach, but Dad has backed me, so in the end she’s given in. Before the win, there was no way on earth she would let me go shopping on a sick day, but that happened. I wish Ridley was here. I look pretty hot in my new midcalf-length pink dress from Boss...probably supposed to be on the knee but since I’m vertically challenged it is a little longer on me.

  I glance at Mum and Dad. They are not smiling. They are both stone-still and bone white. I know Mum didn’t want the Heathcotes and Pearsons to know about the win yet; she’s going to go ape when she finds out I told. Dad cared less. I guess he accepts we have to face their reaction at some point. Will the parents be jealous, like Ridley and Megan? Or will they be more reasonable? They said they were here to congratulate. I hope so, then perhaps Megan, Rids and I can make up.

  Jennifer and Fred are Ridley’s parents. Ridley looks like his dad, but he has the same smile as his mum. She’s not smiling now, though—her jaw is set with a grim determination. The Heathcotes are dressed as they dress most of the time: smart. Not fashionable but somehow decidedly suitable. Classic. Jennifer has expensive-looking caramel highlights in her hair, and I think she’s probably just had a trim to sharpen things up. She always looks as though she’s just stepped out of a hair salon. Fred has a beard and it makes him look like some old royal duke or something. I can’t quite describe it, but they’ve nailed the look I’m pretty sure Mum and Dad were hoping to discover when we were trailing around New Bond Street, money burning a hole in their pockets. Mum has told me before that Jennifer and Fred are actually very posh in a way that none of our other friends are. They both went to boarding school and she had a pony when she was a kid. I think maybe Carla and Patrick are actually richer now, they certainly live in the biggest house, but despite this Jennifer and Fred are the ones everyone admires the most, I think. Because they are so proper and different. They are very nice. Polite, you know?

  I glance at my parents. They look cool, younger than either the Pearsons or Heathcotes, but they also look a bit too shiny. They are undoubtedly people wearing new clothes, which is never a good thing. Except maybe on holiday. My mum is basically pretty but doesn’t do anything about it and as neither Carla nor Jennifer work, they both have a lot of time to go to the gym and beauty salon. Maybe now we are millionaires, Mum can even things up a bit. I remember once joking with her that when me and Ridley get married, she’ll have to work really hard not to let the mother of the groom outshine the mother of the bride. All she said to that, though, was, “You’re too young to be talking about marriage.” Mum isn’t really very competitive.

  Is Ridley still even my boyfriend? The thought scuttling into my mind sends actual shots of pain through me, like someone is repeatedly flicking at my flesh. This has to be a blip. It has to be! Patrick, Megan’s dad, is wearing his usual weekday uniform, a suit and tie. I briefly wonder why he is not at work. Usually Patrick is permanently attached to his phone and talks about nothing except work. Not something my dad is guilty of. In fact, shouldn’t both Patrick and Fred be at their offices? It’s got to be a good sign that they’ve taken time off specially to come to this press announcement, hasn’t it? They must want to be supportive. Or at the very least, to suck up to us. I’m pretty sure that now they know we are lottery winners they’ll want to scam a free holiday when we rent some amazing chateau somewhere. Everything is going to be okay. Once they see how generous we’ll be. I’ll get my boyfriend and my best friend back. Things will be okay.

  Carla basically looks better than I’ve ever seen her look. She is wearing a green-and
-blue midcalf, slim-fitting but not vulgarly tight body-con dress. Green and blue shouldn’t work but it does. The season is all about the bold colors. A woman in Armani told me that when we were on our shopping spree. I have to admit it, Carla has upstaged Mum. Honestly? She always kind of does upstage everyone. Carla likes to be the best at everything. She has to be the slimmest, the chicest, the fastest if they go on a run. Her kids certainly have to be the cleverest. Look, that’s just my opinion. Mum likes Carla a lot, but I think she’s a bit full-on. You know, she’s one of those mothers that can tell you exactly what percentage Megan got in her midweek Physics test and who played defensive fullback in Megan’s last hockey match. Megan has two younger brothers, Scott who is twelve and Teddy who is nine. Carla watches them all like a hawk. She constantly complains how exhausting it is being a mother of three, but I wonder what would she do with herself if she wasn’t living through them?

  At least I can’t complain that my mum lives through me.

  Gillian politely asks the Heathcotes and Pearsons to take a seat two or three times over, but they still don’t. Instead, Patrick marches up to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he says, which is a bit over-the-top, but he can do that. He knows that a slow, posh voice makes people sit up and listen. “We are thrilled that the entire syndicate of winners are able to be here today after all, for this photo opportunity, rather than just the syndicate representatives, Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood.”