Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  Having her out of my life isn’t going to change my life in any way other than getting a change of address. Hell, I might even get more regular benefits now that I’m single! No, I’m not only better off without her because she’s a cheating, slutbag whore, but I’m better off because our relationship, quite frankly, was shite.

  Now if I suddenly lost Abi, that would be a catastrophe. The mere thought of not being able to pick up the phone and hear her laugh at some stupid joke I tell her makes my breath catch. I get that gripping pain in my chest that makes me think I’m having a heart attack, and tears well in my eyes. And that’s just thinking about losing her as a friend. Not being able to go round and have tea with her and Rosie. Not being able to go round with a bottle of wine and talk about everything and nothing. Not being able to go out for the day with them, to the zoo, or to see the lights at Blackpool. To not have these things in my life would be unbearable for me.

  “So, what do you think you’ll do with the money?”

  Mum’s question snaps me out of my daydreams. “I don’t know.” I’ve not exactly had a lot of time to think about it. What with everything else that happened yesterday. And the drinking. “What would you do?”

  She swallows the last of her breakfast before she speaks. The significant pause, preparing me properly for her words of wisdom. “I’d go on holiday.”

  “Where to?”

  “Vegas, baby!”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. I want to go gambling in all the casinos.”

  “Roulette?”

  “No. Blackjack.”

  “But you can’t even play Snap.”

  “So? With all that money it doesn’t matter if I lose a bit. I’ll just use it to get in with the movers and the shakers.”

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “Maybe a bit. I would go away for a bit first, though. Then I’d pay off the mortgage. Find a really, really nice old people’s home for your Gran Bow. With really, really big locks on the doors, and bars on the windows, and no telephones. Find myself a lovely hunky boy toy to clean the pool at the new house I’m going to buy. And I’ll design a really little uniform for him to wear while he’s working for me.”

  “Mum, you’re a pervert—”

  “And?”

  “Can we get a lady gardener too?”

  “Who says I’m living with you? You can have your own house with a pool and a pool girl. You’ll get a smaller uniform allowance. Use it wisely.”

  “You’ve thought about this, I can tell.”

  “Yep, last night after you passed out.”

  “So, seriously, then, what would you do?”

  “For me? Or if I was you?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  “Well, since you and your brother are the most important people to me, I’d make sure that you were both happy, settled, and secure for your future. So you had the homes you both wanted and enough money in the bank that you’d never want for anything. Then I’d go and have some fun. I’ve spent a lot of years with barely enough money to get by. I don’t regret any of it. I’ve got you both, and you make me so proud, I could burst. So I would go and have a bit of fun. Travel a bit, probably. You all right? You’ll catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that.”

  “You’re proud of me?”

  “’Course I am.”

  “Why? Winning the money was just a bit of luck—”

  “It’s got nothing to do with the money. I’m not proud of you because of that. Genna, I’m proud of you for so many things. Take yesterday. Do you know how many times I caught your father cheating on me?”

  I know I shook my head because she carried on talking.

  “Three. Three times I caught him, and I still didn’t have the guts to kick him out. He was the one who left me. You walked in and saw what was going on. No stopping to think about it. No questions, you were out of there. I’m so proud of you for not letting her take advantage of you. For knowing that you deserve to be treated better than that and making sure it happened. I’m proud of you for sticking by that decision, even when I know damn well she would have been trying to talk you round when you went back in. I’m proud of you for all the people you’ve helped with your program. I’m proud of everything you do, baby. I love the very bones of you, kid, and if you really didn’t know that, then I need shooting for not telling you before.”

  “I love you too, Mum.”

  Tears are pouring down my face. Tears are pouring down her face. Then the train pulls up. I’m quiet until we are sitting in our seats.

  “Would you be upset if I give some of it away?”

  “No. It’s your money. Why would you think I’d be upset?”

  “I want to give some to all the family.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Including Auntie Rita and Uncle Kevin.”

  “And the chav twins no doubt.”

  “You shouldn’t call them that.”

  “Why not? They epitomise the name.”

  “No they don’t.” Actually, yes, they do. And Mum is so going to…

  “Yes they do. Lazy good-for-nothings. And you know damn well that they’ll be living off benefits just as soon as they leave school.”

  I wish I could disagree…but I really can’t.

  “Yeah, okay, you’ve got a point.” Uncle Kevin and Auntie Rita are my dad’s brother and sister. Auntie Rita has two kids. Twins. Tyrone and Tyson. Not identical. Thank God. That would have been far too traumatic. The little buggers get into enough trouble without having a doppelganger to blame all their shit on. They’re already on Greater Manchester Police’s speed dial for any crime committed in the general vicinity of Wythenshawe. They aren’t hardened criminals per se. More wheeler-dealer kind of boys. Mostly dealers, I’d have to say. But they are only twelve. There’s still plenty of time.

  Uncle Kevin has seven children that we know of. All different mums. My Gran Collins calls them the seven dwarfs ’cos she can’t remember their real names, so she’s nicknamed them all. Grumpy, that’s my cousin Conor, he’s fourteen, in the Air Cadets, and wants to be a pilot in the RAF. She calls him Grumpy because he’s a pretty serious kid. Sleepy, also known as Shane. Eighteen and a bit of a pothead. Hence, Sleepy. Sneezy is my four-year-old cousin Patrick. He suffers from allergies. A lot. Bashful is three and better known to everyone else as Shannon. I swear, you only have to look at that kid and she hides behind her mother. I barely know what she looks like.

  Doc, aka Callum, is actually twelve and something of a mad scientist. His mum is married to a pilot for British Airways, and now she sends him to private school. No one has ever figured out how Uncle Kev ended up with Callum’s mum, but Callum is the absolute spitting image of Uncle Kev, so she couldn’t deny the parentage, never mind Kevin. Anyway, he thinks he’s cleverer than everyone else, hence, Doc. Then we have Dopey. Dopey is fifteen, and he really is Dopey. Even his teachers call him Dopey. I don’t think anyone actually knows what his real name is anymore. And finally we have Happy, that’s Rosie. Everyone tells Gran off about calling her Happy, but Rosie actually seems to like it and tries to get other people to call her Happy too. As you can imagine, Uncle Kev’s forever moving between different friends’ sofas so the CSA can’t find him. I dread to think what he owes in Child Support payments.

  “All of the kids too?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I take it you’re going to do the same on our side?”

  “Yeah.” Mum has two older brothers, who each have two kids, who each have two kids.

  “Good job you won loads, then, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what’s your plan?”

  “I haven’t figured it out just yet, but I don’t want to tell the world, so I need to make sure they all keep it to themselves too.”

  “Make ’em sign a nondisclosure thingy that says they have to give the money back if they ever tell anyone, with interest! That’ll keep the buggers quiet.”

  “Good ide
a.” An idea is forming. It’s brewing. I can indulge in my theatrical side, build the anticipation before bequeathing my loved ones…and the rest of my family…with generous amounts of money. Perhaps a gift too. Something small, not too extravagant, a car or something. I spend the whole train ride planning. I’m not going to tell you about it right now.

  Wait and see.

  * * *

  The offices of Camelot HQ are not what I was expecting. Don’t ask me why, I know it’s ridiculous, but I always expected Camelot HQ to be a castle. Boy, am I disappointed. It’s a pretty nondescript office building in an industrial estate, in the middle of Watford. The reception desk is just like a normal reception desk in a big office. I feel as if everything should be a bit fantastical, a bit magical. This is a place where people have their dreams come true by winning sums of money that can make their lives so much better. That’s what it is for me. I’m here, and this is going to change not just my life, but the lives of everyone who is important to me. It’s an amazing feeling. The possibilities. The potential. The excitement. I feel as if I’m going to burst with it all.

  I guess I’m expecting to see some of that magic reflected in the place, but I don’t. It’s all just…normal. Ordinary. It feels almost depressing compared to the euphoric elation inside me. Like I’m the only thing in colour and the rest of the world is in black and white all of a sudden.

  “Miss Collins?”

  Mum elbows me in the ribs, just in case I’d not heard the woman.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Emma Whittle. Would you follow me, please?”

  Mum follows behind me as I follow the woman down a corridor to a conference room.

  “Can I get you something to drink? We have tea and coffee, of course. Or I can get you a soft drink?”

  I sit down and scream when Mum manages to bounce her chair so close to mine, the arm rest lands on top of mine and traps my fingers. My right hand. My handshaking hand, and no skin on the knuckles. I look like a prize fighter.

  “Coffee would be good, thanks.”

  “Me too, please,” Mum says to Ms Whittle, then to me, “Sorry about your hand.”

  I mumble for her not to worry about it and stick my knuckle in my mouth to try and stop the bleeding.

  “I’ll be right back with your coffees, and Mr Hansen will be in to go through everything with you.”

  The coffee is hot and strong and goes a long way to clearing the rest of the hangover that’s lurking. Mr Hansen is a rather short man with a blond mullet, a canary yellow tie, and an exuberant personality. His firm handshake starts my knuckle bleeding again before he holds out a handkerchief for me to use. I didn’t think anyone carried a handkerchief anymore.

  “Miss Collins, Mrs Collins, I am delighted to meet you. I am Fred Hansen and I will be your lottery advisor. I will arrange for the money to be transferred to an assigned account or accounts once we have verified the ticket and your identity. I can also offer advice on how to proceed with any details, if that is your wish. Any legal and official subjects that you may wish to discuss. Everything here is completely confidential, as is your identity, unless you allow us to release your name to the media. In which case I will still hold any information in confidence but your name and where the ticket was purchased.”

  “I don’t want you to release my name to the media.”

  “Then I won’t.” He smiled at me. He’s got very straight teeth. “I will ask you to sign a form to that effect in a little while, if that is all right with you?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Very well. The first thing I must do now is ask you to show me the ticket and some form of photographic identification, please.”

  I pull my driver’s license, passport, and ticket out of my bag and slide them across the desk to him.

  “Excellent, thank you. I also need to ask where you purchased the ticket?”

  “At the newsagent’s on Northgate Road. I’m sorry I don’t remember the name of the shop. It’s just around the corner from where I live. Well, where I did live.”

  “Have you moved recently?”

  “Just back to my mum’s.”

  “Oh. So there is a different address than the one on your driver’s license?”

  “Yes. Does that matter?”

  “No. It’s just for our records if we need to get in touch until everything is transferred.”

  “Well, I can easily give you Mum’s address and my mobile number. That would be the easiest way.”

  “Very well. I’ll just go and get these documents photocopied and get some paper for your details. Can I get you anything? More coffee, perhaps?”

  “No thanks, I’m fine.”

  “Me too.” Mum says and then waits until he’s left the room before she pounces. “Nosey bugger. Did you see how he was trying to find out your business—”

  “He was not, Mum. He just needs to know how to get hold of me.”

  “A likely story.”

  “Mum, seriously, stop it.”

  “But—”

  “No.” The door opens, and Mr Hansen walks back to his seat, passing my documents to me along with a piece of paper and a pen. I smile at the lottery logo on top of the paper. It really is happening. I write down my name and address. My mobile number. Mum’s home telephone number. My e-mail address. Personal and work. Work telephone number, in case they need me when I go in to clean out my desk. I debate putting Mum’s mobile number on the page but decide against it. They can always retry some of the other numbers before subjecting someone to Mum’s hit-and-miss mobile answering technique. It goes something like this….

  Ring ring.

  “What’s that bloody ringing about?”

  “It’s your mobile.”

  Ring ring.

  “Well, where is it?”

  “Wherever you left it.”

  Ring ring.

  “You answer it for me.”

  “It’s your phone.”

  Ring ring.

  “So?”

  “So they probably want to speak to you.”

  Ring ring.

  “Then why don’t they call me at home?”

  “Because they might get free calls to the same network?”

  Ring ring.

  “But I don’t like the little buttons.”

  Ring ri—

  “Has it gone off?”

  “Probably.”

  “Have I missed it?”

  “More than likely.”

  “See, they didn’t want to speak to me.”

  “Of course not.”

  So obviously I decide against this mode of communication. I pass the paper to Mr Hansen.

  “So, what happens now?”

  “Well,” he says and slides the paper back, “if you put the bank details on here where you would like the money transferred to, I will get that arranged today. The money will then be in your account in four to five working days. If you want it by cheque, it will take a few days to raise the cheque, then post it out to you, then five working days for it to clear in your account.”

  I scribble my account number and sort code across the page.

  “Excellent. I will call and let them know to expect a large deposit so they don’t freeze the account due to unusual activity. Unfortunately, it has happened before.” He smiles.

  “Thank you, that’s much appreciated.”

  “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can help you with? We do have a counsellor on staff who can talk to you about your good fortune. We also have financial advisors here who can help you—”

  “Thank you, I don’t think I’ll need all that, but can I get your contact details, in case I have any questions?”

  “Certainly.” He hands me a card from the breast pocket of his jacket. I offer him his handkerchief back. “Keep it, please. I have plenty of them.”

  “Thank you, Mr Hansen.”

  “Good luck to you, Ms Collins. This time next week, you will be an extremely wealthy young lady. We have counsellor
s here who are trained to help people come to terms with this, if you need.”

  “Thanks, but I have a lot of family to help keep me grounded.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Feel free to keep in touch.”

  He leads us back to the reception where the secretary calls us a taxi.

  CHAPTER 5

  ABI

  I pick up the ringing phone, grimacing when I see it’s from my least favourite chat line. There are four lines that I work on, because I’m good at them and I can make a lot of money in a relatively short space of time. It beats flipping burgers and keeps the bailiffs from knocking.

  The standard chat line is the easy one. Nothing particularly kinky, just a little dirty talk, some heavy breathing, the occasional sound effect, and it’s all over. The two-to-one lines. Those are the fun ones. The ones where you double-team a caller with another girl and both do the dirty talk, heavy breathing, and occasional sound effects. Add in pretending to kiss each other more than the caller, and like I said, these are the fun calls. But the profit is split two ways, so they really weren’t worth much. The girls-only line, self-explanatory. Just like the standard line, but with only female callers. I actually don’t mind those calls. I can pretend there’s someone on the other end that I actually wouldn’t mind having phone sex with. Like, oh, I don’t know, Genna.

  The last line I work for the night is the one that makes me the big money. The dom line. The line that lets me treat the callers like the dirty, little weasels most of them are and get paid for the pleasure. It’s my least favourite because I always, always feel more than a little queasy after I finish a call. This line has little in common with the other two lines, except for one thing. The longer I keep them on, the more money I make.

  I take a deep breath and hold the receiver to my ear.

  “Tell me what you’re wearing,” the heavy breather says.

  Original? Not. “I don’t think so, maggot. Get on your knees and take your hand off your cock.” I can hear muffled movement and a small groan.

  “I’m kneeling down. What next?”

  “Next you remember to call me ‘mistress’, or I’ll hang up and block this number. Do you understand me?”

  He’s groaning down the phone. “Yes, mistress.”