Just My Luck

by Andrea Bramhall

  So ignoring the press is not an option.

  But what to tell them? The truth is the only option. I have to back up what I’m saying. I’ve got plenty of witnesses from the meal who will back me up and say that they all knew about my dad, but I didn’t. CSA records will show Dad’s lack of involvement in that way.

  Dad. Oh, I’m definitely telling him to go to hell.

  That just leaves me with Gran. Can I, in all good conscience, take away the money that I hoped would provide her with a good standard of living for the rest of her life? No.

  Can I take away the money I have just given her, conscience be damned?

  Trickier question. I am angry at the old cow, after all. Could I? Thinking. Thinking. Still thinking.

  Damn it. No. I can’t. I am weak. I am…nice!

  I can’t let her think she has won, though. I know this just sounds like pride, and maybe it is. But I can’t just let people walk all over me all the time, can I?

  So, how to teach her a lesson without causing undue hardship?

  “Is she still living in her council house?”

  “Who? Your gran?”

  “Yep.”

  “Yeah. You’ll have to bomb her out of that place. Even with all that money now—” She turns her head around, and her eyes lock onto me like the laser of a heat-seeking missile. “Why, Genesis Collins, I do believe you’ve gotten rather devious.”

  “Would you like to phone the council while I phone the old trout?”

  “Let’s do both together. It’ll be a bonding exercise.”

  “I like the way you think, Mrs Collins.”

  “Why, thank you, Ms Collins. Old trout first?”

  “Nope. Council first.”

  It’s actually a lot easier than I thought it would be to shop my own grandmother to the housing authorities. They ask how I can be so certain that she has come into this money, and I tell them I can provide a copy of the cheque and a bank statement to show that it had been taken from the account. I also have a copy of the contract that she signed upon receipt of the cheque. Now comes the tricky question. Why am I reporting this information?

  Spite? That doesn’t sound good. I know, an Elderly Person Education Program? Nah. Again, doesn’t sound good. Recycling initiatives? Reuse the resources now that they aren’t needed by the old bag? Again, doesn’t sound very good. Honesty? Ha! Fat chance.

  Got it!

  “Mrs Collins has the resources now to provide herself with a reasonable level of accommodation without assistance. There are other people in the area who are in greater need of the authorities’ help. I am sure Mrs Collins would have informed you herself, but she has been a little forgetful. Probably all the excitement since her windfall.”

  Mum winks at me as I hang up. “Nice. Remind me never to piss you off.”

  “Okay. So let’s call the old battleaxe.” I dial the number and take a deep breath before she answers.

  “Hello, Collins residence.”

  “Hello.”

  “Who is this?”

  What the hell? “Really? You don’t recognise my voice?”

  “Is that you, Genna?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “What a lovely surprise. How are you, dear?”

  “I was great until I read the newspapers this morning.”

  “Really, and why’s that?”

  Was that a quiver I detected in her voice there? “Well, Father on Welfare, Daughter a Millionaire was one of the headlines staring at me from the front page. Do you have something to tell me?”

  “I didn’t talk to them papers. I didn’t.”

  “No. I think you spoke to your son. And he’s the one who spoke to the papers.”

  “He wouldn’t have done that. I told him not to—”

  “So you did tell him. Against my wishes.”

  “You had no right to tell me who I could and couldn’t tell about my own—”

  “You agreed to it when you signed the papers. You didn’t have to sign them. I didn’t twist your arm up your back. I made you an offer with only one condition. You broke that condition.”

  “He’s your father. You should have told him.”

  “He never wanted to be my father. He’s never been anything more than a bloody sperm donor.”

  “Don’t talk like that about your dad.”

  “I’ll talk any way I want. Why shouldn’t I? He’s saying whatever he wants. To the papers, no less.”

  “He has a right to be upset. You just ignored him.”

  “I ignored him! Are you serious? He walked out on me when I was two years old! Not only has he ignored me my whole life, he has gone out of his way to make sure he had nothing to do with me. He even made you lie to me, made you not let me come to your house because he was there. So now I’m ignoring him!”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Lady, you aren’t real! You’ve told me more lies than I want to stomach, and I’m not the only one who you’ve continued to lie to. I warned you not to cross me, Gran. I warned you that telling him would be a mistake. Now I’m going to prove it.”

  “So, you’re really going to sue your own flesh and blood. Let’s see what the papers make of you suing an old lady to put her back on the poverty line.”

  “I’m not going to do that, Gran. But I will tell you now that you will regret what you’ve done to me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You like living in your house don’t you, Gran? Nice and comfortable, isn’t it? With the council making your rent really, really cheap?”

  “You haven’t?”

  “Oh yes, I have, Gran. I called Mr Powell at the housing authority just before I spoke to you, and I’m e-mailing copies of the evidence as we speak. If you want to stay in that house now, you’re going to have to buy it. Otherwise, the council will make you leave. Not to worry, hey. You’ve got plenty of money to get somewhere else, though, Gran. Between the money I gave you and the money your son’s made from the papers, you’ll both be fine.”

  “You little bitch.”

  “Thanks. I learnt it from you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and prove what a liar your son is to the British press.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Watch me.”

  I’m shaking. Literally shaking with rage when I hang up. At least I hope it’s anger. I want to say anger, but I fear it’s really pain. Mum’s dancing round the room singing the Meredith Brooks song, “Bitch.” Now I know where I get my lack of singing ability. And dancing. I really must bleach my brain.

  “Mum, do you think you still have any of the correspondence from the CSA?”

  “Yep, kept every letter. They’re all in the office slash library slash junk room.”

  “Good. Can you get them? I also need phone bills that cover the last year. Itemised.”

  “Got it.”

  I dial Abi’s number.

  “Hello.”

  God, just hearing her voice makes me feel better. Surely it should be illegal for one person to have this kind of effect on someone else. Especially when they don’t even know it. “Hi, Abi, it’s me.”

  “Genna. She’s a bitch of the first order.”

  “Can’t argue with that.” I smile through the pain I’m feeling.

  “What can I do to help you?”

  I want to shout down the phone “hold me” but manage to rein it in. Just knowing she wants to help makes me happy. It almost makes it worth the damn heartache. “I need to talk to the press. Can you come around and see if you can get any of the other mums? I need people who will agree that Gran, Kev, and Rita knew where he was and never told me, that the first I learnt of his whereabouts was at that meal.”

  “Got ya. When?”

  “As soon as possible, please, darlin’.”

  “No worries. I’ll get Rosie too. She’s been missing you.”

  “Cool beans. See ya’ in a bit.”

  By the time Mum digs out a stack of papers, Gran Bow, Liam and Kylie, Ca
thy, Claire, Michael, Abi, Rosie, and the tribe of mums are all on the way round, and I’m already on the phone to the fourth newspaper, setting up an impromptu press conference on Mum’s front lawn.

  Michael scans all the documents and sends them to Roger Frasiers to vet and put into a media pack to go to the press desk for their confirmation. By the time I’m done, we have a year’s worth of telephone records that show no contact from my “father.” Eighteen years’ worth of missed CSA payments for Michael and me. Photographs of me and Mike with Gran and all the Collins clan. No Dad. But the idea here is to show that I was not estranged from the whole family.

  My phone rings, buzzing across the table before I catch it and hold it to my ear. “Hello.”

  “Genna, I told them not to call him, I swear.”

  “Uncle Kev?”

  “Yeah. Mam and Rita were going on and on about it. I told them that it was wrong and that you’d made it clear that you didn’t want them to get in touch with him. I’m sorry, Genna.”

  Wow. I wasn’t expecting this. “Uncle Kev, thanks for sticking up for me.”

  “Fat lot of good it’s done. He’s a selfish prick. Do you want me to get Big T to sort ’im out for ya?”

  “Why would Big T do that for me? I kicked him out of the community centre for dealing drugs.”

  “I know. That’s kinda why. He respects you for standing up to ’im and ’elping out the lads. ’E thinks you’re, like, shit hot, and ’e’s been keeping an eye out for ya ever since.”

  “You’re joking, right?” I’m not entirely sure how I feel about having a drug-dealing gang leader as a fan of mine.

  “No.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Big T sets me up with shit now and then. He talks to me a bit. Asks me about you and stuff. I think he was trying to man up enough to ask you out.”

  “Uncle Kev, that’s never going to happen. If you talk to him again, tell him I’m not interested.”

  “I already told ’im you was a rug muncher. Didn’t seem to make no difference.”

  Such a lovely turn of phrase. “Well, you keep telling him, Uncle Kev.”

  “Do you want me to go and lamp our Graham?”

  “No. Thanks, Uncle Kev, but I don’t think violence is going to help here, really.”

  “Okay, he’d probably kick my arse anyway. What do you want me to do, kiddo?”

  “Can you come round here? I’m holding a press conference at one, and I could do with some support.”

  “I’ll come now.”

  “Uncle Kev?”

  “Yep?”

  “Where did you spend last night?”

  “In the Deuce.”

  The Deuce is the local pub where Uncle Kev gets drunk and high in between his AA meetings. It’s the kind of place where your feet stick to the floor when you walk in because it has never seen a mop and you take the strongest alcohol they have if you want a glass. It’s the only way to kill the bacteria. Oh, and you don’t need to wear lipstick either. There’s plenty of transfer available from the pint glasses the women drink from.

  “Why don’t you pick up a change of clothes on the way? You can jump in the shower when you get here.”

  “Well, I would, but Mam’s thrown me out, and now our Graham’s at her place, so I can’t really—”

  “No problem, Uncle Kev. We’ll get you sorted with something.”

  Funny, it’s Nina who volunteered to pick up clothes and stuff for him. As Gran Bow says, there’s nowt so strange as folk.

  One o’clock. The witching hour. The time I’ve asked all the journalists to be here. And they are. I can see them all through the net curtains. Mum grabs one hand, Abi grabs the other and we all step out onto the front lawn. Bulbs flash and cameras click. Rosie slips in between Abi’s leg and mine, threads her arms around my thigh, and stares at the sea of strange faces. I know she’s doing that because I am too. Reporters are shouting questions at me. Their voices all just blur into one. I’m shaking again. I don’t want this. I didn’t want publicity. I didn’t want recognition for something that was basically a cosmic roll of the dice. I just wanted to try and do some good with it.

  And what did I get?

  Kicked in the fucking teeth. I want to turn around and run away. I want to tell them all to stick it up their arses. I want to hide under a rock.

  I know. I know. Stop whining, and get on with it.

  Deep breath.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of the press.” Not a bad start. “Thank you for coming. I have a short statement and then I will answer a few of your questions. I’m sure you have many.”

  Deep breath.

  “Six weeks ago, now, I was fortunate enough to win a substantial amount of money on the Euromillions lottery. I decided that I did not wish to publicise this fact as I wanted to continue with a relatively normal life and felt that general knowledge of my good fortune would be detrimental to that wish. I did, however, wish to bestow some of my good fortune on my loved ones. Two weeks after I won the money, I gave sums to every member of my family that I know. I set up trust funds for those who are under eighteen, and I also gave money to some of my closest and dearest friends. All I asked was that they respect my right to privacy and not broadcast my good fortune.

  “I did not at this time include my father in this good fortune as I had no idea where he was. My father left my mother, myself, and my younger brother when the doctor informed him of my brother’s birth. None of us have seen him since.” I hold up the sheaf of papers in my hand.

  “I have here letters from the CSA regarding all the missed payments of child support for myself and Michael. I have the itemised telephone records for every phone that I’ve had anything to do with for the last year, showing no calls from my father to any of them. I have never had any knowledge of his whereabouts, and believed that no member of my family did either. I was sadly mistaken in this belief.

  “I found out when I gave my grandmother some of the money I won that she had known since the day he left where he was. I also learnt that he has visited her and other members of his family—my family—on many occasions throughout the last twenty-two years, yet he has never made any attempt to contact either myself or Michael. Indeed, this year when he visited at Christmas, I learnt that he stayed with my grandmother in her home. I tried on several occasions to arrange a time to visit with my gran to give her the gifts and cards I had bought for her for Christmas. She made excuses so that I didn’t go round to her house. I learnt that this was so that I would not meet my father. My grandmother led me to believe that this was at his request. My cousins took this occasion to tell me how well they got along with their uncle—my father—and which gifts he had given them for Christmas. I believe a watch and a mobile phone were the items given to them. Neither Michael nor myself have ever had so much as a card from him in over twenty years.

  “I have not ignored my father. I simply do not have one. That is a choice he made many years ago. He has made his wishes very clear that he never wanted anything to do with either of his children. Knowing where he is does not change that fact. So I choose to respect the choice he made all those years ago.

  “I have instructed my solicitor to forward copies of these papers to each of your press desks for you to look over and decide for yourselves if I deserve the vilification I have met in today’s headlines.

  “Thank you for listening. If you would like to ask any questions now, I will take a few.”

  “Ms Collins, is it true that you threatened to sue anyone who spoke about your winnings?”

  “I asked all recipients of the money to sign a contract which stated that if they broke the conditions of the contract, they would be expected to return the money they were given.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “I have no idea. You should ask him.”

  “How much did you win?”

  “That is a private matter between Camelot and myself.”

  “Is the little girl yours?”<
br />
  “No, this is my cousin Rosie.”

  “I’m face friends with God.” Abi, Claire, and my mum giggle. The reporters all look confused. Perfect.

  “If you have no other questions, then, I’ll say goodbye.”

  “Wait. Who are all these people with you?”

  “These people are my good friends and family. Any one of them can tell you that everything I have told you is the truth, if you care to ask.”

  Nina steps forward first. Then Rebecca. Then Anna, Sharon, Joanne, Sophie, and finally Abi. Every one of them tells the press how they’re involved in the Collins clan and how they had been led to believe that my dad was not in the picture at all. Claire, bless her, tells them how she’s grown up with me and has never met him, how she sat with me when I cried at my sixth birthday because I didn’t have a daddy. Mum, Michael, and Gran Bow stand silently by my side. I pick Rosie up and settle her against my hip. We talk about her new school and her new friends until the reporters are finished with their questions.

  Then they pack up and leave.

  Good bloody riddance.

  CHAPTER 14

  GENNA

  I am besieged.

  I’ve stopped going out and have become a hermit.

  I thought making a statement to the press—or vultures, as Mum has started calling them—would get them all to go away.

  I was wrong. Very wrong. Seems there isn’t much else going on at the moment. Snowstorms bringing the country to a grinding halt aren’t newsworthy enough. Though I do feel a teeny-tiny bit better that the bastards are freezing their arses off.

  Dad made a statement of his own, claiming that he never knew where we were. The same paper that printed his statement also printed copies of letters from the Child Support Agency, which had our address at the top. So it’s pretty obvious that he’s spouting a load of bullcrap, and I’m no longer the evil daughter who’s persecuting a devastated father deprived of his child. Not children. Just child. For the majority of her life.