Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery (11 page)

Mum and Dad hadn't said one word to me about the money and what my plans were. Dad had gone on getting up for work at 5 am every day. Mum was back in the office this week. Presumably they'd want to sit down and sort things out at some point.

‘I took a look at it on my way here. A nice little shop. Your dad must be having a hard time in the current climate.'

‘I suppose so . . . I don't know.' I squirmed inside at the thought of discussing Latimer's Loaves with Dad. What if he wanted me to sign on the dotted line, promise to take it over one day?

‘You said at the press conference you wanted to buy singing lessons for your sister,' he said.

‘Oh yes. . . I think she's sorting them out,' I said.

‘Good,' he said. ‘Lia, have you thought at all about what you want to do with your money? You'll need some ideas before you talk to the financial advisers. I'd strongly suggest that they set up a trust . . . keep the bulk of the capital safe until you are older.'

‘I have got a plan,' I said, keeping an eye on the door. I didn't want Mum overhearing.

‘I want to leave school. As soon as I can. And buy myself a really cool flat, and a car. I want to be independent and free and run my own life. I want to go on holiday with my friends, not my family. That's the plan.'

He had quite a nice face, Kevin, for an older man. He had big, pale blue eyes and blond hair, and only a few wrinkles around his eyes. They scrunched together as he smiled at me.

‘And what will you do all day?' he asked. ‘A little light shopping? Watching your enormous new television?'

‘I don't know,' I said, although, yes, obviously, those would be important components of my dream life, along with planning holidays,
meeting friends and reading magazines.

He sighed. ‘Your financial adviser will be able to tell you how to achieve all that. You can invest your capital, make sure it generates a reasonable income. You'll need a solicitor to act for you when you're buying your flat. If the vendors get a sniff of a lottery winner they'll hoick up their prices.'

‘Oh right,' I said.

‘What do your parents think about this plan?' he asked.

‘Well, they don't really. . . I haven't really. . . Can you not mention it yet. . .?'

‘Everything we talk about is completely confidential,' he said. He scratched his head. ‘But I'd suggest you share your plans with them. And think about what you're going to do with your life, in your smart new flat. Don't you think you might get bored?'

Bored? He must be joking. A life without Science and Maths and History? I'd never be bored again.

He opened his briefcase, and took out a leaflet.

‘You might be interested in this. It's a weekend seminar for young people who've come into some money. Some are from wealthy families, some are lottery winners like you, some footballers, singers . . .
I think one of the Harry Potter actors attended one. It's about investment opportunities, but also the emotional implications of being so privileged. Some people feel very guilty. Integrating Wealth, it's called. Shall I see if you can go on the next one?'

A whole weekend with a load of rich kids, talking about money? I opened my mouth to say, ‘No, thanks, I don't think so.' I needed a bit of normality back in my life. I wanted to go to Camden Market, hang out with Jack and Shaz . . . drop by the internet café . . . see if I could sort things out with Raf . . . I didn't want to think about investment plans, shopping sprees and designer handbags.

But I knew I really should do the sensible thing and sit down with Mum and Dad, to explain my plan to move out and leave school. I needed a delaying tactic. This could be the very thing.

‘That sounds great,' I said, looking at the leaflet. ‘Integrating Wealth. I think it's a really good idea. Can you sign me up for it?'

Chapter 11

There may be some unexpected problems in the early days.

‘Aaaah. Urgggh. Aaaaah.'

‘Natasha!' I said, alarmed. ‘Are you OK?' She sounded like she was dying.

I'd just come into the bedroom, fresh from a fashion shoot for
Teen Vogue
. Not as interesting as you'd expect, fashion shoots – there's a whole lot of standing around, being safety-pinned into ball-dresses. Natasha was standing by the window moaning like an asthmatic cow.

She turned around, ‘I'm fine!' she said, bright and breezy. My heart ached for her. You kind of knew that whenever Natasha was happy it'd always end in tears. ‘I was doing my vocal exercises for my singing coach. I have to do them twice a day.'

‘Oh right,' I said. ‘She's going for the croaking toad
sound, then? Natasha the Natterjack strikes again.'

The old ones are always the best. Nats threw her pillow at me, but there wasn't much force behind it.

‘Natasha, I need to talk to you,' I said. I'd been so busy with press interviews and coursework that I'd hardly had a moment to think. Or even spend money. I was tempted to junk the homework, but then Mum and Dad would've got wind of my plans, and I wasn't quite ready for that huge explosion.

‘Of course, Lia, what is it?'

‘It's Raf. Nat, he's not been at school all week. I'm worried about him.'

‘Why don't you phone him?'

‘Because he was all funny last time we spoke. Like he didn't want to talk to me. And I've never called him. It would look weird.'

‘Do you think it's something to do with his black eye?' asked Natasha.

One thing I'd say for my sister, she was a great listener. Shaz would've rolled her eyes and told me to stop thinking about boys and concentrate on my own concerns, such as homework.

I threw myself down on the bed.

‘Well . . . thing is, Nat, what I was thinking, right. . . What if it was Jack?'

She gaped. ‘Jack?'

‘What if Jack belted Raf in the eye?'

‘What, about the football match?' She looked dubious. ‘I don't know . . . I mean, it was quite a long time ago.'

I struck my forehead. ‘Duh! Nat! Not about football! About me!'

‘About
you
? Why?' She didn't have to sound quite so disbelieving.

‘Well, Shaz has this theory, you know, that Raf's after my money.'

‘But he hasn't been near you! You said he was ignoring you!'

‘Look, you don't have to rub it in. He's probably just working on his tactics. If he has tactics, which I don't actually believe he has, because I don't think he is after my money.'

‘Well, why say he is after your money?'

‘I'm not. I'm saying Shaz thinks he is. And she might have told Jack and Jack might have whacked Raf. As a lesson, to keep away from me.'

Natasha opened her mouth. A look of complete disbelief crossed her face. And then she closed her mouth again.

‘It's possible,' she said. ‘Lia, Molly and Keira asked
me to go shopping at Camden market with them, isn't that great?'

‘I suppose so,' I said. ‘Are you sure you want to be friends with them? They seemed a bit. . .'

‘A bit what? They're lovely. They were really standing up for you, actually, when Georgia and Alicia were slagging you off at lunch yesterday.'

‘You
what
?'

She clasped her hands over her mouth.

‘Oh whoops, sorry, Lia. I wasn't going to say anything, it's nothing, really.'

‘What were they saying?'

‘Oh nothing. They were just reading that interview you did with
Bliss
, you know, and being a bit snarky.'

Huh. I decided not to ask any more. I really liked that
Bliss
article. I'd talked about my fantasy plans to set up an orphanage in South Africa, like Oprah.

‘Well, they can be as snarky as they want, because I'm eight frigging million pounds richer than them,' I said, generously. And went back to thinking about my theory. Poor Raf. Stupid Jack.

The thought of two guys fighting over me was kind of . . . well, kind of exciting, particularly as they were the best-looking boys in the entire year.

Of course, I didn't especially fancy Jack, his
blue-eyed, blond, muscled look wasn't really my thing, but he was definitely on the fit side of the street.

Plus he'd been my best friend literally forever, so if we'd been in some rom-com movie we'd have ended up discovering we were secretly in love with each other.
I
knew the falling-in-love-with-your-best-friend myth was just Hollywood WTFery.

But did Jack realise?
That
was the question.

‘Why don't you ask Jack?' said Natasha. ‘He'd tell you, wouldn't he? If he'd hit Raf. I don't think he would, though. Jack's not like that.'

I gave her a quick glance. Natasha had always hero-worshipped Jack, something I'd hoped that I'd teased out of her.

‘Or ask Raf,' she added.

Hmmm. I'd planned to see Jack anyway at the weekend. I could go and see Raf afterwards. Oh God. It was all going to be incredibly awkward and emotional and difficult.

I couldn't
wait.

I got up. ‘Thanks Nat, helpful as ever,' I said, and then sprinted fast for the bathroom, even though it was her turn on the rota. I heard her anguished squeaks just behind me as I slammed and bolted the door.

Next morning, Mum looked up from her coffee as I put my jacket on.

‘Going out?' she said. ‘I was thinking that we should have a chat, Lia. Talk about holidays, and, you know . . . plans. I've contacted a few estate agents, and I know your dad wants to speak to you about the business.'

‘Yeah, of course,' I said, my heart sinking. ‘Just not now, right?'

Normally she'd have told me I was being rude and ordered me to sit down. But this time she just smiled and stirred her coffee. I wasn't sure if I liked it. It was as if she'd had a lobotomy.

‘The lottery press office called yesterday,' she said. ‘They've had a few more media requests for you. The
Daily Express
want to do a photo-shoot and an interview, and maybe
The Times
as well. And
Hello!
magazine is interested too.'

I looked around. ‘Here?
Hello!
want to do a photo-shoot in my lovely home here?'

‘Hopefully we won't be here too much longer,' she said. ‘The estate agents—'

‘Look, I've got to go,' I said, hastily. ‘Say yes to Gilda, and we can talk later, OK?'

I waited for the blast-off. But she just said,
‘Don't worry, darling, we can talk any time.'

Odd. Very odd. I thought about it all the way to the café where I was meeting Shaz for breakfast before my bike-shopping spree with Jack. But as soon as I got there, I forgot all abut my mum. Shaz's eyes were bloodshot. She was blowing her nose.

‘What's the
matter
?' I said, sitting down. ‘Shaz! What's happened?'

Shaz sniffed, and reached under her chair and pulled out a plastic bag.

‘I'm really sorry, Lia,' she said. ‘I can't keep these.' And she handed back to me the floaty, long-sleeved top that she'd bought when we went shopping, and the pretty headscarf and bangles from Camden market.

‘What?
Why
? Everything's perfectly modest' – I knew Shaz's dad's views on women's clothes and I never wore short skirts or low-cut tops at her house, which often put me off going there, to be honest – ‘and they
really
suit you, Shaz. The colours are gorgeous.'

Her dark eyes brimmed with tears. ‘My dad says I've got to give it back to you. He said if I wanted it I would have to pay you for it, but it's so expensive, Lia, and I don't think I can afford it.'

‘But why? I've got loads of money.'

‘In the Koran it says that you can't profit by gambling. I thought it was OK, because it was you gambling, not me, and Dad thought it was OK too, but he checked with the imam yesterday and he said' – she did a gigantic sniff – ‘that I mustn't accept anything from you. Not a penny.'