Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery (3 page)

All the other girls shivered and giggled whenever he spoke, hoping he'd reveal his hidden
powers. I tried to remain calm and confident when we had to discuss things in class. But we'd never moved beyond the strictly scientific. He didn't seem to talk. And so far he hadn't bitten anyone.

I didn't really believe the paranormal theories, but I dreamed of being the one who got close to him. I saw him as an outsider, a bit like me. I mean, I had Jack and Shazia and loads of other friends (four hundred and thirty-five on Facebook) but I always felt kind of lonely. I didn't know why.

Six months in, I was almost ready to give up. I'd tried everything – a different perfume every Science lesson, a request for help with homework, offering him gum. . . I'd had nothing back, except the odd semi-smile. But persistence is my middle name – not really, it's actually Jade – and I never, ever give up. I think that's one of the things that Paula found so wearing about me.

It was worth scanning the dingy café – not a café at all, really, just some dusty booths and screens, a machine for hot drinks and a fridge for cold ones. No Raf. But it still seemed like a good idea to check my numbers online, give up the lottery dream in private.

I could see two guys – one looking at Facebook,
the other playing online poker. I tapped Poker Guy on the shoulder. He turned, annoyed.

‘Who do I pay?' I demanded.

He grunted, eyes still on the screen. ‘Boy. Over there.'

And then I saw Raf, behind the counter at the back of the café, staring down at a book. Staring rather than reading, I'd say – his eyes had that blank, empty look. Lost, lonely eyes. Sad eyes. Eyes that only the right girl could make happy. That would be me, obviously.

I charged over, momentarily forgetting the ticket nestling in my B-cup.

‘Hey, Raf, hello,' I gushed. ‘Fancy seeing you here.' And then, when he looked up at me, grave and unresponsive, I added, ‘Errr. . . It's me, Lia. From school.'

My stupidity coaxed a tiny smile out of him. The cutest smile. His lips kind of crinkled, and his eyes warmed up.

‘I know who you are,' he said. ‘Do you want to use the internet? Two pounds an hour.'

‘Oh. Umm. Yes please.' I rooted around my bag for the cash. ‘Do you work here, then?'

‘Yes,' he said. There was a pause. ‘Evenings, mostly,' he added.

Sometimes it's hard to stop things coming out of your mouth before you think whether you should say them. This was one of those moments.

‘Really? Why?' I was looking at his clothes – plain, simple, jeans and a black T-shirt, but indefinably well-cut and, you just knew it, expensive.

I wouldn't have thought you'd need to, I thought, but I didn't say it. But it was as though he could read my mind. The warmth drained out of his eyes.

His face was still and somehow closed. All traces of the smile disappeared.

‘It's my job,' he said, cold as a corpse, handing me a token. ‘Over there.' And he pointed to a monitor as far away from him as the little café could provide, and turned his eyes back to his book, a big, dark, leatherbound volume, I noticed.

Huh. Moody or what? Oh well. I had other things to think about. Although, glancing back at him, I briefly reconsidered the paranormal theory. He looked so out of place behind the counter. Like he was in focus and everything else was blurred. As though he didn't belong in this grubby café . . . this city . . . this planet at all.

Anyway, I put the token in the slot and the computer sprang to life. I found the lottery site, the
wonderful people who might have a lot of money for me. I didn't know the amount at that point. I didn't know if I'd won a penny or a pound or enough to cure malaria in the whole of South-east Asia. Or nothing at all. That seemed the most likely option.

I extracted the ticket from its hiding place. The guy at the next screen, Mr Poker Face, gave me a strange look when he saw me groping my own chest, but I shot him a killer glare and he quickly turned back to his cards. I clicked on the link . . . the Double Rollover link. And there they were. Five numbers. My ticket shook in my hand. One winner, it said. One winner in the whole of the UK. Jackpot £8,005,342.

And the numbers.

Thirty-four.

Seventeen.

Twenty-three.

Forty-one.

Thirteen.

Eight.

Seven.

I was burning hot, and I felt kind of sick. The numbers blurred as I frantically checked and re-checked. . .

Thirty-four. Seventeen. Twenty-three. Forty-one.
Thirteen. Eight. Seven.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

The next thing I knew, I was clasped in Raf's arms.

Chapter 3

Think carefully about how you break your news to friends and family. Take some time to think out your own plans first.

I gasped. I blinked. And just for a minute the amazing feeling of Raf wrapped around me, his smell – coffee, soap – the softness of his shirt, the hardness of his chest, distracted me. We felt so good together . . . my curves, his angles. We . . . he. . . What the hell was going on?

‘Oh my God!' I shrieked, pushing him away. ‘What are you doing? My ticket! My ticket! Where is it!'

‘This ticket?' asked Mr Poker Million, waving a familiar piece of paper at me, clutched in his porky fingers. ‘Is it yours?'

‘Yes! Yes!' I screamed, grabbing it out of his hand and stuffing it back into my bra, realising too
late that several buttons had popped open and everyone in the room was staring at my chest.

Raf took a step backwards. ‘Are you all right now?' he asked.

Hallelujah! He sounded really caring and concerned. Why hadn't I thought of collapsing in Science months before?

‘You passed out . . . I think . . . your head was on the table. . . Obviously I wouldn't have . . . otherwise . . . Take some deep breaths. Where's that water?'

Facebook-checker had a plastic cup of warm
eau de tap
in his hand. Raf passed it to me, and I took a tiny sip. Then I thought about the numbers . . . the ticket . . . eight frigging million . . . and I swallowed the wrong way and water poured from my nose. I scrabbled for a tissue.

‘Are you OK?' asked Raf, while I coughed and spluttered. He still looked concerned. Caring. Gorgeous. Only slightly repelled.

I clutched at his hand. ‘Raf! Raf! I've won the lottery!'

‘The lottery?'

He
had
to come from another planet. ‘Yes . . . you know . . . the lottery. Double Rollover. Numbers. Money.'

‘You've won . . . how much have you won?' He couldn't have looked more serious.

I started laughing hysterically. ‘I've won . . . oh my God, Raf. . . I've won millions . . . like eight million . . . millions. . .' And I threw myself at him, spinning him round, giggling like a maniac. It took a minute to realise that he was trying to pull free. I stopped, hand to mouth, still laughing, but with tears in my eyes as well. ‘I'm sorry . . . it's so exciting. . . I'm just . . . I can't think straight. . .' I was squeaking like a piglet.

‘It is exciting,' he said, ‘I'm really happy for you.' God, his voice was flat. ‘You should ring your family,' he added. ‘They're going to be thrilled.'

I was crying properly now. The other guys were backing away, picking up their stuff.

‘I can't ring them,' I wailed. ‘My mum just chucked me out. She doesn't want to know me. She hates me, Raf.'

Raf looked horrified. I couldn't tell if he was appalled that I'd spilled my guts – Jack would've been – or at Paula's brutal behaviour (as well he might be). He turned to the men.

‘We're closing,' he said. ‘You've got to leave right now.'

Poker Face was halfway out of the door already,
but the other guy decided to argue.

‘It's a late night café,' he said. ‘I've still got forty minutes that I've paid for. You've got no right – I'll report you to the owner.'

Raf glared at him. For a moment his face looked – I don't know – frightening. Powerful. Like someone who could kill with a glance.

Then he shook his head, stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled fiver.

‘Sorry,' he said. ‘Look . . . compensation. It's an unforeseen emergency.'

And the guy pocketed the note, picked up his bag and walked out. Raf locked the door, and pulled down the blind.

I'd just about stopped crying, but I was still at the choking, hiccupping stage.

He handed me a clean tissue, and put his arm around me.

‘It'll be fine,' he said, his voice soft and soothing . . . almost hypnotic. I remembered that film where Robert Redford tames foaming wild fillies by snuffling in their ears.
The Horse Whisperer
, it's called, and it always makes my mum cry. I wished Raf would snuffle in my ears.

I blew my nose. ‘Sorry. You must think I'm mad.'

He reached out his hand, almost as though he didn't know what he was doing, and tucked a strand of my curly hair behind my ear. His hand brushed against my cheek.

‘No,' he said, ‘of course not. Not mad. You've had a shock. But Lia, this is something really special. Your life will never be the same again. Some row with your mum – that's nothing, it won't matter, I'm sure.'

His hand was still touching my hair. His other arm was soft on my shoulders. I held my breath. He was so close I could feel his breath on my skin. He leaned even closer . . . gazing with those silver-grey eyes . . . magical eyes. . . Oh. My. God. Was he going to kiss me?

Then someone hammered at the door, and Raf jumped away from me, like I was poison.

The door burst open. A man with his own key – a furious man shouting, ‘What the hell are you playing at? What's going on? Why is the door locked?'

He looked like Raf, this man – the same dark hair and grey eyes, but older and burlier, face covered with stubble, the same dark shadows under his eyes, same pale skin. A much older brother? A really young father? He was in his thirties, I reckoned. Head of the werewolf pack,
clearly, and furious enough to morph any minute.

I shivered. He'd noticed me.

‘Aha. Right. I see. You've got a
girlfriend
here. Well, no wonder you forgot that the opening hours are actually until 2 am.'

His voice was softly amused – mocking even. I hated him instantly. Raf looked away, his fists clenched tight. For a moment I thought he was going to explode into violence.

‘You don't know
everything
, Jasper,' he said. ‘Actually, you don't know
anything
about me.'

Their eyes locked for a furious ten seconds. Then Jasper said, slowly and deliberately, ‘I know what I'm worried about,' and Raf looked away.

Of course I was desperate to hear more. But it seemed a bit mean not to help Raf out.

‘It was my fault,' I said, ‘not Raf's. I fainted. He was going to walk me home. But it's OK, I can go by myself.'

‘No, no, no,' said Jasper, suddenly super-friendly. ‘It's fine. Forgive me. I overreacted. Raf – I'll see you at home later.'

‘Maybe,' said Raf.

‘Definitely,' said Jasper.

Raf sighed. ‘Yes,
OK
. . .' he said, his voice little
more than a hiss. And he shrugged on his jacket, unlocked the door and said, ‘Come on, Lia, let's go.'

We walked along the Broadway . . . past Latimer's Loaves, past the Hard as Nails manicure bar, past the Post Office. My mind was churning – Raf! The money! Raf! Eight million! OMG! OMG!

Raf suddenly seemed to remember that I was there. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘You must think I'm rude. Are you all right with going home? Maybe you should call your friend? Shazia? I've seen you with her.'

He'd been watching me. Raf'd been watching me. He knew who I was friends with. I didn't think that was stalker-ish behaviour – and who was I to complain if it was, considering how I'd trailed him virtually to his doorstep? I thought it was sweet.