But the two of us had a whale of a time sloshing back wine until the early hours. Actually, Suze had a secret little weep at about two A.M. and said she was hopeless at every job she’d tried and what was she going to do? I said I thought she was far too interesting and creative to be one of those snooty Brandon C girls. Which I wasn’t just saying to be nice, it’s completely true. I gave her a big hug and she cried some more, then we both cheered up and ordered another bottle of wine, and tried on all each other’s clothes. I lent Suze my belt with the square silver buckle, which, come to think of it, she’s never given back. And we kept in touch ever since.
Then, when Julia suddenly upped and ran off with the professor supervising her Ph.D. (she was a dark horse, that one), Suze suggested I move in with her. I’m sure the rent she charges is too low, but I’ve never insisted I pay the full market rate, because I couldn’t afford it. As market rates go, I’m nearer Elephant and Castle than Fulham on my salary. How can normal people afford to live in such hideously expensive places?
“Bex, open it up!” Suze is begging. “Let me see!” She’s grabbing inside the bag with eager long fingers, and I pull it away quickly before she rips it. This bag is going on the back of my door along with my other prestige carrier bags, to be used in a casual manner when I need to impress. (Thank God they didn’t print special “Sale” bags. I hate shops that do that. What’s the point of having a posh bag with “Sale” splashed all over it?)
Very slowly, I take the dark green box out of the bag, remove the lid, and unfold the tissue paper. Then, almost reverentially, I lift up the scarf. It’s beautiful. It’s even more beautiful here than it was in the shop. I drape it around my neck and grin stupidly at Suze.
“Oh, Bex,” she murmurs. “It’s gorgeous!”
For a moment we are both silent. It’s as though we’re communing with a higher being. The god of shopping.
Then Suze has to go and ruin it all.
“You can wear it to see James this weekend,” she says.
“I can’t,” I say almost crossly, taking it off again. “I’m not seeing him.”
“How come?”
“I’m not seeing him anymore.” I try to give a nonchalant shrug.
“Really?” Suze’s eyes widen. “Why not? You didn’t tell me!”
“I know.” I look away from her eager gaze. “It’s a bit … awkward.”
“Did you chuck him? You hadn’t even shagged him!” Suze’s voice is rising in excitement. She’s desperate to know. But am I desperate to tell? For a moment I consider being discreet. Then I think, oh, what the hell?
“I know,” I say. “That was the problem.”
“What do you mean?” Suze leans forward. “Bex, what are you talking about?”
I take a deep breath and turn to face her.
“He didn’t want to.”
“Didn’t fancy you?”
“No. He—” I close my eyes, barely able to believe this myself. “He doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.”
“You’re joking.” I open my eyes to see Suze looking at me in horror—as if she’s just heard the worst profanity known to mankind. “You are joking, Becky.” She’s actually pleading with me.
“I’m not.” I manage a weak smile. “It was a bit embarrassing, actually. I kind of … pounced on him, and he had to fight me off.”
The cringingly awful memory which I had successfully suppressed starts to resurface. I’d met James at a party a few weeks back, and this was the crucial third date. We’d been out for a really nice meal, which he’d insisted on paying for, and had gone back to his place, and had ended up kissing on the sofa.
Well, what was I supposed to think? There he was, there I was—and make no mistake, if his mind was saying no, his body was certainly saying yes, yes, yes. So, being a modern girl, I reached for his trouser zip and began to pull it down. When he reached down and brushed me aside I thought he was playing games, and carried on, even more enthusiastically.
Thinking back, perhaps it took me longer than it should have to guess that he wasn’t playing ball, so to speak. In fact, he actually had to punch me in the face to get me off him—although he was very apologetic about it afterward.
Suze is gazing at me incredulously. Then she breaks into gurgles of laughter.
“He had to fight you off? Bex, you man-eater!”
“Don’t!” I protest, half laughing, half embarrassed. “He was really sweet about it. He asked, was I prepared to wait for him?”
“And you said, not bloody likely!”
“Sort of.” I look away.
In fact, carried away with the moment, I seem to remember issuing him a bit of a challenge. “Resist me now if you can, James,” I recall saying in a husky voice, gazing at him with what I thought were limpid, sexual eyes. “But you’ll be knocking at my door within the week.”
Well, it’s been over a week now, and I haven’t heard a peep. Which, if you think about it, is pretty unflattering.
“But that’s hideous!” Suze is saying. “What about sexual compatibility?”
“Dunno.” I shrug. “I guess he’s willing to take that gamble.”
Suze gives a sudden giggle. “Did you get a look at his …”
“No! He wouldn’t let me near it!”
“But could you feel it? Was it tiny?” Suze’s eyes gleam wickedly. “I bet it’s teeny. He’s hoping to kid some poor girl into marrying him and being stuck with a teeny todger all her life. Narrow escape, Bex!” She reaches for her packet of Silk Cut and lights up.
“Stay away!” I say. “I don’t want my scarf smelling of smoke!”
“So what are you doing this weekend?” she asks, taking a drag. “Will you be OK? Do you want to come down to the country?”
This is how Suze always refers to her family’s second home in Hampshire. The Country. As though her parents own some small, independent nation that nobody else knows about.
“No, ’s’OK,” I say, morosely picking up the TV guide. “I’m going to Surrey. Visit my parents.”
“Oh well,” says Suze. “Give your mum my love.”
“I will,” I say. “And you give my love to Pepper.”
Pepper is Suze’s horse. She rides him about three times a year, if that, but whenever her parents suggest selling him she gets all hysterical. Apparently he costs £15,000 a year to run. Fifteen thousand pounds. And what does he do for his money? Just stands in a stable and eats apples. I wouldn’t mind being a horse.
“Oh yeah, that reminds me,” says Suze. “The council tax bill came in. It’s three hundred each.”
“Three hundred pounds?” I look at her in dismay. “What, straight away?”
“Yeah. Actually, it’s late. Just write me a check or something.”
“Fine,” I say airily. “Three hundred quid coming up.”
I reach for my bag and write a check out straight away. Suze is so generous about the rent, I always pay my share of the bills, and sometimes add a bit extra. But still, I’m feeling cold as I hand it over. Three hundred pounds gone, just like that. And I’ve still got that bloody VISA bill to think of. Not a great month.
“Oh, and someone called,” adds Suze, and squints at a piece of paper. “Erica Parsnip. Is that right?”
“Erica Parsnip?” Sometimes I think Suze’s mind has been expanded just a little too often.
“Parnell. Erica Parnell from Endwich Bank. Can you call her.”
I stare at Suze, frozen in horror.
“She called here? She called this number?”
“Yes. This afternoon.”
“Oh shit.” My heart starts to thump. “What did you say? Did you say I’ve got glandular fever?”
“What?” It’s Suze’s turn to stare. “Of course I didn’t say you’ve got bloody glandular fever!”
“Did she ask about my leg? Anything about my health at all?”
“No! She just said where were you? And I said you were at work—”
“Suze!” I wail in dismay.
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“Well, what was I supposed to say?”
“You were supposed to say I was in bed with glandular fever and a broken leg!”
“Well, thanks for the warning!” Suze gazes at me, eyes narrowed, and crosses her legs back into the lotus position. Suze has got the longest, thinnest, wiriest legs I’ve ever known. When she’s wearing black leggings she looks just like a spider. “What’s the big deal, anyway?” she says. “Are you overdrawn?”
Am I overdrawn?
I smile back as reassuringly as I can. If Suze had any idea of my real situation, she’d need more than yoga to calm her down.
“Just a tad.” I give a careless shrug. “But I’m sure it’ll work itself out. No need to worry!”
There’s silence, and I look up to see Suze tearing up my check. For a moment I’m completely silenced, then I stutter, “Suze! Don’t be stupid!”
“Pay me back when you’re in the black,” she says firmly.
“Thanks, Suze,” I say in a suddenly thickened voice—and as I give her a big hug I can feel tears jumping into my eyes. Suze has got to be the best friend I’ve ever had.
But there’s a tense feeling in my stomach, which stays with me all evening and is still there when I wake up the next morning. A feeling I can’t even shift by thinking about my Denny and George scarf. I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling and, for the first time in months, calculate how much I owe to everybody. The bank, VISA, my Harvey Nichols card, my Debenhams card, my Fenwicks card … And now Suze, too.
It’s about … let’s think … it’s about £6,000.
A cold feeling creeps over me as I contemplate this figure. How on earth am I going to find £6,000? I could save £6 a week for a thousand weeks. Or £12 a week for five hundred weeks. Or … or £60 a week for a hundred weeks. That’s more like it. But how the hell am I going to find £60 a week?
Or I could bone up on lots of general knowledge and go on a game show. Or invent something really clever. Or I could … win the lottery. At the thought, a lovely warm glow creeps over me, and I close my eyes and snuggle back down into bed. The lottery is by far the best solution.
I wouldn’t aim to win the jackpot of course—that’s completely unlikely. But one of those minor prizes. There seem to be heaps of those going around. Say, £100,000. That would do. I could pay off all my debts, buy a car, buy a flat …
Actually, better make it £200,000. Or a quarter of a million.
Or, even better, one of those shared jackpots. “The five winners will each receive £1.3 million.” (I love the way they say that: “One point three.” As if that extra £300,000 is a tiny, insignificant amount. As if you wouldn’t notice whether it was there or not.)
One point three million should see me straight. And it’s not being greedy, is it, to want to share your jackpot? Please, God, I think, let me win the lottery and I promise to share nicely.
And so, on the way down to my parents’ house I stop off at a petrol station to buy a couple of lottery tickets. Choosing the numbers takes about half an hour. I know 44 always does well, and 42. But what about the rest? I write out a few series of numbers on a piece of paper and squint at them, trying to imagine them on the telly.
1 6 9 16 23 44
No! Terrible! What am I thinking of? One never comes up, for a start. And 6 and 9 look wrong, too.
3 14 21 25 36 44
That’s a bit better. I fill in the numbers on the ticket.
5 11 18 27 28 42
I’m quite impressed by this one. It looks like a winner. I can just imagine Moira Stewart reading it out on the news. “One ticket-holder, believed to live in southwest London, has won an estimated jackpot of £10 million.”
For a moment, I feel faint. What’ll I do with £10 million? Where will I start?
Well, a huge party to begin with. Somewhere smart but cool, with loads of champagne and dancing and a taxi service so no one has to drive. And going-home presents, like really nice bubble bath or something. (Does Calvin Klein do bubble bath?)
Then I’ll buy houses for all my family and friends, of course. I lean against the lottery stand and close my eyes to concentrate. Suppose I buy twenty houses at £250,000 each. That’ll leave me … 5 million. Plus about £50,000 on the party.
So that’s £4,950,000. Oh, and I need £6,000 to pay off all my credit cards and overdraft. Plus £300 for Suze. Call it £7,000. So that leaves … £4,943,000.
Obviously, I’ll do loads for charity. In fact, I’ll probably set up a charitable foundation. I’ll support all those unfashionable charities that get ignored, like skin diseases and home helps for the elderly. And I’ll send a great big check to my old English teacher, Mrs. James, so she can restock the school library. Perhaps they’ll even rename it after me. The Bloomwood Library.
Oh, and £300 for that swirly coat in Whistles, which I must buy before they’re all snapped up. So how much does that leave? Four million, nine hundred and forty-three thousand, minus—
“Excuse me.” A voice interrupts me and I look up dazedly. The woman behind is trying to get at the pen.
“Sorry,” I say, and politely make way. But the interruption has made me lose track of my calculations. Was it 4 million or 5 million?
Then, as I see the woman looking at my bit of paper covered in scribbled numbers, an awful thought strikes me. What if one of my rejected sets of numbers actually comes up? What if I 6 9 16 23 44 comes up tonight and I haven’t entered it? All my life, I’d never forgive myself.
I quickly fill in tickets for all the combinations of numbers written on my bit of paper. That’s nine tickets in all. Nine quid—quite a lot of money, really. I almost feel bad about spending it. But then, that’s nine times as many chances of winning, isn’t it?
And I now have a very good feeling about 1 6 9 16 23 44. Why has that particular set of numbers leapt into my mind and stayed there? Maybe someone, somewhere, is trying to tell me something.
Four
WHEN I ARRIVE at my parents’ house, they are in the middle of an argument. Dad is halfway up a stepladder in the garden, poking at the gutter on the side of the house, and Mum is sitting at the wrought-iron garden table, leafing through a Past Times catalogue. Neither of them even looks up when I walk through the patio doors.
“All I’m saying is that they should set a good example!” Mum is exclaiming. She’s looking good, I think as I sit down. New hair color—pale brown with just a hint of gray—and a very nice red polo-neck jumper. Perhaps I’ll borrow that tomorrow.
“And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it?” replies Dad, looking down from the ladder. He’s got quite a few more gray hairs, I notice with a slight shock. Mind you, gray hair looks quite distinguished on him. “You think that would solve the problem?”
“Danger!” says Mum derisively. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Graham. Is that the opinion you really have of British society?”
“Hi, Mum,” I say. “Hi, Dad.”
“Becky agrees with me. Don’t you, darling?” says Mum, and points to a page of Past Times, full of 1930s reproduction jewelry and trinket boxes. “Lovely cardigan,” she adds sotto voce. “Look at that embroidery!” I follow her gaze and see a long, purple coatlike garment covered in colorful Art Deco swirls. I’d save the page and get it for her birthday—if I didn’t know she’ll probably have bought it herself by next week.
“Of course Becky doesn’t agree with you!” retorts my dad. “It’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”
“No it’s not!” says Mum indignantly. “Becky, you think it would be a good idea for the royal family to travel by public transport, don’t you, darling?”
“Well …” I say cautiously. “I hadn’t really …”
“You think the queen should travel to official engagements on the ninety-three bus?” scoffs Dad.
“And why not? Maybe then the ninety-three bus would become more efficient!”
“So,” I say, sitting down next to Mum. “How are things?”
“You realize this country is on the verge of gridlock?” says Mum, as if she hasn’t heard me. “If more people don’t start using public transport, our roads are going to seize up.”
My dad shakes his head.
“And you think the queen traveling on the ninety-three bus would solve the problem. Never mind the security problems, never mind the fact that she’d be able to do far fewer engagements …”
“I didn’t mean the queen, necessarily,” retorts Mum. “But some of those others. Princess Michael of Kent, for example. She could travel by tube, every so often, couldn’t she? These people need to learn about real life.”
The last time my mum traveled on the tube was about 1983.
“Shall I make some coffee?” I say brightly.
“If you ask me, this gridlock business is utter nonsense,” says my dad. He jumps down from the stepladder and brushes the dirt off his hands. “It’s all propaganda.”
“Propaganda?” exclaims my mum in outrage.
“Right,” I say hurriedly. “Well, I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
I walk back into the house, flick the kettle on in the kitchen, and sit down at the table in a nice patch of sunshine. I’ve already forgotten what my mum and dad are arguing about. They’ll just go round and round in circles and agree it’s all the fault of Tony Blair. Anyway, I’ve got more important things to think about. I’m trying to figure out exactly how much I should give to Philip, my boss, after I win the lottery. I can’t leave him out, of course—but is cash a bit tacky? Would a present be better? Really nice cufflinks, perhaps. Or one of those picnic hampers with all the plates inside. (Clare Edwards, obviously, will get nothing.)
Sitting alone in the sunny kitchen, I feel as though I have a little glowing secret inside me. I’m going to win the lottery. Tonight, my life is going to change. God, I can’t wait. Ten million pounds. Just think, tomorrow I’ll be able to buy anything I want. Anything!
The newspaper’s open in front of me at the property section and I carelessly pick it up to peruse expensive houses. Where shall I live? Chelsea? Notting Hill? Mayfair? Belgravia, I read. Magnificent seven-bedroom detached house with staff annex and mature garden. Well, that sounds all right. I could cope with seven bedrooms in Belgravia. My eye flicks complacently down to the price and stops still with shock. Six point five million pounds. That’s how much they’re asking. Six and a half million.
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