Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery (5 page)

Winning the lottery may have a strange effect on the people close to you
.

It's amazing how a few million pounds clears the air after a family row.

Mum rushed at me, like a jackal scenting a crippled antelope, and gave me a hug. I stiffened, corpse-like, as she enveloped me in clouds of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle.

‘One thing I'll say about you, Lia, my darling, is that you do things in style,' she burbled, giving me a big slurpy kiss on the cheek. I pulled away.

‘Urgh. Paula . . . keep your bodily fluids to yourself.'

Natasha was leaping up and down. ‘Oh my God!' she shrieked, right in my ear. ‘Oh my God! Lia, you are amazing! You're the best! Oh my God, Lia! Can we go shopping tomorrow? And singing lessons, Lia, can I have singing lessons?'

Huh. I might have known. Natasha had been desperate for stardom since she was ten. Mum and Dad had totally mishandled the situation by stringing her along, instead of telling her the truth – she croaked like a reptile. I'd done my best to straighten out her expectations – I thought it was only fair – but no one understood the subtle difference between being mean and my cruel-to-be-kind strategy, designed to shelter my little sis from humiliation and disappointment. As I often pointed out, she should have thanked me for my honesty.

I opened my mouth to tell them to forget it. This was my money. I was buying a flat, leaving home, starting out on my independent family-free twenty-three-year-old life, a blissful seven years early.

And then I shut it again. I don't think I'd ever seen everyone look so happy about something that I'd done. Sort of done. Normally they looked angry, upset and/or disappointed.

I thought of Raf's Angelic Message. I'd bide my time.

I gave Natasha a hug. ‘Yes, you can have singing lessons,' I said. ‘Best teacher you can find. And we'll go shopping. You can get those shoes . . . you know
. . . those silver ones. I'm going to make some phone calls.'

Upstairs in our tiny bedroom, I lay on my bed. I imagined my new penthouse flat. A huge double bed. A satin bedcover . . . dark purple, maybe, with pale lilac cushions. Or maybe silver? A TV screen . . . a computer room . . . a sound system. A walk-in wardrobe. My music as loud as I wanted. I'd get to pick what went on the television. Privacy. Control. Independence.

There didn't seem to be a downside. If I got lonely I'd just ask some friends round. I might even ask Raf . . . which led me on to thinking about his strong arms around me, his serious grey eyes, his strange formal manners, the way he leant towards me. Could he really be some sort of supernatural being? Surely not . . . and yet. . .

I pulled out my phone. Where were my friends right now? I had the biggest news of all time and there was no one here to celebrate. I could hear corks popping downstairs, Natasha shrieking, Mum laughing. I called Jack. No answer. Huh.

A gaggle of giggling neighbours had invaded the kitchen, drinking cava with Dad, while Mum was yelling down the phone to Nana Betty in Cardiff.
Mum's voice goes super-Welsh when she's talking to her mum or sisters, so she sounds like a camp Rugby centre-half.

‘No, Mam, Lia's won it . . . yes . . . Double Rollover. . . No . . . Lia.'

Nana Betty's a bit deaf.

‘No, Mam,' bellowed my mum. ‘We won't let her fritter it all away on drugs.'

Audrey from next door was laughing so much that she had to dash to the loo.

Mum handed the phone to me. ‘She wants to talk to you,' she said.

‘Hi Nana!'

‘Lia!' yelled Nana, all the way from Cardiff. ‘Congratulations, my darling! How do you feel?'

‘Oh, I don't know.' I really didn't. ‘Excited, I suppose. Shocked. I don't know what I'm going to do next!'

‘It'll be fine, you have fun,' she said. ‘Just keep away from drugs and naughty boys, Lia, and you'll be fine. Just muddle through, that's what I always say.'

Nana Betty has two mottoes, Just Muddle Through and Aim for the Top. My mum said once that if everyone followed Nana's advice, the world would probably end.

‘OK, Nana. Can I buy you a present?'

Nana shrieked with laughter. ‘Don't be silly, I'm an old lady. I've got everything I need. You spend it on yourself, darling, and Natasha. Money is wasted on the old. You need it when you're young, your life ahead of you.'

‘Oh, thanks, Nana.'

‘How's the boyfriend, Lia? Say hello to Jack for me.'

‘He's just my friend, Nana, you know that.'

‘He's made for you, my darling. Listen to your nana. A lovely young man like that doesn't come along every day.'

There was no point arguing with her. My nana's been gaga about Jack ever since he plunged into an early puberty and emerged at fourteen, six foot tall, muscled, blond, blue-eyed and with completely flawless skin.

‘If only I were sixty years younger,' Nana would sigh, loud enough for him to hear. She was possibly the world's oldest wannabe cougar. Jack loved it, and flirted outrageously with her. But then Jack's such a lad that he'd probably cop off with a seventy-year-old, given half a chance.

‘OK, Nana, love you,' I said, and handed the phone back to Mum. I took a gulp of cava. The bubbles
hit the back of my throat and made me sneeze.

My mum put the phone down. ‘She's very happy for you,' she told me, ‘and she hopes you won't spend it all before you've found yourself a good husband. Her words.'

And then some more neighbours arrived and Dad opened another bottle and we started googling how much things cost. . . Houses (Mum) . . . cars (Dad) . . . holidays (everyone) . . . clothes, shoes, jewellery, electrical equipment, singing lessons. . .

‘Eight million's not really enough in London,' said Dad, after we'd looked at a few ads for mansions backing onto Hampstead Heath. ‘Why couldn't you win twenty million? Or forty, just to be safe.'

‘Oh my God, Graham, how greedy are you?' I said. ‘Anyway, it's my money, actually, not yours. I'll be choosing the properties, thank you very much.'

Mum and Dad glanced at each other. ‘Same old Lia,' murmured Mum.

I shot her a filthy look. I might have won eight million pounds, but I hadn't forgotten that she'd thrown me out. At least I could buy my own leather jackets from now on . . . except that if they cut off my allowance that wouldn't really be
fair.

Natasha was fiddling with the Wii, putting on her
karaoke program. Typical. She comes over as sweet and shy, but really she's a show-off, my little sister. A secret show-off. Only I realise.

She was singing some song about dreams coming true – one of those rubbish
X Factor
hits – and gradually all the neighbours fell quiet. Mum and Dad were hugging each other, watching Natasha as her voice soared towards those high notes. I winced. Couldn't they hear how tinny she sounded?

Obviously not, because everyone started clapping.

‘I'm going to bed,' I said. ‘Night, everyone.'

‘I'm coming too,' said Nat. ‘Wait for me.'

One massive advantage of buying my own place was going to be having my very own bedroom. Natasha and I had shared a room ever since she was one and I was three – I wasn't too delighted to have my space invaded then, and I hadn't got used to it over the ensuing thirteen years.

But the problem with Natasha is that she's so blinking nice, sweet and well-meaning, that perfectly reasonable sibling rivalry makes you feel like a Nazi.

She was lying on her bed, surrounded by fluffy animals, writing her diary. ‘Natasha's a very
young
fourteen,' my mum used to say. She thought it was sweet, whereas I realised that Natters needed to ditch
the cutesy girliness fast if she was ever going to be a social success at school.

‘Oh my God, Lia! I don't know how I'm ever going to be able to sleep again!'

‘It's me that's won, not you,' I pointed out. ‘I can do my own excitement, thank you very much.'

My friend Shaz would've told me off for being a grumpy bitch. But Nat just stared at me, a little bit puzzled, and I felt like I'd clubbed a baby seal. So I said, ‘Anyway, I've got something to tell you.'

Because, actually, Natasha and I got on OK when we were all on our own. Things went wrong when we were involved in delicate negotiations with the parental enemies, or when she embarrassed me in front of my mates, or insisted on singing at family parties. You get the picture.

I described how Raf put his arm around me, how he smoothed away my hair.

‘He was leaning in towards me,' I said. ‘I definitely think that maybe he likes me.'

‘Oh, Lia!' she said. ‘That's amazing. Oh my God. He's gorgeous. It's like everything's happened for you at once. Like a fairytale!'

There was not a shred of bitterness in her voice. Maybe she was thinking of her silver sandals, or
maybe it was the singing lessons, or maybe she was better at covering up envy than I would have been.

All my life I'd felt like Natasha and I were in a competition, scoring points off each other. All my life I'd been watching out that she never got more of anything than I did.

And now I'd won. Definitely won. Undoubtedly won. I was eight million pounds ahead.

So why did I feel uneasy? Why did I wish she'd won as well?

Chapter 5

Fifty pounds is a reasonable amount of cash to carry with you.

I left it until 10 am to go round to Jack's, but of course he was still in bed when I got there.

‘You'll have to come back later,' said his mum, trying to shut the door on me.

I pushed past her. ‘That's OK, Donna; I'll go and wake him up.'

I could feel her disapproving eyes drilling into the back of my head as I bounced up the stairs. Not my biggest fan. She'd always thought I was a bad influence on her darling son, and blamed me for every time we got into trouble, even though it was Jack's idea to let off the fire alarm in year six, and it was him who put Cuddles the school guinea pig in Miss Fay's desk drawer.

It was me who told him about her rodent phobia, though.

At first Donna was suspicious of me because I wore jeans and liked running around and shouting and ‘behaving like a boy'. When I turned fourteen and discovered hair products to turn my frizz into curls, and started wearing mascara and lip gloss, she changed her tune. Now I was ‘too tarty'. Not a suitable friend for her precious baby, anyway.

Who cared? I bounced into Jack's room – where the boy wonder was curled up asleep, bare legs poking out from under his Tottenham Hotspur duvet – and sat down heavily on his calves.

‘Oi!' he said, sleepily, blinking at me. There was a distinctive whiff in the air. Stale deodorant mingled with freshly-delivered fart. I was sure Raf's room never ponged like that. It'd be full of fresh air and classy aftershave. I wondered if I'd ever get to smell it.

‘Whoa. Hey, Lia. Here for an early morning encounter with Little Jack? It's just that I think we'll have to get rid of my mum first, somehow.'

His voice was loud enough for Donna to hear, bustling around on the landing. She gave a loud snort and slammed the door to her bedroom.

‘Shut up, you moron,' I said. ‘Dream on.'

‘Oh go on, Lia. Just a quickie. You know you
want to. Otherwise, what are you doing here?'

‘I've got something big to tell you!'

Jack looked puzzled. And then slightly concerned. ‘Bloody hell, Lia, if you've messed up. . .'

I thumped him.

‘I have won the lottery. I am now worth eight million pounds. If I wanted to, I could buy all the houses in this street.'

‘Bollocks,' said Jack. ‘You have absolutely no idea about house prices. You should talk to my cousin Eddie – he's an estate agent in Hemel Hempstead.'

‘Shut up about Eddie. The point is not house prices. The point is that I have won the lottery.'

Watching Jack grasp an idea is like chucking a coin into a deep wishing well. There's a long pause, then
plop, splash
and little ripples as comprehension dawns.