Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery (20 page)

‘Oh yeah?'

‘Apparently there's a wonderful woman at a very exclusive salon in Hampstead. She does everything, colonics, the works.'

‘You'd
pay
someone to put a hose up your bottom and suck out the poo? That is the most disgusting thing I've ever heard!'

‘Well, never mind the colonics, the massage is supposed to be the best in North London. Apparently Princess Diana used to go there.'

‘She's been dead for
years
. You want to go there because they massaged someone who's dead. That is just
perverse
.'

‘We could go together, a regular mother and daughter outing,' she said. ‘I'm sure Princess Diana would have done that if she was still alive and if she'd had a daughter.'

‘I don't think so,' I said.

‘Oh, Lia,' she said. ‘Why do you have to be
so
obnoxious
all
the time?'

What?
What?
It was my fault that I didn't want to do everything she wanted me to? It was my fault that she was fantasising about being like someone who's dead and didn't even have a daughter anyway? It was my fault that I didn't want to spend my money on every idea she had? Huh.

‘I just said I don't think I want to go and have a massage every week,' I pointed out. ‘I have got GCSEs coming up, you know. I have got coursework and revision to do.'

Just because I'd decided that qualifications didn't matter to me, didn't mean I was going to drop them altogether. In the parental battlefield, GCSEs were like a heavy iron shield, strong enough to withstand a hundred bombs and bullets. I'd spent the last two days catching up on coursework. We'd all agreed that we wouldn't discuss the future until I'd been on the Integrating Wealth weekend and met with the financial advisers, but I'd decided I might as well show willing on the exam front, to demonstrate my appreciation for Mum's brilliant PR skills, even if they had cost me eighteen thousand pounds.

To be honest, I was so relieved that Donna's story in the
Sunday Mirror
hadn't been half as bad as it could have been, that I was all prepared to be a model
daughter and pupil. It was a pity that Mum kept raising the stakes by suggesting weekly massages.

‘Well, I'm so pleased you're concentrating on your work,' she said. ‘You could do anything, Lia, study in America even.' Her voice was wistful. ‘You won't have to stay at home to save money, like I did. Most people my age were having the time of their lives, partying every night at university. I was stuck at home with your nana, head down, studying.'

‘I thought studying was meant to be a good thing, according to you.'

‘It is, it is, obviously . . . it's just that there's more to university than sitting at home with your mam.'

‘Yeah, but then you came to London, didn't you, as soon as you got your degree, and it only took you a month to meet Dad.'

‘That's right,' she said.

‘Well, then. You met the love of your life, right away.'

‘I know,' she said.

‘You walked into the bakery to buy a doughnut and he looked up and he saw you and he said, “That's the girl I'm going to marry.”'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Very persistent, your dad.'

‘I could go to New York and live there without even being a student,' I said.

‘You certainly could.'

‘I could just do some courses in Film and Philosophy and stuff. That'd be cool.'

‘It would.'

‘Or I could travel around, live in all sorts of places.'

‘Yup,' she said. ‘You could do that. But I think you'll find GCSEs are still worth having.'

I couldn't see why, but I sensed that might not be the best thing to say.

‘Lia, darling,' said Mum, ‘I wanted to ask you something.'

‘What?' Alarm bells rang. Why was she calling me
darling
?

‘Well it's just . . . I was thinking . . . I've been looking into. . .'

‘What?'

‘Cosmetic surgery.'

‘What?
What
? Look, I know my nose is big, but it's bit much to suggest . . . bloody hell, Paula, how rude can you get?' I was shouting, I admit, but it's not every day that one's own mother wants to put her daughter under the knife to alter a perfectly functional nose that I'd spent years persuading myself looked just about OK.

‘No . . . not you . . . your nose is lovely, Lia. What are you talking about? No, it's for me.'

‘You? But your nose is
fine
.' It had to be. It was identical to mine.

‘Not my nose. Lia, I really want a boob job.'

‘A
what
? What do you
mean
?'

Mum was looking a bit flustered.

‘It's just . . . two babies, you know, and then I lost weight. Well. They're like two little pitta breads. Just hanging there. I've thought for ages, if I could just plump them up. . .'

‘There's nothing wrong with your boobs! That is so . . . urgh . . . yuck . . . I think I'm going to be
sick.
'

‘Are you all right, dear?' said the woman running the spa café, who'd just appeared with our salads.

‘I'm fine, thanks,' I said.

Mum was glaring at me. I waited for the woman to walk away and then I went on the attack again.

‘They slice off the nipple, you know. They have to patch it on again. And sometimes the implants
burst
. And they'd stay all firm and smooth while the rest of you went all wrinkled and saggy. Imagine when you're seventy. I mean, that's not that long, really. I can't believe you want something like that – urgh, so
disgusting
. . .'

Mum took a forkful of her salad. ‘It was just an idea,' she said. ‘Never mind. Forget it.'

‘Look, if you really want to . . . but Shaz and I watched this documentary on Channel Five and this woman, she went scuba-diving, right, and her implants literally
exploded
. . .'

‘Never mind. It's not really worth it.'

‘Look, you can have your new boobs, you know you can. Sorry, Mum.'

‘That's OK,' she said. ‘I wouldn't want them exploding.'

‘Oh well, that was in Mexico. I'm sure they don't explode here.'

She sighed. ‘No, you're right. At my age. What's the point?'

‘You're only forty. You look pretty good, actually,' I said generously, although, honestly, if she was going the cosmetic surgery route, I'd have suggested starting with a quick burst of Botox on the frown-lines, no offence.

‘And it costs thousands of pounds,' she said. ′Seven, to be precise.′

‘Oh well that's
nothing
,' I said. ‘Book yourself in. But you know, Mum, you're always telling us that you shouldn't just think about how you look. And there's
loads
more to you than the state of your boobs. You're a brilliant PR and you can be really nice and funny. You should have more self-esteem.'

She was looking at me, smiling, like I'd told her a joke.

‘You are a funny one,'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, sometimes you're so self-centred and obnoxious, and sometimes you're so kind and generous.'

‘Oh,' I said, baffled. ‘I don't think I'm either, really. I just . . . I'm not used to having any money for anything.'

‘I worry that you'll never have to work for anything,' she said, ‘but then, your dad and I have had to work so hard for everything. It's great that you'll be free of that.'

‘Oh . . . right. . .' I said. I could sense trouble coming, like you can feel a storm prickling the air, getting ready to crash and flash.

But she just smiled again and sipped her green tea and said, ‘Do you know, Lia, winning this money could be the making of you.'

Chapter 21

When you're poor you think there are two sorts of people, rich and poor. When you've got money you realise that rich people are all different.

‘My name is Lia,' I said, ‘and money makes me feel . . . lucky. But also confused.'

‘My name is Olivia,' said the blonde girl to my right. ‘And money makes me feel fortunate. And also concerned.'

Everything about Olivia was perfect, from her honey-highlighted, glossy hair, to her long, long legs and her un-fake Uggs. I wondered what she was concerned about. The state of her nails? Whether she had lipstick on her teeth?

‘My name is Sayeed,' said the next guy – Asian, Northern, frowning. ‘Money makes me feel inspired.'

The blond guy next to me stifled a laugh. His name was Luke. The Honourable Luke Massingham, according to the list in our Integrating Wealth Weekend literature. Money made him feel warm and cuddly.

‘Darryl,' said the next guy. Darryl Cook. Played for Manchester City. Rising star of English football. Jack'd be really impressed when I told him I'd spent a weekend with Darryl Cook. That's if Jack and I ever started talking again.

‘Money makes me feel rewarded,' said Darryl. ‘Also it makes me feel that I'm never going to be poor again. You can laugh,' he added, glaring at Sayeed, who stifled his smirk, ‘but if you grew up on the estate where I did, you'd understand what I was talking about.'

‘Excellent, excellent,' said Dr Flint. You may have heard of him. Dr Richard Flint, psychotherapist, writer, all-round expert on the psychological problems associated with wealth. Author of
The Discomfort of being Comfortable
and
Money Hurts.
He ran these Integrating Wealth weekends to help rich teens avoid the pitfalls ahead. Mum and dad weren't all that impressed when they found out I'd have to stay over at one of London's top hotels – ‘Why can't you just get the Tube in?' said Mum, ‘or even a taxi? It's a complete
waste of money.' Dr Flint insisted, though, that it was essential that we all stayed overnight, to allow us to contemplate our emotional journey with the minimum of distraction. Dad thought he was probably getting a percentage from the hotel.

I certainly wasn't complaining. My swish hotel room had a massive bed and was done in silver-grey and aubergine. I'd taken a load of photos on my phone so I could show them to my imaginary interior designer once I'd found my fantasy flat.

‘I notice that most of you chose positive emotions to associate with your wealth,' Dr Flint said now, as we crumbled our croissants. This was our Breakfast Ice-breaker, and no sooner had we piled our plates with pastries than he'd insisted we start talking about our feelings. I sipped my orange juice and wondered if I'd said the wrong thing.

‘That's good,' he said, ‘but as you get older you may find the picture is not so rosy.' He turned his laptop so we could all see it. ‘I'm just going to show you a short DVD.'

What a downer. Loads of dull-looking adults whinging on about how inheriting money made them feel unworthy.

‘I felt that I didn't fit in any more,' said one bearded
wimp, with terrible clothes and a gorgeous house. ‘I felt aimless; I had no purpose any more.'

I would have thought that an urgent style makeover would give him all the purpose he needed. But he moaned on for ages, and so did some earnest-looking woman, and the whole thing was designed to make you feel like having money was worse than being poor.

Only really rich people could think that, let's face it.

‘Guilt can go hand in hand with a fortune,' said Dr Flint. ‘Also lack of direction, loss of ambition, low self-esteem and general apathy.
Affluenza
, that's what some people call it. I prefer
Richpression
. But it's so hard to admit that most of us mask it from ourselves. We can't admit that there's a downside to being wealthy.'

I hadn't been feeling guilty at all in the past week. Upset, yes, and embarrassed. Worried about Jack. Neglected by Shaz who was spending all her time in the library. And obsessed with Raf. . .

But, guilt? No, since Alfie Lord's mum told the media that I was an angel from heaven, I hadn't felt guilty at all.