Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery (10 page)

‘It's not my fault,' I pointed out. ‘I suppose we could get the Tube.'

Roo shivered. ‘Oooh. Creepy.'

Getting the Tube meant walking through the old cemetery. The dark, overgrown, scary old cemetery, full of tumbledown grey headstones, ivy and rats. Sure, the path was lit, and well-used, and there was no need to explore further into the wild tangle of bushes and brambles. But we tended to avoid walking there alone. We knew there were ghosts lurking in the green shadows – not to mention perverts.

We'd be fine all in a big group, though, and I was turning towards the iron gates when Natasha pointed across the road. ‘Look – a taxi firm. We can go in style.'

‘Oh,
brilliant
idea, Nat,' I sighed – bloody hell, how
much would a fleet of taxis cost? – but she charged across the road and started interrogating Reza, the taxi company's owner.

‘Four to a car . . . we'll need six cars. . .'

‘No, we won't,' I said, and randomly picked out Lindsay Abbott, shouldering Roo's rucksack. ‘Look, Lins, why don't you come shopping another time? I'll get you a T-shirt, OK?'

Lindsay looked pretty upset, but walked off anyway.

It still took about twenty minutes for Reza to summon five cars, by which time I was regretting ever agreeing to the whole trip. Plus Mum had texted me three times. Of course I didn't bother to find out what she was moaning about.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Raf trudging along the road, pale-faced, head down, still in human form, obviously. He passed the internet café without a glance at me, reached the iron gates of the cemetery and disappeared. Huh. We could've bumped into him at the Tube station. Stupid Natasha.

Reza made me pay up before we set off. Ninety pounds. He raised his eyebrows when I pulled out a brand new cheque book from the same bank that the Queen uses. Then Shazia picked up an old copy
of the
Daily Mirror
and showed him my picture.

‘Oh yes! Lottery Girl!' he said, gold teeth gleaming. ‘At your service! You want regular taxi?'

‘Maybe. . .' said Shaz. ‘If you give her a discount now, she'll think about it.' And so he knocked ten pounds off the price.

‘What a bargain!' said Shazia, squeezing into the back of a Ford Focus with Daisy and Roo, leaving the front seat free for me. It was nice of her, but I felt a bit like I was the mum and they were the kids, especially when I heard them giggling in the back.

I'd planned a quick swoop on Hollister and then maybe a slower stroll around Top Shop . . . New Look . . . Gap . . . H&M. But when we got to the mall, the crowd headed for the big department store. I tried to veer off into H&M but they all groaned.

‘It's a bit boring in there,' said Shaz.

‘We want to try on designer stuff,' said Roo.

I wasn't so interested. I'd had my fill of designer clothes the other day. I didn't really like buying stuff that was finished . . . that I couldn't customise. This shop was OK, but it wasn't anything like as special as Harvey Nicks. In fact, it was more my mum's kind of place . . . a bit middle-aged.

I picked out a few T-shirts, but nothing amazing
. . . the more I looked, the less exciting everything seemed. I wandered off into the handbag department, found a gorgeous patent leather shoulder bag, but when I looked at the price – £1,115 – I couldn't believe it. Surely no one ought to be able to afford a bag that expensive? How could it cost so much when other bags – almost as nice – were so much cheaper? Was it because the cheap stuff was made by slaves in sweatshops in India and China? Was it actually
better
to buy the really expensive bag?

I picked it up. I put it down. I picked it up again. I could feel a headache coming on.

My phone buzzed again, and without thinking, I answered it. Mum again. ‘Where
are
you?' she demanded.

‘Umm . . . at the shopping centre. I came with the girls after school. . . I thought I'd buy them something.'

It felt like a really bad idea right now, and nothing had actually happened. I couldn't stop thinking about Raf. Would he ever speak to me again? Who had given him the black eye? Where was he going? Was he OK?

‘What? Kevin's due here at 6 pm. Your personal banker. Did you forget that you've got a meeting with him today?'

OMG, of course I had. ‘Err . . . no. . . I'll be back by then. Sorry.'

I looked around for the girls. No one in sight. Then I spotted Shaz's stripy headscarf. By the time I reached her she was at the big communal changing room. Daisy was prancing around in a pink mini dress; Roo was taking her picture on her mobile phone. Natasha's mates had squeezed into white leather trousers. Everyone was laughing and posing and getting on, as if we'd all always been best friends forever.

So I picked out an armful of clothes and I joined in. It was a laugh to see the pictures that Roo took of me in a little black dress, and Shaz in sequins. It was jokes all the way when we wandered over to the shoe department and started wobbling around in six inch platforms, and doing the dance to Lady Gaga's latest video. And it was Natasha's brilliant idea to go and look around the make-up department and try all the most expensive brands.

So, when I looked at my watch and realised it was 5.30 pm, I didn't have the heart to search through their big piles of booty and get them to put the most expensive stuff back. I just handed over my debit card to the sales assistant, and smiled sweetly when she said, ‘Oh my goodness! I saw you on
the television! You're the Lottery Girl, aren't you?'

And I was in a bit of a daze as I punched my new pin code into the keypad. It was only when she handed me the receipt that I realised how much I'd spent.

Oh my God.

Seven thousand and seventy-two pounds, thirty-three pence.

What the hell would my mum say?

Chapter 10

Get to know your personal bank manager. He or she can be very helpful.

‘Think of your money as a forest,' said Kevin the Bank Manager. ‘It needs to be kept alive . . . replenished . . . organised. You can't just chop down all the trees and turn them into sawdust. However big the forest, that's a wasteful way to behave.'

I tried to look serious and earnest. ‘Mmmm,' I said. ‘I see.'

‘Think of it as a pet puppy,' he said. ‘You can't just ignore it. You have to feed it, take it out for walks.'

‘I
was
taking it out for a walk,' I pointed out. ‘I was taking it for a walk to the shopping centre.'

‘A fortune like yours doesn't look after itself,' he said. ‘If you go on seven-thousand-pound shopping sprees every day, it won't last long.'

‘It
will
,' I said. I'd worked it out in the taxi. ‘I could
go out and spend that much a thousand times.'

‘So, you do that every day for three years and you've blown the lot,' he said. ‘And if you add in a house and a few cars and holidays as well, then we're talking eighteen months. A year and a half to blow eight million pounds. Is that the plan?'

I'd spent the taxi journey home trying to think of ways to avoid mentioning the money I'd spent. And trying to work out exactly how it had come to so much. Obviously the shiny black bag had a lot to do with it. And I'd bought myself the black dress (£250) and some gorgeous red killer heels (£189.50). Shaz only had a long-sleeved top and some eyeshadow. But looking at the receipt I could see that someone had bought trousers for two hundred and fifty pounds, someone else had helped themselves to a T-shirt for forty pounds – forty pounds! – and there were tops, skirts, dresses, jackets – three hundred and fifty for a jacket! It must've been that leather one that Nat's friend Molly was trying on – jewellery, bags, shoes. . .

Natasha had gone to Molly's house to try everything on. She was pink with happiness as we left the mall, giving me a quick hug before she got into the cab.

‘Thanks so much, Lia,' she said.

Her mates just waved their carrier bags at me. Talk about rude.

‘Thank
you
very much too,' I said as their taxi disappeared, then bit my tongue. I sounded just like –
shudder
– my mum.

Mommy Dearest herself rushed into the hallway the minute I came into the house. I thought she'd start ranting and raving, demanding to know what I'd done, what I'd spent. Instead she was calm and pleasant, offering to make me a cup of tea. There was a funny gleam in her eye, though, and the suspicion of a smirk on her face.

‘Kevin's had a call from his office,' she said, as I opened the door to the living room. ‘I think you'll find he has all the details of your little shopping spree.'

And he did. Every detail.

‘Are you aware you've spent nearly ten thousand pounds in less than a week?' he said, in total neutral mode.

‘I know . . . you see, I went shopping with my friends, and I thought I was going to buy them all a T-shirt each, but they tried on loads of stuff, and then we had to leave in a hurry so I could get back and see you, and I didn't have a chance to sort out who was buying what.'

‘Ah,' he said. ‘So, indirectly, I was responsible for the amount spent?'

‘Only sort of,' I said, generously. Mum would never have taken any share of the blame at all. I liked Kevin. It was going to be great, having my own personal bank manager.

‘Well, Lia,' he said, ‘in that case I need to make amends by discussing money management, before you have no money left to manage.'

And so he did. On and on. Investments and shares and interest rates and savings accounts. Spreading your risk. Government bonds. Independent financial advisers. I sipped my tea, and I nibbled at a biscuit and I nodded and smiled and said, ‘Yes,' and ‘No,' whenever it seemed to be required.

After a bit he sighed, and said, ‘You're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?' And that's when he started going on about forests and puppies.

‘I've got loads of money,' I pointed out. I was wondering if I should get an actual puppy. I'd always fancied one, but mum said it wasn't possible, with everyone working and the cost of dog food. Now, though. . .

‘I should be able to buy stuff for my friends if I want. Obviously I won't be doing it every day.'

‘You're sure about that?' he said. ‘Just a one-off? It's just that we do see some cases of lottery winners, youngsters like you, where people – friends, boyfriends – start to take advantage.'

‘No one's going to take advantage of me,' I said. And then I remembered.

‘Err . . . I will need a bit of cash quite soon. I said I'd buy a motorbike for my friend. And a car.'

‘What sort of motorbike?'

‘Erm . . . I'm not sure. He said something about a . . . a Ducati?'

Kevin whistled through his teeth. ‘You're going to buy a top of the range motorbike for your boyfriend? And a car as well?'

‘He's not my boyfriend. He's . . . it's just . . . he bought me the ticket. You know. As a present.'

‘Ah yes,' said Kevin. ‘There's no obligation, though, is there?'

‘No, but . . . you know. . .'

‘I do know,' he said. ‘Anyway, looking to the future. Will you be investing some money in your family business? Is the plan that you will take over eventually?'

I sighed. When I was at primary school, having a dad who was the local baker was better than being
a celebrity. How cool to have a dad who made everyone's birthday cakes! Who knew how to make doughnuts! I was the source of biscuits and fairy cakes. I made bread and buns and croissants. I might as well have had magical powers.

It was only when I hit puberty that I got embarrassed about having a father whose proudest moment was winning the regional championship for his jam tarts – and I realised that there could be more to my life than royal icing and custard slices.

Unfortunately I wasn't sure what that could be.

‘I . . . I don't know,' I told Kevin. ‘I mean, Dad always thought I would, but I wasn't sure.'