Mark nodded. ‘I’ll do that,’ he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.
Aware of the emotions between them, Doreen rose. She needed to get out of here. She had done what she had set out to do and right now she was desperate for a fag. In silence she headed for the door.
‘No need to see me out,’ she said turning to Mark, ‘that young woman seems to have the wrong idea, let’s not fuel her imagination further,’ her face reddened at her words. ‘I’ll see you all soon.’ Not waiting for Mark to speak, she rushed down the corridor and out of the building.
Standing outside, she was relieved it was over. Who’d have thought trying to be kind could be such hard work. A giggle rippled from her lips.
Ten minutes later, Doreen was standing on the corner, a few metres away from Mr Greedy’s shop. She should go in and tell him her good news, but going to see Mark Drew had been more than enough. Was having so much money always going to be so emotional? She hoped not, and took a step towards the shop. No, she couldn’t do it. Instead, she walked in the opposite direction. She needed ciggies and for the first time in a very long time had money in her purse and could go to the supermarket.
She thought about Mr Greedy; he would be hurt that she hadn’t told him, but she would sort that out when she went into his shop after tomorrow.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The black limousine pulled into the private set down of the Savoy Hotel. The journey had been in total silence; Trisha played on her new mobile phone and Doreen tried not to nibble at her newly painted nails. She should have had them manicured professionally, but couldn’t face entering one of those fancy salons with her chipped nails and rough skin. In the end Trisha had painted her nails in a bright red varnish that she had bought especially for her. Her nails looked amazing, though her hands still resembled a cleaner’s even though she had not dipped them in anything other than bath water this last week. Ignoring the state of her hands, she marvelled at her beautiful dress with its glittering champagne bottle motif. She most certainly would shine when she stood next to the celebrity.
‘We are here,’ the suited driver said, pulling open the door allowing Doreen to slip out of the leather seat. Trisha, not waiting for her door to be opened, slid across and exited the car from the same door as her mother.
‘Mrs Wilkinson,’ a shrill voice called as a tall willow-thin woman dressed in a bright pink suit, strode towards her. ‘I’m Jenny from the Lottery and I’m here to make sure everything goes to plan. Photographers and the press are already waiting to meet you both. So, let’s not keep them waiting.’ Jenny said, ushering Doreen through a large reception area that dazzled with lights and mirrors. Doreen almost giggled at the opulence and wondered if it was competing with her sparkling outfit.
She stopped and waited for Trisha to catch up. ‘Put that phone away,’ she hissed and hooked her daughter’s arm into hers.
Jenny remained a few steps ahead and appeared to be in a rush. With no opportunity to ask questions, Doreen did her best to keep pace even with her new shoes rubbing at her heels.
‘Here we are,’ Jenny announced stopping outside a room with a heavy wooden door. They had travelled down a long corridor with walls adorned with photographs and paintings of old London. ‘Inside we have a small podium and we would like you both to stand on that for the photographs and questions. Anything else we need from you, I will be close at hand to guide you. Now, are you OK?’ Jenny did not wait for an answer, but pushed open the door.
Doreen had no time to worry about what was on the other side of the door as, with haste, Jenny guided them inside. No sooner had they entered the room when a group of reporters turned and cameras flashed. Ignoring the attention, Jenny steered Doreen and Trisha to the podium with a backdrop of the Lottery logo. Bemused, Doreen had no idea what would happen, but she had not expected to be in the spotlight so soon. She took in the room and had imagined it would be larger, filled with photographers and known celebs. She was surprised to see so few people and no celebrity. Where was the celeb?
‘Now, Mrs Wilkinson, please step up here,’ Jenny said, cutting into Doreen’s thoughts and held out her hand for Doreen to join her. ‘If you could stand here, Mrs Wilkinson,’ Jenny pointed to a large gold star on the floor. Doreen did as instructed. ‘You too, dear,’ Jenny added, indicating for Trisha to join them. ‘Now, I want you to stand to the left of your mother.’
Satisfied mother and daughter were in the correct positions, Jenny asked, ‘Are you feeling comfortable?’
Doreen nodded, unsure how comfortable anyone could feel standing on a stage, on show, with strangers wearing cagoule jackets and all gawping at her. This was not how she had imagined such an event to be. If she was honest, she had expected a lot more razzmatazz.
‘Smile, you’ve just won the lottery,’ a voice called out and at the same time a flash went off.
‘OK,’ Jenny said raising her hands to the photographers. ‘We need to have photos taken with the presentation cheque.’ As she spoke, a huge cardboard cheque was carried onto the podium. ‘Where’s Phil?’ Jenny asked as she slid the cheque in front of Doreen and Trisha. ‘Please hold this,’ she told them.
‘I’m here,’ a voice called out before a figure jumped onto the podium and nestled himself between Doreen and Trisha. Instantly the cameras clicked and flashed endlessly.
‘Where’s the champers?’ one of the reporters called.
As if on a cue, a magnum of champagne appeared. The cheque was swiftly removed and Phil Beddingstone silently slipped away. The champagne cork popped like an explosion and flew above the podium. With a thumb over the top of the bottle, it was thrust into Doreen’s hands.
‘Take this and keep your thumb over here,’ Jenny instructed.
Grabbing hold of the bottle, Doreen placed her thumb over the top, but the contents slowly trickled out as she tried to hold the heavy bottle.
‘Shake it up,’ a chorus of voices cried out.
Doreen hung on to the huge bottle, her thumb still over the top and could not believe they meant her to shake it. Unsure if she was supposed to drink a few drops first, she carefully raised the bottle and as the liquid spilled down her chin, a reporter’s voice cried out. ‘Shake it love, not drink it.’
‘Bleedin’ hell,’ Doreen swore under her breath and with all the strength she could muster shook the bottle with determination. Removing her thumb, a fountain spray of expensive champagne burst out of the bottle and rained over the stage. A wide grin filled Doreen’s face. The reporters, ecstatic at the scene in front of them, clicked away wildly.
‘Another shake,’ someone called. Doreen did not disappoint and this time she turned the bottle towards the reporters showering them in golden bubbles. Doreen giggled loudly, ‘Blimey, this is a lark,’ she cried, her laughter ringing out.
‘Perfect,’ a woman, who looked in her thirties, cried out and moved towards the podium. ‘So Doreen, how does it feel to have won…’ the woman looked down at a sheet of paper in her hand, lightly sprayed with droplets of champagne, then continued, ‘eleven million, three hundred and fifty-four thousand, two hundred and ten pounds and nineteen pence to be precise?’
Clutching the bottle, Doreen giggled, ‘Nineteen pence,’ she cried, ‘break the bleedin’ bank, that will!’
The reporter scribbled furiously on the sheet of paper.Turning to Trisha she asked, ‘What about you, Trisha?’
Looking at her mother, Trisha shrugged her shoulders, ‘It’s cool!’
‘Cool! Surely it must mean more?’
‘I’m sure we’ll have some fun once all the trilling and spilling is over,’ Trisha answered.
Ignoring Trisha’s strange response, a young reporter stepped forward, ‘Doreen, you live in a high rise flat in Wentworth House, I bet your neighbours are looking forward to a big splash party?’
Bleeding hell, over my dead body, Doreen thought. None of them had given her the time of day, and she was not going to start being pally now she had a quid or two. S
he was about to respond when another question was hurled at her.
‘You’re a cleaner, are you going wring out your duster and mop or continue?’ a woman in a quilted jacket asked.
‘I’ve quit already,’ Doreen called back, ‘time to get me own cleaner in,’ she added and chortled.
‘The numbers you used were they special?’ someone asked.
Doreen thought about the question. She had used birthday dates, but even now still couldn’t remember why she had used twenty-eight. ‘They must have been, they scooped me the jackpot,’ she retorted and could not believe she had thought of such a response.
‘Right,’ the reporter said and showed a thumb’s up.
‘What are you going to spend your winnings on?’ another voice called out.
Doreen giggled, ‘Well, plenty of this,’ she said shaking the bottle. ‘And, a nice house, some new clothes and most importantly, a holiday. That’s really important cos we’ve never had one. Lots of sun is a must.’
‘Looks like you’ve already been splashing out on the threads, love,’ a deep voice said standing back from the podium, ‘Nothing like something bright and sparkling to celebrate with.’
Ecstatic that someone had noticed her dress, Doreen cooed and passed the bottle over to Trisha before doing a little twirl. ‘Glad you like it. I thought it was perfect for today, what with all the champers and everything,’ she said, running the tips of her fingers over the gold and silver sequins.
More questions were called, Doreen turned from face to face, the smile of moments earlier slowly slipping she was becoming confused with all that they wanted to know. Why did they keep banging on about her job and where she lived? Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, she was beginning to think this was not the best idea after all.
Jenny, standing to one side, sensed a shift in Doreen’s responses and moved in front of her. ‘Well, if you’ve got all you need, we’ll say thank you.’
‘One more question, I promise it’s the last,’ called a willowy young man, gripping his phone, his camera slung over his shoulder, ‘where are you planning on going on holiday?’
‘Blimey, we ain’t got that far yet, but we’ll be booking a sun soaked holiday as soon as we’ve finished here and you can be certain it will be hot, sunny and …,’ she giggled, ‘and where we can have a laugh and maybe, you know, a bit of…’ Doreen said leaving the last words for the reporters to work out.
Ignoring protests from the room, Jenny ushered Doreen and Trisha to an area behind the screen that was private and away from the press. Taking the bottle from Trisha, she placed it on a table. ‘I think that went very well,’ Jenny said moving over to where a waiter poured champagne into cut glass flutes.
‘It was fun,’ Doreen said, ‘though I wasn’t expecting so many questions, felt like my life was on display.’
‘You were brilliant. You’re a natural and you gave those reports a run for their money when you sprayed them with champagne,’ Jenny said placing a hand on Doreen’s shoulder.
‘Really?’ Doreen preened. Trisha rolled her eyes.
‘Now, let’s have a glass of champagne to toast our wonderful lottery winner,’ Jenny said taking a glass from the waiter and handing it to Doreen. The waiter handed a glass to Trisha. ‘Congratulations,’ Jenny announced clicking her glass against Doreen’s.
‘Cheers,’ Doreen cooed and took a large gulp of drink; she needed this. Removing the glass from her lips, realised she had drunk the lot. She felt the bubbles rise in her throat. Blimey, she had better not burp, and swallowed hard to push the bubbles back down.
‘Now, as we are all relaxed,’ Jenny called, ‘I’d like you to meet again our wonderful celeb, Phil Beddingfield.’ At the mention of his name, Phil appeared from around the screen.
‘Congratulations,’ he said heading straight to Doreen clutching a huge bouquet of blooms. Dodging the flowers, he leant forward and dropped a kiss on Doreen’s cheek.
‘Whoa!’ Doreen giggled, holding her glass to one side, ‘I’ve never been kissed by someone famous,’ she chuckled and wondered who the hell he was. He was nothing like Beckham. Disappointed at not having a celeb she recognised, she asked. ‘So, what do you do?’
‘Let me take the flowers,’ Jenny interrupted, taking hold of the bouquet from Phil’s clutches.
With the flowers removed, Doreen took in Phil’s paunch that was poorly hidden underneath a well-cut top and noted he had a nice smile, but for the life of her she had no idea who he was. He certainly was no more into sports and keep fit than she was. So who was he?
‘He’s a famous soap actor,’ Jenny trilled, before Phil could answer as she placed the bouquet down on a table to the side of her. ‘We see him every week on your TV screen, don’t we Phil?’ Jenny flashed an adoring smile to the actor.
‘I’m a bit of a baddy,’ Phill said, with a wicked glint in his eye, looking Doreen over. ‘My character likes nothing better than causing mayhem and speaking his mind, but in reality I’m a pussycat.’ He purred to emphasis his words.
‘Blimey, you’re a one,’ Doreen said, chuckling at the unexpected behaviour then found herself purring back. He might be a bit of a lad and a soap star, but she still had no idea who he was.
‘In fifteen minutes our limousine will be here to take us all out to lunch. So, if you need to freshen up, now is a good time,’ Jenny said interrupting Doreen’s thoughts.
Blimey, if she carried on eating out like this, she would have a belly like this actor, and as much as she was enjoying the fuss, she was looking forward to getting back to normal, whatever that might be.
Handing her glass to the waiter, who stood as still as a mannequin, Doreen took hold of Trisha’s arm, ‘Come on, gal, let’s have five minutes to ourselves.’
‘Really,’ Trisha rolled her eyes and let Doreen lead her towards the powder room. Trisha felt they were both out of their depth, but her mother was keeping up appearances with her sense of humour and constant giggling. Trisha shuddered at what their future was going to be like as they meandered down millionaire’s row in their new lives, but whatever it was, she was so up for it all. ‘Come on, Mama, let’s get you sparkling as much as your dress.’
Giggling, ‘That’s my, girl,’ Doreen wrapped an arm around her daughter and hugged her tight.
Chapter Forty
It was over, the big promotion and excitement and all Doreen could think about was what another amazing day they’d had. After all the flashing of cameras and endless questions, they had been taken out for lunch to another swanky restaurant. Doreen had no idea so many swanky places existed. The last few days felt as if they had stepped into a different world and she wondered if, instead of winning the lottery, they had been transported to another planet. She was as foreign in these surroundings as an alien would be wandering around London. The meaning of posh, until now, was the kebab shop on Gilpin Road where there were no menus, just a blackboard with chalked up specials in what looked like spider scrawl handwriting. A greasy kebab, along with chips and a few leaves of limp salad, was mouth-watering and at the price the owner charged, ranked as top food for her purse.
The kebab shop was a complete contrast to the restaurant they had been taken to after the publicity. On arrival they had been greeted as if they were royalty. Taken aback, she had looked around expecting to see a party of VIPs or even a royal member. There were none. Ignoring her confused countenance, the Maitre d’ had shown them to a table large enough for a wedding party and she had wondered how many people would be joining them only to find out there was just five. She had perched on the edge of a chair that was far too big and uncomfortably high and had mentally counted the number of glasses on their table. What were they going to be drinking to need all these, she had worried, and at the same time felt relieved she would not be washing up afterwards.
‘Madam,’ a rich voice broke into her thoughts and a menu was flashed in front of her by a smartly dressed waiter. She glanced up and was surprised that his face betrayed no emotion. Taki
ng in his clean, spot-free face, she had observed more expression on a shop’s dummy. She had given him a beaming smile in the hope it would move a muscle on his face; it hadn’t. Disappointed and with a ripple of a giggle, she had accepted the leather bound menu. Watching the waiter glide round the table handing a menu to Trisha and then to the other three, she wondered why he wore white gloves.
Unable to fathom out his dress code, she had opened the heavy menu and ran her eyes down the list of dishes. What was all this?
‘Excuse me,’ she said, finding her voice and calling to the waiter who stopped abruptly as if Doreen’s voice was an arrow that had speared him. ‘Any chance I could have mine in English.’
Without flinching, the waiter responded, ‘It is in English,’ not waiting for a response, he abruptly turned and walked away.
‘Mama,’ hissed Trisha peering over the top of her menu, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes, ‘Behave. If you’re having a problem, I’ll help you. OK?’
‘Problem! Problem,’ Doreen squealed under her breath. Not only could she not understand what was written, but there was nothing she recognised. What had happened to a bit of steak or a pork chop or … she giggled.
The champagne making her a little light headed, she decided she’d had enough of tiptoeing around everyone. She had her winnings in the bank, her name would be splashed over the newspapers, and life was about to change. She might never be upmarket like all the people she had met these last few days, but she would always be Doreen Wilkinson.
‘I don’t suppose I could have ham egg and chips?’ she asked in a voice too loud, startling everyone in earshot.
A gun going off would not have caused more of a stir as heads snapped towards their table, looks of amusement and astonishment filling their faces. A deafening silence followed. Doreen looked around the table. She really had excelled herself this time and stifled a giggle at the jaw dropping expression on everyone’s face as several pairs of eyes glared at her. She didn’t miss Trisha hiding her mirth behind the menu.
The Birthday Card Page 19