Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery (19 page)

‘It does matter what you think. Why do you say it doesn't matter? I want to do something you'd like.'

He shrugged. And then smiled. ‘No one ever said that before.'

How strange was that? But the waiter came with the bill, and once I'd paid, it was kind of difficult to ask Raf what he meant. So instead I started quizzing him about the stuff he liked, discovering that he hardly
ever watched television, his favourite film was something Swedish that I'd never heard of (‘It's sort of bleakly uplifting.') He was reading a book called
War and Peace
, (‘I was learning Russian at my last school and I got into Tolstoy. It's very good – really absorbing – but it's taking forever.') and he liked classical music although he didn't even play an instrument. Stuff like Liszt and Wagner and Beethoven.

‘I know it's a bit strange,' he said. ‘You probably think I'm an alien or something.'

‘No, of course not,' I said, although the word
Vampire!
clanged in my head. ‘My dad listens to Classic FM sometimes. I like all the film music.'

I decided to keep quiet about Stephenie Meyer,
Mean Girls
,
Desperate Housewives
and Katy Perry.

‘Oh, right.' He was smiling.

‘What? What did I say?'

‘Nothing at all. Are you sure you don't think I'm an alien?'

‘Of course not!'

‘That's good. There's just a bit of me that's stuck in the nineteenth century, I think.'

‘Oh, right, yes,' I said. ‘I can see that.'

‘I like history, and literature. Useless things, I know. I like places where everything's really old and quiet.'

‘Why useless?'

‘They're not going to earn me a living, are they?' His voice sounded sad, but when I looked at him, he was smiling at me.

We were walking aimlessly down the hill, and I realised we were heading for Camden market, and I didn't say anything because there's loads of other stuff going on at the market. It's not all clothes, and loads of it is vintage, and it sounded as though he approved of the concept of recycled clothes, even if he didn't fully appreciate them.

I tried to move the conversation on to even more personal stuff. Mind you, part of me liked the way he didn't give much away. Part of me wanted to keep hold of the idea that he was somehow magical, supernatural, mysterious.

But I'd been feeling a little bit worried that I was not as interested in other people as I should be.

‘So . . . which school did you go to before?' I asked.

‘Before what?'

‘Before you came to our school, duh,' I said.

‘Oh. Umm. I don't know. Lots of schools.'

‘You don't know! You must know. Where did you learn Russian?'

‘Just a school. You wouldn't know it,' he said
vaguely. ‘We're heading for the market, aren't we? Have you got favourite stalls? Do you get all your vintage stuff there?'

I was ten minutes into a guide to the vintage sellers at Camden and the charity shops of Tithe Green – he asked loads of questions – when I realised he'd sent me off track.

‘Raf, why don't you like talking about yourself?'

‘What?'

‘You don't. I want to know about you and you just change the subject.'

‘Nothing to say.'

‘But I want to know,'

‘Nothing to know,' he said. ‘Nothing good, anyway. Lia, are you going to expand the bakery? Your dad said he didn't know what was going to happen, he was waiting for you to make up your mind.'

‘Oh God,' I said, ‘it's so awkward. They just assume I'll take over one day and invest in it now, and I don't really know what I want to do. I'm not ready to make all these decisions yet.'

‘Thing is,' he said, ‘if you wait much longer, there might not be a bakery for you to take over.'

‘You . . . you what?'

‘It's got to be in trouble, your dad's shop.'

‘Trouble? Why?'

‘Well, there's the global economic crisis for a start, then there's all the competition – the new superstore – and the fact that, well, it hasn't really moved with the times, has it?'

What the hell had some global economic crisis got to do with my dad's bread shop in north London?

‘That street has really suffered since the mall opened,' he continued. ‘Jasper's going to find somewhere else for the internet café. That's why he hasn't invested in it all that much. He got the lease cheap, thought he'd try it out. But he says the Broadway's finished.'

‘Oh. Where would he go?'

‘He's not sure. Up north, maybe. He might even do something completely different.'

‘But what about you?'

He shrugged again. ‘I don't know. I'm kind of in the way.'

‘Oh, God, Raf. . .'

‘It's OK. He won't do anything until I've got through GCSEs,' he said. ‘Then I can just leave school and, you know, whatever. . .'

‘You mean you wouldn't do A levels?'

‘I won't go to university. I just want to be
independent. So I don't need to rely on anyone else.'

I couldn′t believe my ears. Raf did really well at school. He was obviously super-brainy – I mean, he liked classical music, for God's sake.
Beethoven
. He loved
history
. Why would he be bailing out at sixteen? OK, it's expensive to go to uni, but Raf's family lived in Melbourne Avenue, for heaven's sake, and anyway, they were always telling us at school that a degree was an investment, because otherwise we'd be stuck flipping burgers if we were lucky. And Raf was the most intellectual person I'd ever met. It seemed such a waste.

Then I remembered my plan for dumping education as soon as possible, and felt a bit confused. Guilty, even. I grasped his hand.

‘I'm not going to uni either. I'm going to leave school as soon as I can.'

His face was impossible to read. ‘That's your choice,' he said.

We were getting near to the market. I could feel that Camden buzz, the music, the smell – falafel, curry, beer. I got that familiar happy feeling.

‘Hang on,' I said, ‘I need to get some money.'

The streets were getting busier, and we pushed through a crowd to get to the cashpoint. Raf looked
uncomfortable – I remembered he didn't like crowds – but he didn't complain. We'd just be here for half an hour or so, I told myself. Then maybe we'd go to the movies, or find a café, or go back to Raf's nice, private office, snuggle up on the mattress. . .

‘Sorry!' Someone had barged right into me, just as I slipped my purse back into my bag. My purse with two hundred pounds in cash in it. My one-thousand-pound bag . . . my heavy bag which now felt strangely light. . . And it wasn't there! It wasn't there! Just the strap, dangling uselessly—

‘Help!' I screamed. ‘My bag! He's taken it!'

And the guy was running, with Raf right after him, and Raf grabbed his arm, and the thief swung out wildly and shoved Raf in the stomach, and Raf went staggering backwards, crashing into a stall selling jewellery, which smashed to the ground. Silver rings and crystal beads flew through the air.

And the guy was running again . . . getting away . . . but he'd dropped my bag and it was in some woman's arms and she handed it back to me.

‘Oh my God, are you all right?' I shrieked, trying to pick up Raf and check my bag all at the same time.

He pulled himself off the ground. ‘Sorry, Lia, I didn't get him . . . ouch . . . sorry about your stall. . .'

‘You got him to drop the bag, though!' I couldn't hug him, because of the kite and the strapless bag (what a waste! That was the last time I bought a designer bag) but I was smiling at him, and he was smiling at me and his face was heading for mine.

And then he froze. His mouth never reached my lips. He was gazing over my shoulder, looking as though he wanted to throw up.

I turned around to see what had upset him. I recognised him immediately. The man with the blue eyes who'd been with Jasper. The one with the skull-thin face, the unsettling gaze, the strange, old-fashioned, deep voice.

‘Jesus!' said Raf. ‘Jesus
Christ
. What's he
doing
?'

I squinted. As far as I could see, the mystery man was talking to Charlie, owner of one of my favourite vintage stalls. The man handed over a dark bundle and Charlie was counting out twenty pound notes.

‘Excuse me, Lia,' said Raf, his voice shaking slightly. ‘I'll be back in a minute. Will you be OK?'

‘How about giving me a hand?' said the jewellery stallholder, picking up earrings from the gutter.

But Raf was striding towards the man. And I was inching towards them too.

Chapter 20

Pedicures are better value than manicures – except in the winter.

Day spas are useless for reducing your stress levels. Don't believe magazines that tell you to pamper your troubles away. It's like booking in – paying! – for a day at a torture chamber.

Massage really hurts – they shove their thumbs into your flesh, and stick burning hot stones on your back. Plus they play vile, tinkly, New Age music. I had to offer the masseuse extra money to replace it with Florence and the Machine.

By the time she'd scrubbed and peeled my skin in the cleansing facial, attacked my eyebrows with red-hot wax and squeezed some blackheads, I was pink and blotchy and even more stressed than I'd been before I started.

Lying in the jacuzzi was fun, though, and the peace
and quiet gave me a chance to rerun Raf's weird conversation with the older man.

‘You're not meant to be doing that!' said Raf. He turned to Charlie. ‘Stop! Don't give him any money!'

‘Rafael! What are you doing here? Go away!'

Charlie ignored Raf – ‘Your boy, is it, Nick?' – and handed over a wodge of cash. The man – Nick – pocketed it.

‘Give it to me,' hissed Raf.

‘Oh, what's the harm? I have to make a living somehow. They can't stop me, you know.'

‘No, but you know you mustn't . . . you shouldn't even
have
it. . .'

‘Mind your own business, Rafael.'

‘It is my business. I'm going to phone Jasper.'

Nick's voice was chilly. ‘If you wish. You seem to have no free will, as far as he's concerned, anyway.'

Raf pulled out his phone. ‘Dammit. No credit.'

That was my cue. ‘You can use my iPhone if you want.'

Nick's face lit up. ‘Hello! It's the fortunate Miss Latimer, is it not? How very nice to see you again. I'd been hoping to have a word with you.' And he took my hand and kissed it.

Raf could not have looked more furious if he'd
actually burst into tears and had a screaming tantrum in the middle of Camden market.

‘Leave her alone!' he growled. Then he grabbed my hand and dragged me through the streets, hailed a black cab and virtually pushed me into it, giving the driver my home address.

It was only when the cab drove off that I realised that Raf hadn't got in with me. And I hadn't heard from him since.

Huh. I hadn't even begun to work it all out, and it was time for my pedicure. More hideous torture – she took a razor blade to the soles of my feet and the file set my teeth on edge.

But I did love my new metallic silver toe and fingernails, and I liked the way my eyebrows arched. I wasn't sure, though, that it was worth two hundred and fifty pounds per person, plus seventy-five pounds for the mud treatment and shiatsu.

‘Feeling better?' said Mum, as we sipped green tea in the spa's café and relaxation room – which was kind of disappointing – just wicker sofas with white cushions, old copies of
Zest
and more plinky-plonky music. We'd ordered Superfood Health Salads. They didn't do chips.

‘Not really,' I said. ‘My masseuse was a sadist.'

‘It was wonderful,' she said. Her face was all open pores and presumably so was mine. Great. I could feel zits bubbling up under my skin. ‘It's such a healthy thing to do. You should have one every week – it's so important to break up the toxins in the body.'