Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery (17 page)

A good publicist is essential if you're dealing with the media
.

There are times in your life when it really helps to have a mum who's in PR. I'd always wished she did something a bit more exciting or high-powered – Roo's mum, for example, is a marketing executive for Capital Radio and Roo gets loads of really cool freebies. And of course Shaz's mum is constantly rushing off in the middle of the night and delivering triplets who've got stuck.

My mum's job was so dull that I never had anything to boast about. But that day she was a total and utter star.

By the time she got changed, there were five reporters and three photographers standing on the pavement outside.

‘If I know that Donna, she'll have given an exclusive to the highest bidder,' she said, ‘which is good news for us, girls, because all the other papers will be out to trash her.'

She opened the door. ‘Come on in!' she said. ‘I bet you could do with a cup of tea.'

They all trooped up the front path and settled down in the living room while we ran around giving them tea and an entire packet of Jaffa Cakes.

And then Mum started. ‘Of course, Lia's only sixteen,' she said. ‘It's a lot to handle at that age. She's just a child, really. We're really proud of her, how she's handled it. She's only bought things for other people, you know, hardly anything for herself. She's taking it very seriously, going to go on a seminar soon which is about using your money responsibly. She asks me all the time about which good causes she should help.'

Lady Gaga would be
lucky
to get my mum as a publicist.

‘Lia's trying to balance out all this media attention with her schoolwork. She's working very hard for her GCSEs. She's a very responsible and conscientious girl.'

I thought guiltily of my neglected coursework. I really ought to motor on with my slightly overdue History project.

‘Any young girl might have lost her head momentarily if an older person was shouting at them, threatening them. Of course I don't approve of what she did, not for one moment. Lia will be writing to Mrs Hargreaves to apologise. And of course she should have asked Jack's parents' permission before buying him a motorbike. But you know how girls are . . . impetuous. A bit thoughtless. But she only wanted to make her friend happy and say thank you to him for buying her the ticket. She asked him what he wanted and he said a motorcycle. A really expensive, Italian motorcycle, wasn't it, Lia?'

The reporters munched their Jaffa Cakes, and scribbled in their notebooks.

‘It's not surprising, really, if people are upset to see one girl with so much,' said Mum. ‘But Lia's very responsible . . . very public-spirited. If it were up to her, she'd probably give it all away. We're spending time talking to her, making sure she ensures her own future is secure.'

She's laying it on too thick, I thought. But they seemed to like it.

‘Why did you throw the cake at Jack's mum, Lia?' asked one reporter, reaching for a third Jaffa Cake.

‘I really didn't mean to,' I said. ‘I was helping my
dad in the shop . . . she came towards me. It was kind of an accident. I was panicking because she was shouting at me.'

I sounded sorry, I thought, and young and scared, and all the things Mum was making me out to be. We were a good team.

‘Very upset, she was, according to her dad,' said Mum. ‘You know, people forget how young teenagers are – they look like adults, but they're only children, really. Lia's having to grow up very quickly, in the public eye. I'm not excusing what she did – it was stupid and wrong – but she's only just sixteen.'

‘Too young to play the lottery?' asked one reporter.

‘Possibly,' said Mum. ‘You have to be eighteen in the States, did you know that? And they don't give you the money all in one lump, but they pay it out over many years. Perhaps we could learn from that. Lia's going to be meeting with financial advisers soon, and that's the sort of arrangement I'd like her to put in place. It's a lot for a young girl to deal with.'

I just sat there and nodded and smiled.

Then Mum said, ‘Actually, Lia's been doing a lot of good deeds, very quietly, no fuss at all.'

Had I?

‘She's giving ten thousand pounds towards her school's sports hall.'

I was?

‘And one of my husband's employees – Rita, she's called, Rita Boatang. Rita's got a grandson who's autistic. Severely autistic. Lia's going to pay for him to go to America to swim with dolphins. Apparently it could make a lot of difference. Lia's so thoughtful, she said immediately, “How can I help little Alfie, Mum?” We've been looking into it. Lia had actually gone into the shop to break the news to Rita, but Donna – Mrs Hargreaves – interrupted her.'

I was flushed with shame. Why hadn't I thought about Alfie? I'd known about him forever.

‘That's brilliant,' said one of the reporters. ‘Can we organise a follow-up with Rita and the boy?'

‘Of course,' said Mum graciously.

‘How much will the trip cost?'

‘Around eight thousand pounds,' she said, smoothly.

‘Errr . . . I'm really happy to be able to help Rita's family,' I said, sticking on a huge smile and wondering how much more of my money Mum thought I needed to spend to blot out Donna's story. Oh God, Donna's story. What was she going to say?

Then one of the reporters got a call from his news desk, who told him Donna had sold her story exclusively to the
Sunday Mirror
.

‘Don't worry, though,' he said to Mum. ‘We'll make her out to be the villain of the piece. You've got a lovely girl here.'

And then we posed for some pictures – ‘Not too smiley,' Mum warned in a whisper – and they were gone.

I flung my arms round my mum. ‘Paula, you were brilliant. You're the best. Oh my God. That was amazing.'

She was smiling and laughing and she gave me a kiss – I dodged – and she said, ‘I appreciate the thanks, Lia, but if you call me Paula one more time, I will kill you. I mean it. If you really can't bring yourself to call me Mum, then you have my permission to call me Sarah. You've worn me down.'

‘Oh . . . that's all right, Mum.' Call her Sarah? Was she mad?

‘Now, you need to get on the phone to Jack. Make sure all's well with him. You don't want a big feud between you.'

But Jack wasn't answering his phone. Nor was Shaz. My stomach lurched.

‘Maybe I should go round there.'

‘Absolutely not,' said Mum. ‘I think you need to keep your head down for a bit. Let the dust settle. You're behind with your coursework, aren't you? I think you can stay nice and quietly at home for a few days, catch up with your work. You've got the Integrated Wealth weekend coming up – you need to catch up with things. Maybe we could go on a day spa.'

‘I can't go on a day spa if I'm pretending to be off sick.'

‘I'll have a word with your head teacher,' she said. ‘If you're giving ten thousand pounds to the sports hall, then I think he'll understand that you need a few days off.'

‘Mum, I feel so bad about Alfie. I should've remembered him. I could've given them that money right away.'

She paused. She looked at me. ‘I only just thought of him myself,' she said. ‘It's funny, isn't it, how when big exciting things are happening to you, you don't remember other people.'

I tried Jack's number again. I tried Shaz. No answer. No answer. I didn't even think about trying Raf's number. I couldn't stop looking at that
Facebook page, the bitchy comments, the jokes about me.

I felt terrible. I felt utterly miserable and defeated and angry and in total despair.

Sort of.

Because if you've got eight million pounds, then even in your darkest moments you're still able to think, oh God, I'll have to go and live in San Francisco to escape this nightmare.

And you know you could, and you could have a great apartment and loads of cool clothes and do what you want.

It takes the edge off your misery. You know those long snakey things they use to teach you to swim? Being rich is like having a permanent noodle in the swimming pool of life.

And that's good – really, it's good. It's just hard to get used to when you're used to wallowing in despair.

Chapter 18

Good advice is hard to find.

Donna's face was all over the front page of the
Sunday Mirror
, frothed up, like she was about to have an old-fashioned shave.

‘That's outrageous,' said my mum. ‘They've mocked it up with a can of squirtable cream. We ought to ring the Press Complaints Commission.'

‘Please don't,' I begged, quickly reading the
Mirror'
s exclusive, which was all over pages one and three. It wasn't as terrible as I'd feared. Sure, she talked about suing me for half the money – ‘My Jack's entitled to his share' – and accused me of trying to buy him off with a deathtrap motorbike – ‘It's going straight back to the garage and if Lia's got any decency she'll hand the cash over to Jack.' And of course they made a big deal out of the cake. But that was all.

‘It's not so bad,' said Mum, reading over my
shoulder. ‘Anyone with half a brain could tell that picture's been mocked up. She looks a complete fool. And I think she's toned it down a bit, because she's still hoping you might make Jack an offer.'

‘You mean she's not going to her lawyer?'

‘I hope not. Anyway, look at us. We've totally outclassed her.'

I looked at the
Mail on Sunday
. Me, looking sweet and sorry. Rita's beaming face – she'd rung last night, incoherent with joy and gratitude. Little Alfie. Alfie's tearful mum.

‘They've done a leader,' said Mum, turning to the opinion page. ‘They say maybe sixteen is too young to be allowed to play the lottery, but Lia has a generous heart even if she is a bit impetuous.'

I was examining my phone for the twentieth time that morning. No word from Jack. Nothing from Shaz. I had no friends left in the whole world. There was a knock at the door.

I ran into the kitchen. ‘Don't answer! I'm not talking to any more reporters.'

Natasha was at the window. ‘It's not a reporter. Oh my God, Lia, it's him! It's Raf! What does he want? Why's he come here?'

‘Let's find out, shall we?'

But Mum had got to the front door first. I could hear her interrogating Raf.

I attempted to push her gently to one side. She resisted.

‘Err . . . thanks, Mum, but Raf's here to see me. We'll let you know if you're needed,' I said, really politely.

She ignored me. ‘So, you're the lad who's going to be working in the bakery?' she asked him.

Raf stared at his trainers and said, ‘Yes, just mornings.'

‘And my husband tells me you're also working for your brother at night?'

‘Yes, that's right,'

I had another go. ‘Umm, Mum, I think Raf's here to see me, actually, aren't you Raf?'

Raf nodded gratefully.

‘Never mind that,' said Mum, ‘I'm concerned that you're taking on too much. A young boy like you, with two part-time jobs. When do you get your homework done?'

‘Umm . . . at the café . . . it's not really a job which involves much work.'

‘Hmm,' said Mum. ‘I'm not at all sure that Ben should have taken you on. “It's too much for one boy,” I said, when he told me about it. Two part-time jobs.
What do your parents have to say about it? When do you sleep?'

How could I stem the flood of inappropriate questions?

Raf shrugged. ‘It's fine, really, Mrs Latimer.'

‘So, that's OK,' I interrupted. ‘Come on, Raf, we're going to be late.'

‘What for?' said Mum, but I had already jumped into the fake Uggs – I badly needed to replace them with real ones – and grabbed my shiny new bag. I jostled past her.