by Adele Parks
“Would you like to follow me? I’ll take you up to the meeting room.” The receptionist’s professional smile reveals pearly white, straight teeth. I run my tongue over my own and hope there’s no lipstick on them. Jake chats to the receptionist whilst the elevator takes us to the fifteenth floor. He reveals a deep longing to visit Tokyo that I have never heard mentioned before. I inwardly roll my eyes, mildly irritated by his inappropriate attempt to flirt. I reach for his hand and gave it a brief squeeze. Onlookers would think it was affection, he might understand it’s a warning.
The room is full of men, suited and booted. They smile with the same professionalism the receptionist has shown. I hadn’t considered that smiles could be professional until recently. I’ve always thought they had to be warm, broad, sincere or even insincere. The room is paneled in a dark polished wood—mahogany? There are two incredible floral arrangements on the long glass table and a plate of colorful macarons. I just know that no one will eat them. I bet eating is considered frivolous at this type of meeting. I wish I dared ask to take them home for Logan, then I remember I don’t need to—if we want macarons, we can buy them. The receptionist hands us over to a young man called Jeb, who is apparently our “host,” then she disappears. A vision of loveliness gone in an instant. Jeb offers tea, coffee, water, still or sparkling. Once we are furnished with delicate china cups and heavy crystal glasses, he discreetly sits at the side of the room. He has an iPad and seems poised to take notes. I think he’s probably fulfilling the role that used to be identified as secretary when I was much younger. I turn to the suited and booted men, now sitting the table. And take a deep breath.
There is a lot to take in. The financial advisor talks about managing risk while also tapping growth opportunities, words such as trusts, bonds, shares, options, diversifying global growth, equity investors, ISAs are all bandied about. I know what most of these words mean—in isolation—but I’m not absolutely sure I am keeping abreast of the context. My heart is thumping so hard that I imagine people can see it. I am terrified someone is suddenly going to ask how much money we have exactly, and I’ll have to confess to giving Toma the three million. I don’t regret doing so but I really should have told Jake. I should tell him what I have done before he finds out. Maybe he’s more likely to forgive and understand if I do that.
I don’t know.
Would I forgive and understand if I was handed a confession rather than having to discover something shocking? Or would I still feel enraged and vengeful? My eyes slide to Jake. He is sitting forward in his chair, eager. He emits a newfound confidence. It borders on arrogance. I stay silent.
The accountant is easier to follow.
“One of the perks of playing lotteries in the UK is that winnings are not subject to capital gains tax or income tax, regardless of how much money you win.”
“I thought so!” Jake punches the air. “Winning!”
“Isn’t that weird, when you think about it? You know, up until now we’ve earned a combined salary of fifty-six thousand a year and had to pay a big chunk of that in tax and now we get given, just given, this money and no tax is due,” I comment.
“Are you seriously complaining because you don’t have to pay tax?” asks Jake. He is laughing. At me.
“No, of course not. I’m just observing,” I say defensively.
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” he mutters.
“I’m not, I’m just... Well, I’ve always believed people should pay tax. It’s almost a privilege, isn’t it? It means you’re gainfully employed and that you are meaningfully contributing to society and...” I trail off because I’ve lost Jake’s attention. He is shaking his head, grinning at the accountant, who is holding his face in a polite, neutral expression.
“Ignore her, go on,” he urges.
The accountant throws an apologetic look my way. I don’t think he is the one who should be apologizing for my husband’s rudeness, but I don’t want to get into it in front of strangers. I force myself to smile at the accountant to smooth waters, giving him permission to carry on.
“However, once you’ve deposited the winnings in your bank account, any money earned through interest is subject to income tax.”
“Okay, happy now?” Jake challenges. I ignore him.
“It’s very natural in circumstances such as yours that you start sharing and gifting.”
Jake interrupts. “Yeah, too right. We’re not tight!”
“So, it’s a good idea to understand how that works in terms of tax.” Jake shrugs, unconcerned, certain that whatever the tax implications are, we can afford them.
“Go on,” I urge grittily, my throat tight. The words just squeeze out. I hadn’t thought about the tax implications of gifting. I need to listen carefully, in case there’s anything I have to tell Toma.
“You can give away three thousand pounds’ worth of gifts, every year, without the recipient becoming subject to tax. This is your annual exemption.”
“Three thousand pounds? That’s like pocket money to us now, isn’t it?” Jake laughs again, shaking his head. “Loose change, down the back of the settee.” Jake claps his hands together and rubs them gleefully. I should be relieved he has such an easy come, easy go attitude to three thousand pounds. Maybe gifting three million won’t rile him, either.
“Some small gifts, such as Christmas and birthday presents, or those that you can afford out of your normal income, are also exempt. To avoid complications in the event of your death, it is a good idea to keep detailed records of any gifts you give to friends and family, so that they don’t unduly receive a hefty inheritance tax bill.”
“Okay.” I nod slowly. “And what about bigger gifts? What are the implications there?” I cough.
“We’re paying off my brothers’ mortgages and getting her sister a place.” Jake beams, proud of his own largesse, unable to resist bragging about it.
“Right. Well, they need to know, if you were to die within seven years of handing out gifts in excess of three hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds, the recipients of those gifts would be subject to an inheritance tax bill of up to forty per cent.”
Oh.
“I’ve no plans to die, mate,” laughs Jake. “I’m going to live to be a very, very old man. I’m going to make the most of this. This has not only changed my life, it’s given meaning to my life.”
The room feels heavy. The awkward silence slips down the walls. Leave it, I tell myself. Leave it. My heart overrules my head. “Weren’t me and the kids meaning?” My voice is quiet but determined and therefore powerful.
Jake colors. “Well, yes, of course. You know what I mean.” He laughs again, but this time there is a distinct lack of bonhomie. He reaches out and takes my hand, squeezes it, brings it to his lips, kisses it. I let my hand go dead in his, a weight. Resistance. “But now there’s no struggle. Imagine that. We’re going to be okay for life and the kids, too. We’ve changed their lives, too.”
The accountant continues to talk about a sliding scale of tax. He tells us what the laws are between spouses and much more, besides. I do my best to take it in, but all I want is for the meeting to end. For people to stop talking about money. Just for a few minutes.
Finally, we are outside, on the busy London street. The wind whips at the skirt of my dress and bits of rubbish scuttle across the road with pedestrians. It’s a chilly day, the air pinches. It’s been a weird spring weatherwise. Bright one minute, wet and nippy the next. Sometimes we have all four seasons in a day. It seems the mercurial weather is reflecting our situation. Unprecedented. Unforeseeable. Gillian says goodbye and Jake hails a cab. Once inside, he asks the driver to take us back to Bucks.
“I can do, mate, but it will cost you a few hundred quid.”
“Let me worry about that,” says Jake. He taps his breast pocket.
A flair of frustration slaps me. He is behaving like a dick.
“Don’t be insane,” I snap. “Please just take us to Marylebone Station,” I say to the cabbie. The cabbie nods, seemingly unconcerned about missing out on a huge fare that would have taken him far out of his usual zone. Most likely he is relieved. He probably thinks no amount of money is worth sitting on the A4, M4, M25 and A41 on a Friday afternoon, breathing in traffic fumes.
We sit in silence. I fiddle with the air-conditioning. I suddenly feel hot inside and out. I stare out of the window, not wanting to catch Jake’s eye but unsure why. Shouldn’t we be constantly celebrating? If Jake had his way, we’d be popping open a bottle of champagne in the cab, have it on tap. Anyone would. Right? My eyes fall on one grubby sleeping bag after another, legs poking out of cardboard homes. Many homeless people set up camp on the busiest London streets.
Jake sighs. His thoughts are clearly traveling along a similar path. “Why are you resisting this?” he asks.
“I’m not resisting anything, I’m—” I can’t explain it to him, I can’t explain it to myself.
“Don’t you remember what it was like, Lexi?” Jake’s voice oozes an attractive mix of emotions. He sounds sincere, concerned, reasonable. The brash, overly confident, idiot-man who was annoying and confusing has apparently slipped out of the cab. “How many times have you woken up in the middle of the night, worried about money, about our future?”
I sigh. It’s true. I remember the helpless black, when my worries chased and chased around my head. Snowballing until I felt immobilized, unable to think, a panic-induced brain freeze. Last year we’d agreed that Emily could go on the school skiing trip to Norway and, to ensure things remained fair and even in our home, that Logan could go on a geography field trip to Italy. I lay awake for many nights, running the numbers through my head, over and over again. How come the trips were so expensive, considering the kids were traveling by coach, and flying on airlines that were little more than buckets with an engine? What about group discounts? And another thing, my kids were flying in buckets! This worry also kept me awake, but it wasn’t related to money, or was it? Does money increase safety and security? I think of Toma, Reveka and Benke. Yes, of course it does.
When the kids came home from their trips, they both reported that the accommodation and food turned out to be dreadful. Not that they cared because they had been with their friends, joining in, not the ones being ignored or left out. Left behind. But I had cared because I value value for money. I knew I could have created the exact same holidays for a fraction of the price. And besides the outlay for the holiday—which we’d scrimped for—there was the cost of the equipment and kit. I’d bought Emily’s ski jacket and pants from TK Maxx and yet it still came to hundreds. Logan had needed waterproofs, climbing boots and a backpack. I sold clothes on eBay to raise a bit extra. I’ve never told Jake, but I started to buy from there, too. T-shirts and stuff, mostly for Logan. From about the age of eleven he wanted Nike like everyone else, Superdry and Jack Wills. They were brands that I could only justify if I picked them up secondhand. Logan believes me when I say I always prewash shop clothes before he wears them to “soften them up.” I’ve never tried the same trick with Emily. Emily needs the security of price tags. We paid for the school trips in instalments. The final payment for both trips happened to fall in the same week. I sold the ring my grandmother had given me for my twenty-first birthday. No one noticed when I stopped wearing the little ruby. No one other than me.
So, yes, I do remember the dark nights of worry. We weren’t starving, we weren’t living on the street, but we had to be careful. We were a family that made do, that managed.
And now that is all gone. That is all over. I am safe. We all are. We can pay off our mortgage, and we will never again see a red demand bill. It is bliss. I should be feeling something pure and uncomplicated. Joy. Happiness.
“Haven’t you always wanted to be rich, Lexi?”
“Well, yes, of course. Everyone wants to be rich, don’t they,” I reply, trying hard not to make it sound like a question. It is obviously true that money solves a lot of problems, that is a given.
The news is, it creates some, too.
CHAPTER 25
Emily
Monday, May 13
Dad’s idea of throwing a party is inspired! Just what I need. A great distraction. A way of not thinking about it. I don’t like thinking about it. Even when I try, I can’t. It’s like I leave my body. I float above myself and theoretically think, what should that girl have done? What should she do now? And I don’t know. So I’m not doing anything about it. Staying in the moment is the best. That’s what I have to do. Not think about what has happened or what might happen next. Hey, basically I’m practicing mindfulness for screwed teens.
Dad has hired a party planner because, even though Mum doesn’t have a job anymore, she wasn’t really getting into the party. She constantly asked what things cost and insisted on us getting three quotes for every single thing! It was getting tiring. Plus, I don’t want to be mean, but I’m not certain Mum has the vision to pull it off the way Dad and I want to see things go down. For instance, Mum agreed that it would be nice to have a moment where we cut a celebration cake as a family. She even suggested it should be tiered “to make sure there’s enough to go around.” But then Dad said we could have a cake with a false top tier and get a magician to pull a rabbit out of the hat or something. Better yet, a monkey in one of those cute little red showman jackets. I mean, that is vision. You know. But then Mum started going on about health and safety and animal cruelty and kept insisting we “consider the practicalities.” Another example—Mum thought she was being flash when she gave the nod to us having loads of helium balloons, then Dad said we should get an actual hot air balloon and have it tethered to the ground but people could go up and down on it, just for fun. You know, vision. Let’s just say Mum set a budget that she described as “generous.” We’ve quadrupled it.
So now basically me, Dad and the party planner, Sara, are doing everything, and Mum spends most of her time dealing with the charity requests that are rolling in thick and fast. She seems pretty happy with this division of labour. Logan went back to school. He said he wanted to finish this term with his old mates and was bored at home. It’s not that he’s a super nerd or a saint, it’s just that he never worked very hard at school before. He might as well be there, messing about with his mates and having people high-five him in the corridors than here, on his own playing video games online with complete strangers who are sweaty losers at best, but most likely potential pedos.
This party is going to be amazing!
I can’t really emphasize that enough. Sara is awesome. If I ever thought I might need to get a job, I think I’d want to be a party planner, maybe. But I’m never going to need a job now though, am I? She’s really creative and yet efficient and businesslike. We’ve plumped for The Greatest Showman as our theme, so basically circus with a nineteenth-century lean. She found us a field that we can rent about five miles from where we live. It doesn’t look like much at the moment, just a big field, overgrown with grass and wildflowers, backing onto a frankly spooky-looking area of woodland. Behind that there is a pond that’s dank and sullen. However, Sara’s Pinterest boards promise the space is going to be transformed!
We are having a Ferris wheel and merry-go-round, like Dad said, and we’re hiring actors to wander around pretending to be magicians or bearded ladies or whatever. We’re having actual trapeze artists and a tightrope to entertain the guests. Dad said he wants to wear a red jacket and a top hat and I think he likes the idea of Mum wearing a cancan dress—ugh, perv, gross. Mum said we should all wear red, so everyone knows we’re a family, but that’s mad, everyone does know we are a family. This is why it’s best she doesn’t get involved. Besides, I’m more thinking I’ll take my inspiration from Zendaya’s costume, not the purple glitzy number but the simpler one she wears when she’s rehearsing—hot pink hot pants and a blush camisole. I want to look
cool and stand out, but as though I haven’t tried at all.
Like we first talked about, we’re going to have popcorn machines, candy floss and festoons of colorful lights everywhere! Dad’s coming good on all his promises. We couldn’t find a red-and-white-striped marquee and so we are having a white one customised. There is going to be a hog roast plus a selection of cabins with other food options, like crepes, hot dogs and burgers—although I’m not sure exactly how nineteenth century they are. I’ll Google. There is going to be a cocktail bar and a massive champagne tower. You know, a stack of those round tit-shaped champagne glasses piled high up and you pour champers from the top and it flows into all the glasses. Sticky, I bet, but so glam! I think it’s time I started to drink. Why not? Logan is right, basically I’m a freak. What’s the worst that can happen if I get drunk and I lose control of my mind and my knickers? I mean, really? How much worse can it get? When we were about thirteen, Ridley started sneaking alcopop into socials by pretending it was a slush puppy. I just didn’t feel ready to get behind it then. I don’t know, maybe it was because Logan was often out with me and he’d definitely have snitched me up to Mum and Dad. They’d have gone ape—hypocritically, I might add, as they both can knock it back. Then suddenly, Ridley and Megan and everyone I’ve ever met were drinking vodka straight, hard-core. They seemed to skip the beer and cider stage.
Mum says I can’t invite Megan and Ridley to the party. I get that, I know why she hates them. I hate them, too.
Sort of.
I want them at the party, though. I want Megan there because she has to see it all, to see my life and know what she could have shared with me, but she couldn’t let herself because she is boiling in her own jealousy and she just can’t be happy for me. It’s so weird that I’m not sharing this with her considering everything we shared up until this point in our lives. Like secrets, chicken pox, crushes, hairbrushes, homework, lip gloss. The list is endless. We created things, too—memories, friendship bracelets, rose perfume in jam jars. And Ridley? Well, we’ve done so much together. We’ve curled up on a sofa watching Disney movies, telling ourselves we were only enjoying them in an ironic nostalgic way, but in fact loving them for real, in an authentic way. We’ve played Chicken Wing Roulette at Nando’s, we’ve Christmas-shopped in London, we went to our first gig together.
