Then I'll buy houses for all my family and friends, of course. I lean against the lottery stand and close my eyes to concentrate. Suppose I buy twenty houses at ?250,000 each. That'll leave me… five million. Plus about fifty thousand pounds on the party. And then I'll take everyone on holiday, to Barbados or somewhere. That'll cost about… a hundred thousand pounds, if we all fly Club. So that's four million, eight hundred and fifty thousand.
Oh! and I need six thousand to pay off all my credit cards and, overdraft. Plus three hundred for Suze. Call it seven thousand. So that leaves… four million, eight hundred and forty-three thousand.
Obviously, I'll do loads for charity. In fact, I'll probably set up a charitable foundation. I'll support all those unfashionable charities that get ignored, like skin diseases and home helps for the elderly. And I'll send a great big cheque to my old English teacher, Mrs James, so she can restock the school library. Perhaps they'll even rename it after me. The Bloomwood Library.
Oh, and three hundred for that swirly coat in Whistles, which I must buy before they're all up. So how much does that leave? Four million, eight hundred and forty-three thousand, minus…
'Excuse me.' A voice interrupts me and I look up dazedly. The woman behind is trying to get at the biro.
'Sorry,' I say, and politely make way. But the interruption has made me lose track of my calculations.
Was it four million or five million?
Then, as I see the woman looking at my bit of paper covered in scribbled numbers, an awful thought strikes me. What if one of my rejected sets of numbers comes up? What if 1 6 9 16 23 44 comes up tonight and I haven't entered it? I'd hate myself, wouldn't I? All my life, I'd never forgive myself. I'd be like the guy who committed suicide because he forgot to post his pools coupon.
I quickly fill in tickets for all the combinations of numbers written on my bit of paper That's nine tickets in all. Nine quid – quite a lot of money, really. I almost feel bad about spending it. But then, that's nine times as many chances of winning, isn't it?
And I now have a very good feeling about 1 6 9 16 23 44. Why has that particular set of numbers leapt into my mind and stayed there? Maybe someone, somewhere, is trying to tell me something.
***
Brompton's Store
CUSTOMER ACCOUNTS
1 Brompton Street
London SW4 7TH
Ms Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
2 March 2000
Dear Ms Bloomwood
Our records suggest that we have not received payment for your latest Brompton Gilt Card bill. If you have paid within the last few days, please ignore this letter.
Your outstanding bill is currently ?235.76. The minimum payment is ?43.00. You may pay by cash, cheque or on the enclosed bank giro credit slip. We look forward to receiving your payment.
Yours sincerely
John Hunter
Customer Accounts Manager
***
Brompton's Store
1 Brompton Street
London SW4 7TH
Ms Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
2 March 2000
Dear Ms Bloomwood
There's never been a better time to spend!
For a limited time, we are offering EXTRA POINTS on all purchases over?Ј50 made with the Brompton Gilt Card* – so take the opportunity now to add more points to your total and take advantage of some of our Pointholders' Gifts.
Some of the fantastic gifts we are offering include:
An Italian leather bag
1,000 points
A case of pink champagne
2,000 points
Two flights to Paris **
5,000 points
(Your current level is: 35 points)
And remember,' during this special offer period, you will gain two points for every ?5 spent. We look forward to welcoming you in store soon to take advantage of this unique offer.
Yours sincerely
Adrian Smith
Customer Services Manager
*excluding purchases at restaurants, pharmacy, newsstand and hairdresser
**certain restrictions apply – see enclosed leaflet
Four
When I arrive at my parents' house, they are in the middle of an argument. Dad is halfway up a stepladder in the garden, poking at the gutter on the side of the house, and Mum is sitting at the wrought-iron garden table, leafing through a Past Times catalogue. Neither of them even looks up when I walk through the patio doors.
'All I'm saying is that they should set a good example!' Mum is saying.
'And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it? You think that would solve the problem.'
'Danger!' say Mum derisively. 'Don't be so melodramatic, Graham. Is that the opinion you really have of British society?'
'Hi, Mum,' I say. 'Hi Dad.'
'Becky agrees with me. Don't you, darling?' says Mum, and points to a page of Past Times. 'Lovely cardigan,' she adds sotto voc. 'Look at that embroidery!'
'Of course she doesn't agree with you!' retorts my dad. 'It's the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard.'
'No it's not!' says Mum indignantly. 'Becky, you think it would be a good idea for the Royal Family to travel by public transport, don't you, darling?'
'Well…' I say cautiously. 'I hadn't really…'
'You think the Queen should travel to official engagements on the 93 bus?' scoffs Dad.
'And why not? Maybe then the 93 bus would become more efficient!'
'So,' I say, sitting down next to Mum. 'How things?'
'You realize this country is on the verge of gridlock?' says Mum, as if she hasn't heard me. 'If more people don't start using public transport, our roads are going to seize up.'
My dad shakes his head.
'And you think the Queen travelling on the 93 bus would solve the problem. Never mind the security problems, never mind the fact that she'd be able to do far fewer engagements…'
'I didn't mean the Queen, necessarily,' retorts Mum, and pauses for a second. 'But some of those others. Princess Michael of Kent, for example. She could travel by tube every so often, couldn't she? These people need to learn about real life.'
The last time my mum travelled on the tube was about 1983.
'Shall I make some coffee?' I say brightly. 'If you ask me, this gridlock business is utter nonsense,' says my dad. He jumps down from the stepladder and brushes the dirt off his hands. 'It's all propaganda.'
'Propaganda?' exclaims my mum in outrage.
'Right,' I say hurriedly. 'Well, I'll go and put the kettle on.'
I walk back into the house, flick the kettle on in the kitchen and sit down at the table in a nice patch of sunshine. I've already forgotten what my mum and dad are arguing about. They'll just go round and round in circles and agree it's all the fault of Tony Blair.
Anyway, I've got more important things to think about. I'm trying to figure out exactly how much I should give to Philip, my boss, after I win the Lottery. I can't leave him out, of course – but is cash a bit tacky? Would a present be better? Really nice cuff links, perhaps. Or one of those picnic hampers with all the plates inside.
(Clare Edwards, obviously, will get nothing).
Sitting alone in the sunny kitchen, I feel as though I have a little glowing secret inside me. I'm going to win the Lottery. Tonight, my life is going to change. God, I can't wait. Ten million pounds. Just think, tomorrow I'll be able to buy anything I want. Anything!
The newspaper's open in front of me at the property section and I carelessly pick it up to peruse expensive houses. Where shall I live? Chelsea? Notting Hill? Mayfair? Belgravia, I read. Magnificent seven bedroomed detached house with staff annexe and mature garden. Well, that sounds all right. I could cope with seven bedrooms in Belgravia. My eye flicks complacently down to the price and stops still with shock.<
br />
Six point five million pounds. That's how much they're asking. Six and a half million.
I feel stunned and slightly angry. Are they serious? I haven't got anything like six point five million pounds. I've only got about… four million left. Or was it five? Whatever it is, it's not enough. I stare at the page, feeling cheated. Lottery winners are supposed to be able to buy anything they want – but already I'm feeling poor and inadequate.
Crossly, I slime the paper aside and reach for a freebie brochure full of gorgeous white duvet covers at ?100 each. That's more like it. When I've won the Lottery I'll only ever have crisp white duvet covers, I decide. And I'll have a white cast-iron bed and painted wooden shutters and a fluffy white dressing gown…
'So, how's the world of finance?' Mum's voice interrupts me and I look up. She's bustling into the kitchen, still holding her Past Times catalogue. 'Have you made the coffee? Chop chop, darling!'
'I was going to,' I say, and make a half-move from my chair. But, as I predicted, Mum's there before me. She reaches for a ceramic storage jar I've never seen before and spoons coffee into a new gold cafe ire.
Mum's terrible. She's always buying new stuff for the kitchen – and she just gives the old stuff to Oxfam. New kettles, new toasters… We've already had three new rubbish bins this year – dark green, then chrome, and now yellow translucent plastic. I mean, what waste of money.
'That's a nice skirt!' she says, looking at me as though for the first time. 'Where's that from?'
'DKNY,' I mumble back.
'Very pretty,' she says. 'Was it expensive?'
'Not really,' I say without pausing. 'About fifty quid.'
This is not strictly true. It was nearer a hundred and fifty. But there's no point telling Mum how much things really cost, because she'd have a coronary. Or, in fact, she'd tell my dad first – and then they'd both have coronaries, and I'd be an orphan.
So what I do is work in two systems simultaneously. Real Prices and Mum Prices. It's a bit like when everything in the shop is 20 per cent off, and you walk around mentally reducing everything, After a while, you get quite practised.
The only difference is, I operate a sliding-scale system, a bit like income tax. It starts off at 20 per cent (if it really cost ?20, I say it cost ?16) and rises up to… well, to 90 per cent if necessary. I once bought a pair of boots that cost ?200, and I told Mum they were ?20 in the sale. And she believed me.
'So, are you looking for a flat?' she says, glancing over my shoulder at the property pages.
'No,' I say sulkily, and flick over a page of my brochure. My parents are always on at me to buy a flat.
Do they know how much flats cost? And I don't mean flats in Croydon.
'Apparently, Thomas has bought a very nice little starter home in Reigate,' she says, nodding towards our next-door neighbours. 'He commutes.' She says this with an air of satisfaction, as though she's telling me he's won the Nobel Peace Prize.
'Well, I can't afford a flat,' I say. 'Or a starter home.'
Not yet, anyway, I think. Not until eight o'clock tonight. Hee hee hee.
'Money troubles?' says Dad, coming into the kitchen. 'You know, there are two solutions to money troubles?'
Oh God. Not this again. Dad's aphorisms.
'C.B.,' says Dad, his eyes twinkling, 'or M.M.M.'
He pauses for effect and I turn the page of my brochure, pretending I can't hear him.
'Cut Back,' says my dad, 'or Make More Money. One or the other. Which is it to be, Becky?'
'Oh, both, I expect,' I say airily, and turn another page of my brochure. To be honest, I almost feel sorry for Dad. It'll be quite a shock for him when his only daughter becomes a multimillionaire overnight.
After lunch, Mum and I go along to a craft fair in the local primary school. I'm really just going to keep Mum company, and I'm certainly not planning to buy anything – but when we get there, I find a stall full of amazing handmade cards, only ?1.50 each! So I buy ten. After all, you always need cards, don't you?
There's also a gorgeous blue ceramic plant holder with little elephants going round it – and I've been saying for ages we should have more plants in the flat. So I buy that, too. Only fifteen quid. Craft fairs are such a bargain, aren't they? You go along thinking they'll be complete rubbish – but you can always find something you want.
Mum's really happy, too, as she's found a pair of candlesticks for her collection." She's got collections of candlesticks, toast racks, pottery jugs, glass animals, embroidered samplers and thimbles. (Personally, I don't think the thimbles count as a proper collection, because she got the whole lot, including the cabinet, from an advert at the back of the Mail on Sunday magazine. But she never tells anybody that. In fact, I shouldn't have mentioned it.)
So anyway, we're both feeling rather pleased with ourselves, and decide to go for a cup of tea. Then, on the way out, we pass one of those really sad stalls which no-one is going near; the kind people glance at once, then quickly walk past. The poor guy behind it looks really sorry for himself, so I pause to have a look. And no wonder no-one's stopping. He's selling weird-shaped wooden bowls, and matching wooden cutlery. What on earth is the point of wooden cutlery?
'That's nice!' I say brightly, and pick one of the bowls up.
'Hand-crafted applewood,' he says. 'Took a week to make.'
Well, it was a waste of a week, if you ask me. It's shapeless, it's ugly, and the wood's a nasty shade of brown. But as I go to put it back down again, he looks so doleful I feel sorry for him and turn it over to look at the price, thinking if it's a river I'll buy it. But it's eighty quid! I show the price to Mum, and she pulls a little face.
'That particular piece featured in Elle Decoration last month,' says the man mournfully, and produces a cut-out page. And at his words, I freeze. Elle Decoration? Is he joking?
He's not joking. There on the page, in full colour, is a picture of a room, completely empty except for a suede bean bag, a low table, and a wooden bowl. I stare at it incredulously.
'Was it this exact one?' I ask, trying not to sound too excited. 'This exact bowl?' As he nods, my grasp tightens round the bowl. I can't believe it. I'm holding a piece of Elle Decoration. How cool is that? I suddenly feel incredibly stylish and trendy – and wish I was wearing white linen trousers and my hair slicked back like Yasmin Le Bon to match.
It just shows I've got good taste. Didn't I pick out this bowl – sorry, this piece – all by myself? Didn't I spot its
quality? Already I can see our sitting room redesigned entirely around it, all pale and minimalist. Eighty quid. That's nothing for a timeless piece of style like this.
'I'll have it,' I say determinedly, and reach inside my bag for my chequebook. The thing is, I remind myself, buying cheap is actually a false economy. It's much better to spend a little more and make a serious purchase that'll last a lifetime. And this bowl is quite clearly a classic. Suze is going to be so impressed.
When we get back home, Mum goes straight inside, but I stay in the driveway, carefully transferring my purchases from her car to mine.
'Becky! What a surprise!'
Oh God. It's Martin Webster from next door, leaning over the fence with a rake in his hand and a huge friendly smile on his face. Oh God. Martin has this way of always making me feel guilty, I don't know why.
Actually I do know why. It's because I know he was always hoping I would grow up and marry Tom, his son. And I haven't. The history of my relationship with Tom is: he asked me out once when we were both about sixteen and I said no, I was going out with Adam Moore. That was the end of it, and thank God for that.
To be perfectly honest, I would rather marry Martin himself than marry Tom. (That's not to say that I do really want to marry Martin. Or that I like older men or anything. It was just to make a point. Anyway, Martin's happily married.)
'Hi!' I say over-enthusiastically. 'How are you?'
'Oh, we're all doing well,' says Martin. 'You heard Tom's bought a house?'
'Yes,' I say. 'In Reigate. Fantastic!'
'It's got two bedrooms, shower room, reception room and open-plan kitchen,' he recites. 'Lime oak units in the kitchen.'
'Gosh,' I say. 'How fab.'
'Tom's thrilled with it,' says Martin. 'Janice!' he adds in a yell. 'Come and see who's here!'
A moment later, Janice appears on the front door step, wearing her floral apron.
'Becky!' she says. 'What a stranger you've become! How long is it?'
Oh God, now I feel guilty for not visiting my parents more often.
'Well,' I say, trying to give a nonchalant smile. 'You know. I'm quite busy with my job and everything.'
'Oh yes,' says Janice, giving an awe-stricken nod. 'Your Job.'
Somewhere along the line, Janice and Martin have got it into their heads that I'm this high-powered financial whiz-kid. I've tried telling them that really, I'm not – but the more I deny it, the more high powered they think I am. It's a catch-22. So the upshot is, they now think I'm high-powered and modest.
Still, who cares? It's quite fun, pretending to be a financial genius.
'Yes, we've been quite busy lately,' I say coolly. 'What with the merger of SBG and Rutland.'
'Of course,' breathes Janice.
'You know, that reminds me,' says Martin. 'Becky, wait there. Back in two ticks.' He disappears before I can say anything, and I'm left awkwardly with Janice.
'So,' I say inanely. 'I hear Tom's got limed oak units in his kitchen!'
This is literally the only thing I can think of to say. I smile at Janice, and wait for her to reply. But instead, she's beaming at me delightedly. Her face is all lit up – and suddenly I realize I've made a huge mistake. I shouldn't have mentioned Tom's bloody starter home. I shouldn't have mentioned the limed oak units. Now Janice'll think I'm hankering after those units myself, won't she? She'll think I suddenly fancy Tom, now he's got a starter home to his name.
'It's limed oak and Mediterranean tiles,' she says proudly. 'It was a choice of Mediterranean or Farmhouse Quarry, and Tom chose Mediterranean.'
The Secret Dreamworld of a Shopaholic Page 4