The hall is lit. Floodlights shine up the walls of the great Italianate manor as they go around the lake, and a small herd of deer run by in the trees. I can only guess what they’re thinking when they stop and a footman in full Georgian regalia opens the door and helps Kylie out first. She stares, open-mouthed, at his attire, the white stockings, the black buckle shoes, the scarlet knee-length pants, and the heavily embroidered jacket with a white, ruffled scarf showing at the neck. It was the powdered wig that seems to hold her attention completely. She doesn’t seem to notice all the doormen holding flaming torches on either side of the great double doors. Liam is equally in shock. If I’m honest, it’s more than I expected too. I almost wish I’d arranged to have everyone arrive in horse-drawn carriages rather than stretch limousines.
“May I take your names, please?” the footman asks.
“Liam Hunter, and this is my girlfriend, Kylie Ross,” Liam says.
“Excellent. And you are?”
“My apologies. Roger Frasiers.”
“Of course. Our host is expecting you all. If you would like to follow me, I will show you in. And may I take this opportunity to welcome you all to Lyme Hall?”
CHAPTER 8
GENNA
The hall is even better than I remember from my year-nine school trip. Well, what I can see of it from between the huge heavy curtains that I’m hiding behind. The chandeliers have proper candles, with crystals amplifying the light around the corridors, hallways, and rooms. It makes the air smell a little bit smoky and feel just a bit warm. It was originally built during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, but most of the building was remodelled during the Edwardian period, giving it the Italianate features it boasts. The asymmetrical pilasters and a screen of fluted ionic columns give it the grandiose air that only befits a hall of its age and prestige. The huge hanging portraits of long-dead kings and the Black Prince tower over people as they walk by. These are relics of a past well known yet almost forgotten in the day-to-day bustle of modern life. I looked it all up on Wiki.
The staff members are all wearing full Georgian costume, which dates back to when the hall enjoyed prominence in the politicking of British society. Scarlet-red, royal-blue, and forest-green jackets and britches adorn people who run around in powdered wigs and black, buckled shoes. The cooks have prepared a fantastic feast for us all to enjoy and the banquet hall is set for everyone. Tables of eight. The seating plan has taken me pretty much the whole day to organise in my own version of Real Housewives meets Survivor—Mr Frasiers being the survivor…just.
My mum and Gran Collins are at opposite ends of the room, and Uncle Kev is as far from any of his kids’ mothers as I could possibly manage. I sat him with his mother and kept the Seven Dwarves and their mums near my mum at the other end of the room. It’s a bit like drawing up a battle plan.
The meal should go down well with everyone, even though I refused to just get takeaway pizzas. For starters, we have a choice of pâté with onion marmalade and granary toast or French onion soup with Gruyère croutons. Main course is beef Wellington with all the trimmings or coq au vin. For the one veggie amongst us—Callum’s mum—I thought that a spinach and ricotta tart would work. Dessert is either trifle, profiteroles, chocolate gateaux, or cheese and biscuits. I’m looking forward to that portion of the evening.
The whole telling-them-I’m-a-millionaire-and-as-long-as-they-keep-their-mouths-shut-I’ll-make-them-millionaires-too part…not so much. Too many things I can see going wrong. Too many questions that I don’t think I’ll be able to answer. Like, “If you’ve won all that much, why can’t we have more?” I’m fairly sure Aunt Rita and the evil twins will have a question like that on the tip of their tongues. And “What are you planning to do with the rest of it?” I’m sure Gran Collins will ask that one. Or “Do you know the next lot of winners?” That’ll likely be Uncle Kev. Ah well, too late to turn back now.
Liam and Kylie are the last ones to be escorted to the banquet hall and seated at the table with my mum, Michael, Gran Bow—Mum’s mum—and Cathy from work. The staff members in green start floating around. All thirty-one of them. One for each beneficiary. They spot their targets and get into position. I can hear Gran Collins talking while we wait.
“Ain’t them Frasiers the people off the telly? Them Heir Hunters people?”
“I don’t know, Mam. Tyrone! Put that bloody knife down now.” Auntie Rita already looks pretty stressed out.
“You do know. You watch it all the time. With that Lisa Falcon bird doin’ the voice over the top. The ones who find dead people relations and help ’em claim the money off the thieving government.” Heir Hunters is one of Gran Collins’s favourite telly programs. This company tries to track down the long-lost relatives of people who’ve kicked the bucket without leaving a will and don’t actually seem to have any next of kin. If the company can find some relatives, they try to get them to sign up so that this company can help them claim the money and get a cut of it. If they don’t find any relatives, the government gets all the money. Gran watches it in case she recognises a name. She thinks she can claim her fortune from someone who never even knew her.
“Oh, right. Yeah, I know who ya mean.”
“Them’s Frasiers, aren’t they?”
“Maybe. Why?”
“Well, didn’t he say his name was Frasier? That bloke this morning?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Well why do you think we’re all here?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell us anything. Tyson, stop blowing your drink out of your nose!”
“Well, he did say that we were to benefit from being here, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, and?”
“Rita, I bet someone’s died and left some money. Or a house or somethin’.”
“Tyrone, stop hitting your brother. Do you think?”
“Well, it’s the only thing that makes sense to me.” Gran Collins sits back, looking more than a bit smug with herself, I have to say.
“So, who’s died?” Rita asks.
“Not got the foggiest,” Gran says. “Looks like everyone’s ’ere to me. ’Cept our Graham, of course. He’s still in Canada.”
Canada? My dad’s in Canada? Are you shittin’ me? He’s in Canada and she knows? Now I told you my dad scarpered when I was two after lumbering me with the world’s worst name, right? Told you we hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him? Well, Gran swore she’d never heard from him either. Am I completely surprised to find out she did know where he was? Not really. But I think suspecting and knowing are two different things. I think that’s going to take a while to sink in.
“Do you think they’ve got cameras on us?” Gran asks.
“Eh?”
“For that telly program. Do you think we’ll all be on it?”
“Not got a clue, Mam,” Rita says.
Okay, time to get this show on the road. I think there’s more than enough drama and speculation going on. Let’s do this before I lose my nerve.
I signal the staff, and they move into position and place an envelope in front of each recipient. Mr Frasiers stands up and clears his throat.
“If you could all give me your attention, please.” He waits until everyone is looking at him. “Inside the envelopes are the details of the gifts that you will be given. Your only requirement is your continued discretion.”
“Our what?”
God bless Uncle Kev.
“You must continue to keep to yourselves where these gifts came from and how you got them.”
“Why the hell didn’t he just say that in the first place?” Uncle Kev grumbles.
“You have all already signed the contracts to agree to this, so please open your envelopes and learn what your gifts are.”
“Who died?” Gran Collins isn’t one for beating around the bush.
“Once you have opened your envelopes, the final details will be revealed.”
“Don’t be giving me all that. I asked you a question. You’ve brought us a
ll ’ere, now tell us why.”
“I will, once you open the envelopes. When you see what your gift is, you then have to decide if you will accept the gift with the terms attached. If not, you can refuse the gift and leave.”
“So we still won’t know why we’re ’ere?”
“If you chose to leave? No.”
I can see Mr Frasiers is starting to get a little frustrated. I consider stepping in and saving him from Gran Collins, but I’m enjoying myself far too much now, so I leave him to it.
“And what if I don’t think what’s in this envelope is worth the terms but I don’t want to turn it down either?”
“Then you will have to take that up with our host. I do think that this gift is a final settlement, if you will.”
“Final what?” Uncle Kev scratches his head.
“It’s the best we’re gonna get,” Rita tells him.
“Why does this guy not speak bloody English?”
Gran starts again. “So let me—”
“Shut up, Maureen, and open the bloody envelope.”
Thank you, Uncle Simon. He’s my mum’s oldest brother. There is a murmured round of “yeah” and “you tell ’er” and even one “’bout bloody time,” followed by thirty-one envelopes being ripped open.
There is a collective gasp all around the room.
Then silence.
You know, the kind of silence where you can literally hear a pin drop on the other side of the room? That kind of silence.
I can hear my watch ticking on my wrist. I hear an owl outside. I hear someone fart. Then a slapping sound as the farter is punished.
“Am I reading this right?” Uncle John, Mum’s other brother, is leaning over towards my Uncle Simon. “If we agree to keep our mouths shut, we get a million quid?”
“That’s what mine says.” Uncle Simon hands the papers to my Auntie Julie. “You read it and see if it says the same.”
Uncle John passes his papers to my Auntie Siobhan for her to do the same. All over the room, I can see husbands and wives passing papers back and forth. Liam’s whispering in Kylie’s ear for her to read it out to him. Gran Collins downs a glass of wine, then grabs the bottle off the table and takes a swig before offering Auntie Rita some. Uncle Kev is scribbling his name with a beautiful Mont Blanc pen and running over to Mr Frasiers with his page.
“’Ere. I’ll keep me gob shut.”
Somehow I seriously doubt that, but a flurry of signed papers starts heading in Mr Frasiers’s direction. Gran Collins is the last to stand in front of him with her page. She’s rather theatrical with it, bending over the table in front of him, signing the papers with great flourish, and pushing them towards him.
“Now will ya tell me who died?”
“No one has died, Mrs Collins.”
“Then where are we getting a million quid from? ’Ave we got another bloody hoop to jump through?”
“No. If you’ll all sit down, I will explain who your benefactor is and where the money has come from.”
Gran Collins sits back down, polishes off the rest of the bottle of wine, straight from the bottle, then picks up Uncle Kev’s beer.
“Hey that’s mine.”
“Shut up.”
“If I may—” Mr Frasiers says.
“Get on wiv it,” Uncle Kev shouts.
“Last week I was approached by a young woman who was fortunate enough to have picked some very lucky numbers on the Euromillions lottery—”
“Who won the lottery?”
“How much did they win?”
“Why are they giving us the money?”
“Who?”
Every table has a spokesperson. One person yelling out questions.
“I am not at liberty to divulge the full amount at this point. That is for the winner to do, if she wishes.”
“So who is it?”
This is my cue. I open the door and walk slowly across the room. The noise dies down again, and everyone is staring at me. I walk over to my mum. She stands up and gives me a hug.
“Drama queen,” she whispers in my ear while she’s still hugging me.
“Did you see Gran Collins signing that contract? I get it from her!”
“That’s not something to advertise. Thank you, baby. Am I the only one with two million?”
I still haven’t let go of her. “No, I did the same for Michael too. But that’s it. So keep it to yourself, would you?”
“Of course.”
Michael wraps his arms around me from behind trapping the three of us together. “Best big sister in the whole entire bloody world. I won’t mention numbers to anyone here.”
“Good. You and Mum got more, but it might incite the natives—”
“Say no more.” Michael is just like Mum. Tall, dark-haired, and blue-eyed. I always feel more than a little bit dwarfed. Right now, his bear hug is adding crushed and claustrophobic to the uncomfortable feeling.
“Okay, get off me now.”
Liam’s standing beside me. “Genna, is this for real?” He’s got tears in his eyes, his cheeks are red, and he looks little more than a boy in a sweet shop, torn between the wonder of it and the fear that the bounty is truly beyond his reach.
“Yeah.”
He blinked. “You’re giving me a million pounds?”
“Yeah.”
He starts to smile. A big toothy grin, spreading across his face. “Me?”
“Yeah.” I grin with him. So much so that I think my cheeks are going to fracture.
“Why?”
“Because I think you can do a lot of good with it, kiddo.”
He frowns, even though he’s still grinning. “What do you mean?”
“Take good care of that baby, and if you can, help your little sisters too. So they don’t have to struggle.”
Tears slip down his cheeks, and he looks down at the ground. He sniffs and then looks up at me again. “I will. You have my word. Thanks, Genna.” Then I’m crushed again as he wraps his long arms all around me. Kylie’s grinning at me from behind him. He finally lets go of me, I think I can feel three crushed ribs.
“I’m Kylie.” She holds out her hand.
I shake my head and pull her into a hug too. “I know.”
“You’ve never even met me. Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do. And I can.”
“Thank you.”
“Hey, Genna?” Liam says.
“Yep.”
“Does this mean you aren’t going to finish teaching me to read now?”
“Liam. I actually have no idea what I’m going to do right now, but I have a list of names of people who are going to help you with that if I can’t. Is that ok?” He nods and sits back down. I don’t see who spins me around and wraps their arms around me next.
“I’ll never tell ’em you won a hundred and fifty-six million, sweetie. When you’ve got a free night, I want you to come for tea. You and your mum.” Cathy moves back a bit. “Your mum told me about that bitch. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Fibber. But you know what?” She’s talking quite loudly now.
“What?”
“Well, you’re even more of a catch now. I’ll switch sides for ya.”
Mum is mid-drink, and it comes out of her nose. Michael’s eye starts twitching, and his hands are shaking when he tries to pat Mum on the back. Liam and Kylie are both laughing, and Gran Bow is trying to mop up spilt wine from the tablecloth.
“Sit down, Cathy, and stop causing trouble.” Laughing, I give her a little push towards the table. “Everyone, if we start the meal, I’ll come round and see you all one at a time. Is that all right?”
Murmurs of assent go around the room, and the waitstaff start taking orders.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around.
Claire.
We met when we were four years old and starting at primary school together. She was the only black girl in school—well, her dad’s black, and he
r mum’s white—and I was the only ginger. We were both also the only ones from broken homes. We formed our own little antisocial clique. We weren’t cool, but we didn’t give a shit. We had each other. She had her hair in pigtails and I had a braid in mine that first morning. We spent all break time switching, and we’ve been best friends ever since—through the lecture I got off my mum when I was five and took safety scissors to my red patent leather T-bar shoes to make them slip-ons. Through her mad experiment with eyebrow plucking that led to no eyebrows at all, at age twelve. Claire kissing a girl, age fourteen. Claire kissing me, age sixteen, then telling me it was like kissing her sister. My pregnancy scare at age seventeen, after a drunken one-night stand. Me finally coming out at age nineteen, after having a major crush on—okay, being totally in love with—Abi for as long as I’d known her. We went through Claire’s teeny-tiny, barely-worth-mentioning drug problem at age twenty-two. Through my mum getting a boyfriend, age twenty-three—my age, not Mum’s. My mum getting rid of said boyfriend, age twenty-four—me again, not Mum.
I haven’t realised how much I’ve missed her until now that she is standing right in front of me, all five-foot-and-a-half inch—a very important half inch—of Claire and another inch and a half of bleach-blond spikes. With crazy cat eye contact lenses, black army boots, purple-and-black-striped tights under utility shorts so long on her they look more like three-quarter- length trousers. The extra forty pounds that she’s carrying—which make her nearly as wide as she is tall—wobble as she shakes me in her tight embrace. It makes me smile. I’ve missed every damn half-inch of her.
“Don’t know about you, Ginge, but I kinda missed ya.”
“Me too. I’m a miss-able person, Spike.”
“Spike? That’s original.”
“After ‘Ginge’, you can just fuck off.” We’re hugging again. And crying. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wanted to, Red. Just couldn’t figure out how to say it. And you seemed so happy with her still. I told her that she needed to stop fucking about on you. She said she was going to. That she loved you, blah blah blah. I just didn’t know what to do for the best. I’m so sorry.”
Just My Luck Page 9
