Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery (27 page)

‘I don't know.
Jesus,
Lia. There were loads of people here. She was probably sleeping it off in my room. Nothing funny, Lia, honest. There were a few girls in there. Had too much.'

‘Did you know about the phone call? Someone phoned and said they'd got Natasha.'

‘I don't know anything. They were laughing . . . talking about you and Natasha . . . that's all I know. Honest, Lia.' Molly hung her head. ‘I'm sorry. You know what it's like. I was wasted. And Natasha, she was upset. She came down some time, crying. She said she'd get in trouble for staying out so long. Then she left.'

‘What time was that?' I demanded, but she didn't know. She'd got so pissed at her own party that she
didn't know night from day. It sounded like Nat had been here all night – but what if she hadn't?

‘Great, thanks a lot, Molly,' I said. My shoulders were rigid with fury. ‘My little sister came to your house and she got so drunk she could hardly walk straight. Anything could have happened to her.'

‘She knew what she was doing,' said Molly. ‘She wanted to get drunk. The thing about Natasha is – no offence, Lia – but she's so young. She's always trying to keep up with the rest of us. She's not quite there yet. She's sweet, I like her, I really do, but she's not as mature as we are.'

‘Piss off,' I said. ‘Get lost. You stupid cow.'

Molly eyed me. ‘She wants to be like you. It was true even before you won the lottery and it's even more true now. She's not happy just being herself. She wants to be you.'

‘I don't come to rubbish parties like this and get wasted.'

‘Not since you've been a celebrity, anyway,' she said. ‘But Natasha thinks she ought to be just like you.'

‘Why couldn't you be a real friend to her, Molly? Why couldn't you just like her for herself? She's sweet, Natasha, and she wanted to be your friend so badly.'

Molly opened her eyes wide. ‘Look, Lia, I don't
think you realise how much of a favour I was doing just letting her hang out with us.'

‘Bitch!'

‘You can get out right now,' said Molly's brother from the doorway. ‘Don't speak to my sister like that.'

‘Don't worry, I'm going,' I said.

Out on the doorstep I wondered where to go next. The internet café – Raf – but what about the police? And what about Raf's dad?

And then there was Jack – but I couldn't go to his house, could I? What if Donna was there? I needed help . . . needed someone to contact him, arrange for us to meet . . . smooth things over.

I needed Shaz. But Shaz couldn't be there for me. In fact, I ought to be there for her. There I was lecturing Molly about friendship, while my own best friend was crying . . . unhappy. . .

And then I realised that Molly's house was on the same street as the mosque that Shaz's family belonged to. Just a little mosque, really, set back from the road, brand new redbrick with a golden dome. On Fridays it was buzzing with people, men rushing in to pray. But on a Sunday it was quiet and there was no one hanging around outside.

I wondered if the imam was there. If I could talk to him. . . Maybe sort out this gambling business – surely he couldn't really think that the lottery was wrong? Maybe I could talk to him about Shazia.

Maybe I could do something good in a place where my money wouldn't help me at all.

Chapter 29

Money is not the most important thing in the world, especially if you've got lots of it.

A young woman opened the door of the mosque. She had a much more seriously heavy-duty headscarf than Shazia – one of those long white ones. I could see her whole face, though, and she didn't look unfriendly – just a little wary and surprised. The mosque smelled of new paint and furniture polish, shoes, coffee and spices.

‘Can I help you?' she asked.

‘I just wanted to speak to the imam,' I said. I could feel myself blushing – my face was hot as a toasted Pop-Tart – and my heart was thumping. What was I doing there? I already knew it was a stupid idea. I just desperately wanted to make things right for Shazia.

‘He's away, I'm afraid,'

‘Oh. Well, never mind. Sorry to bother you.'

‘Is there anything I can do to help?' she asked.

‘I don't think so,' I said miserably.

She laughed. ‘Try me. You look like you've got some troubles.'

‘Well . . . it's not me, really, that I came about. It's my friend.'

‘Oh, your
friend
,' she said, as though strange girls turned up at the mosque every day, burbling about their friends. ‘I'll tell you what, why don't you come and have a cup of tea with me? I'm teaching a girls' class in half an hour. Maybe I can give you some advice for your friend.'

So we went and sat at a Formica table in the mosque's sparkling clean kitchen and she made me tea and offered some biscuits.

‘I'm the imam's niece,' she said, ‘and I also work with ladies who wish to convert to Islam. So I may be just the person to help your friend.'

‘Oh, right,' I said, nibbling my biscuit and wondering how to ask her about Shazia without telling her Shaz's name. Maybe she even knew Shazia. I'd have to be super-discreet.

‘So, does your friend want to learn more about Islam?'

‘No, no, that's not it. Actually, I think she might
want to know less about it.'

‘Really?' The imam's niece looked a little confused. I hoped I hadn't offended her.

‘I think she's feeling, you know, repressed. Too much religion,' I said.

‘Really? But you . . . you don't look . . . you're not a sister, are you?'

‘I am a sister, actually,' I said, ‘and I'm worried about her as well. She went to a party and she got horribly drunk and she's lost her memory.'

‘I see.' She patted my hand. ‘You've come to the right place. You'd be surprised how many young people come to us looking for a new direction, looking to escape the excesses of secular life. They find new meaning by embracing Islam . . . it's a very beautiful process.'

Eh?

‘No . . . it wasn't me . . . it was my
sister
. And anyway, it's not her I'm here about. It's my friend. I think her dad's making her be too religious. It's ruining her life. She has to wear a headscarf and she can't go out with this boy she likes. I was wondering if the imam could . . . you know . . . soften the rules a bit.'

The imam's niece looked baffled, and a little bit less friendly. She was looking at me closely, staring even.

‘I know who you are!' she said. ‘You're the Lottery Girl.'

‘Umm . . . yes. . .'

‘My uncle preached about you, only last week. Did you hear about it? It made quite a stir.'

‘He preached about
me
?'

‘He reminded the brothers and sisters who worship here of the dangers of gambling,' she said. ‘The stories in the newspapers last week . . . they offered an excellent example.'

I was mortified. I imagined imams all over the country preaching sermons about my awful behaviour. Not just imams, either – vicars, rabbis, Buddhist monks, those Hare Krishna people . . . the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Pope. Jesus Christ himself, come down from heaven for a special guest appearance. . .

‘I have done good things with my money,' I pointed out. ‘And it's the lottery. Not really gambling, like a casino.'

She didn't answer. Hah! One-nil to me. Bring on the Pope.

‘And I'm not a Muslim, anyway, so there are no rules against me gambling.'

‘So you're Shazia's friend,' she said suddenly.

What the hell?

‘Err, yes, but the thing I said before about my friend's life being ruined by religion, that wasn't about Shazia. That was about another friend. Another friend who sometimes comes here and sometimes goes to another, much stricter mosque. Much, much stricter. She's worried that her dad wants her to wear a burka.'

‘Oh, I knew you couldn't be talking about Shazia,' she said. ‘Shazia's the one who's got her whole family coming to the mosque. She's so enthusiastic about helping with the younger ones, doing good works. She's a real role model for the girls in our mosque.'

Shaz?

‘She's very serious-minded, isn't she?' the imam's niece continued. ‘She's full of passion for Islam. But she's loyal to her friends as well. She was quite troubled when you won your money, worried that it would come between you. But she was determined to remain your friend, despite the conflict involved.'

I had a gigantic lump in my throat. Maybe I was allergic to halal biscuits.

‘She's a truly great friend,' I said.

‘You couldn't do better than ask her advice about your other friend.'

‘Who? Oh . . . err . . . that's a good idea.'

‘And perhaps about your sister as well?'

‘Umm . . . yes, right, maybe.'

‘And Lia, if you feel you need guidance . . . advice . . . then you are always most welcome.'

‘I've got loads of advice,' I said. ‘I've got a Winner's Adviser and a personal bank manager and two parents, thank you very much.'

‘I mean spiritual advice.'

‘I know. Thanks anyway.'

I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I didn't stop until I was halfway down Jack's street passing
that
newsagent, going up his front path.

The imam couldn't sort this out for me. I was going to have to do it myself.

If Shazia wanted to be with Jack, and Jack wanted to be with Shazia, surely religion wouldn't stand in their way.

But that made it even more important that she never found out I'd slept with him.

Chapter 30

‘Life is a lottery.' People say that a lot. I don't really think it's true. Who expects to win when they buy a lottery ticket? Only the most stupid person imaginable. Mostly you think, it's only a pound or two, it's only a chance, I might win a tenner, it doesn't really matter. Imagine if life really was like a lottery. Imagine if every choice you made you thought, oh well, it doesn't really matter. It's all just chance and luck. I'm probably going to lose. You wouldn't care, would you? You wouldn't take care over your decisions. You wouldn't bother to think about what you were doing, work towards anything, make healthy or intelligent choices. Life isn't really a lottery at all. It's just that a lot of people act as though it were.