by Adele Parks
“I know, right? Did you make the most of it?”
“Yes, thank you.” She starts tapping her keyboard, always busy. “Ellie, I was wondering whether I could take the afternoon off. I need some personal time. Sorry about the short notice. Something has come up.”
“Yes, fine. Of course.”
“I’ll work through my lunch but need to leave at two p.m., so I’ll owe a few hours. I’ll make it up this week.”
“I know you will. Everything okay?” Ellie looks up from her screen. Her clever face, which is always set to host a smile, shows she is interested, ready to be concerned, but not nosy.
I nod, relieved when she doesn’t probe. I don’t want to lie and make up some excuse about a dentist appointment or something. I glance at my watch. “I better get at it.”
“Yeah, enough slacking,” she says with a grin, turning back to her own work.
My head is about to explode. The only way through this is to stay busy. I pick up the phone to set up a meeting between the head of community welfare benefit advice service and the local council’s welfare rights unit. Then I set up a meeting of my own with the local branch of Age UK. There is a constant drip of people who need advice but no sign of Toma. With every client I see, I realize that writing a check will solve, or certainly ease, their problems. I have never been so conscious of the power of money, and despite my effort not to think about everything, I am. The responsibility is making me feel nauseous. At about eleven, I stand up from my desk, stretch and walk to the room that is not much bigger than a cupboard but serves as the staff room. Rob and Judy are hovering over the boiling kettle.
Judy exclaims, “Lucky sod, I wish that was me! Did you hear, Lexi? Someone local has won the lottery.”
I freeze. I don’t know how to reply. Luckily, Judy doesn’t really expect me to. Like many of Judy’s questions, it is rhetorical, and she is comfortable answering herself. “Bought the ticket on our high street, can you believe? At WHSmith. Exactly where I buy mine, when I bother. Which I don’t often, just when I’m feeling lucky. I didn’t this week, but I wish I had! It could have been me.”
“Well, only if you’d picked the same numbers,” points out Rob. Judy continues, not sidetracked by this fact. “Isn’t it unbelievable to think the winner might be someone we’ve passed in the street. Brushed up against and we wouldn’t know. Seventeen-point-eight-million pounds! Can you imagine! Lucky sods.”
“How did you find out that the ticket was purchased locally?” I ask, a sliver of something uncomfortable gliding up and down my spine. I’m not used to keeping secrets. I’m normally an open book, available for anyone to read.
“Said so online. The local news feed on Twitter.”
“But how could anyone know?” I ask sharply. “I mean, unless the family are taking publicity, then those details are kept private.” I know this from my conversation with the lottery people on Saturday. Judy eyes me intently, and I blush. I’m not usually sharp and it must seem odd that I know the procedure so well. Have I given myself away? I’m relieved when Judy laughs.
“Are you jealous? Well, if you’re right about that, then I’m guessing the winner is taking publicity.” I shake my head. That’s not what we agreed. Has one of the kids said something? Already? They’ve only been out of my sight for a few hours.
“I expect they’ll announce the name of the winner soon. Just think, it might be someone who has walked through these doors and we’ve helped.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” says Heidi. “There’s some Eastern European guy here to see you. I asked him if I could help, but he was pretty insistent he only wants to speak to you.”
I dash out of the staff room, keen to get away from Judy and her speculation. I see Toma, sitting at my desk, with his now-familiar expression of solemnity and determination, and I feel a wave of territorialism and affection sluice through me. It’s not strictly professional, but I tell myself it’s not wrong, that it is manageable. My body goes hot then cold, the feeling my granny would have described as someone walking over my grave. A warning. I am suddenly certain that I can’t share the knowledge I gained on Friday. Even though we have been hunting for it together, even though he is desperate for someone to blame. Because of that, I can’t tell him. The knowledge would overwhelm him. Knowing the landlord’s name, and also the fact he won’t be brought to justice, could cause Toma to do something stupid. He might want to attack the man, kill him. It sounds extreme, but Toma, like me, believes in justice and doesn’t care how unjust he has to be to get it. I have a solution. I can protect Toma. The money I’ve just won can be put to good.
“How are you?” I ask.
Over the past ten weeks, besides investigating Toma’s claims about the slum landlord, I have also helped him find a room in a decent house. He now lodges with an elderly couple who like having him around the place because he acts like a surrogate son—their own lives in the States and calls just once a month. Toma changes lightbulbs, cuts their grass and makes them feel secure.
I can understand that.
Whenever I am with him, I, too, feel safe, assured. Even when we are creeping about grubby properties, meeting people who are unsavory through choice or circumstances. It’s not his huge physical presence, it’s his deep, poignant calm. I guess when the very worst thing that can happen to you has happened, nothing ever scares you again.
“I am good. Thank you.” He’s a man of few words.
“I’m glad you popped in. I think I may have found a lead on a job for you.”
“Yes?” He looks keen. He doesn’t like to be idle. He’s been busy enough whilst we’ve been playing detective, but that has to stop now. A job might distract him, at least temporarily, from his hunt. “It’s in an industrial laundry. It doesn’t pay brilliantly. It’s shift work.”
“Could I take double shifts?”
I smile. “Well, yes, if you want to, I guess.”
“I want. I’ve never been afraid of my own sweat. What else have I to do, besides work?”
“I hope you might find some level of community there. Many of the workers are Eastern Europeans.”
“Good. Sounds good.” Toma nods. “I had hoped you called me in because you tracked down the name of the landlord.”
I shake my head. “Sorry.” My stomach turns. I don’t like lying to him.
“It’s okay. I know you are trying. I know you are doing your best for me.”
I am. I want to reassure Toma that everything will change for him very soon, but I force myself to keep quiet. Sometimes staying silent is the right thing to do. “Let me dig out the application form. It’s a formality, really. They are keen to get labor as soon as possible. You could be at work by the day after tomorrow.”
“Or maybe sooner if I walk my application to them right now. Those at the top of the mountain didn’t fall there,” Toma says, and then he flashes me a rare smile that beams into my core.
CHAPTER 8
Lexi
The people from the lottery company said we could have the initial meeting anywhere we liked. We decided it was easiest and most discreet to have them come to our home to go through the paperwork. I can’t help but feel nervous. Once we accept the check, our lives are changed forever. No going back. But then I ask myself who would want to go back when so much good can be done going forward? Going back is crazy talk.
I pick up a carrot cake from the supermarket on the high street. I also feel the need to purchase some speciality teas. I don’t want to look flash, but I do want to be welcoming. I buy teapigs, a brand I consider a treat, but I’m regretting choosing liquorice and peppermint combined. It might be challenging, could seem pretentious. What was I thinking? Still, I can always brew a regular cup of builder’s tea.
I arrive home to bigger challenges than exotic tea bags. I am surprised to find Emily sunbathing in the front garden and a startling yellow Ferrari parked on t
he road in front of our house, incongruous against the leylandii hedge that needs trimming and the recycling bins that need emptying. I don’t know much about cars, I have little interest in them beyond getting me from A to B, but even I recognize the black horse on the badge.
I’m unsure which I should ask about first: the surprise presence of my daughter or the car. Jake takes the matter into his own hands and calls out, “I treated myself!” He laughs, delighted. His hands on his hips, his legs wide, manly, triumphant, he doesn’t take his eyes off the car to glance my way but adds, “And I picked up Emily because she texted me to say she was feeling unwell.”
“How did you buy this? We haven’t got the money in our account yet.”
He beams at me now, pleased with himself as though he’s just done something brilliant like got a promotion or won the fathers’ race on school sports day. “I just took the winning ticket into the garage and waved it about. It was amazing. You should have seen their faces.” He’s giddy, not himself at all. “I’m not sure they believed me at first, but I told them we’ve been doing it for years and that we always use the same numbers. That we—you—buy the ticket from the same WHSmith on the high street every week, during your lunch hour. They loved the story. Lapped it up. Everyone loves a winner, right?”
Well, that solves the mystery as to how the knowledge that the winner is local was leaked onto the internet. My own husband blabbed to a sales rep who obviously couldn’t resist sharing the scoop. “You took the lottery ticket into the garage?” I’m amazed at his audacity, at his stupidity. I drop my handbag to my feet and gawp at the car.
“Yeah.”
“What if you’d lost it?”
Jake clocks my expression, which is no doubt a mix between concern and irritation. “Oh, right, sorry. It was stupid of me. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m just so excited!” He puts his arms around me, hugs me tightly. He murmurs into my ear. “Sorry. My bad, but don’t worry, I didn’t lose it.” His breath is warm and his touch familiar, and I can’t help but sink into it. Emily looks embarrassed at our PDA, and so Jake breaks away and starts to enthusiastically recite facts and figures about the car that make no sense to me. “Isn’t she a beaut? This is the 488 GTB. It has a three-point-nine-litre engine, five hundred and thirty horsepower. The performance is outrageous, the chassis is sublime.” He strokes the bonnet, practically caresses it. “This model is a big deal for Ferrari. It represents a change of philosophy for the company’s mid-engine supercar.” I stare at him. He could be speaking a foreign language for all I understand. Or care.
“This car doesn’t actually belong to me,” Jake adds. “It’s on loan.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” My relief is short-lived, though.
“Mine won’t be ready for a few weeks. Mine is red and I’m getting some customization done. That takes a bit of time. I found it hard to make a call between leather or carbon fiber door cards. I wish you’d been there to help pick. She’s sensational, right?”
“How much?”
“Hey, if you need to ask, you can’t afford it, and as we can afford anything you don’t need to ask.” He grins at me. His irrepressible, charming grin. Normally I find it overpowering; today I manage to remain focused.
“How much?”
“Well, this model is from 195,000 pounds, but we’re getting a convertible and they are a smidge more.”
“Two hundred thousand pounds for a car!”
“Ours will be nearer two hundred thirty.” Jake sounds proud.
“You can buy a house for that.”
“Yeah, if you want to,” he agrees, obviously not getting my point. “Maximum speed is 205.1 mph.”
“That’s an illegal speed.”
“Well, I won’t ever actually travel that fast, of course—it’s just there as an option.”
“Isn’t it stunning!” chips in Emily. “Although I think Dad should have gone for British racing green with a red interior. I’ve just been looking at the colorways online.”
“Why aren’t you at school? What’s wrong with you exactly?” My tone is harsher than I intended. Emily looks to the ground. Bringing the shutters down.
“Period pain,” she mutters grumpily. “Or maybe a stomach bug?” She then shoots her father a look. I’m too busy processing the fact a car can cost over two hundred thousand pounds to notice if Emily’s expression is one of embarrassment or one pleading for secrecy. It’s shifty. She’s obviously just skiving.
I don’t want to throw cold water when Jake is so buoyant. He loves cars, and I did expect him to buy a new one with our winnings. Of course. Throughout our marriage we’ve made do with reliable secondhand hatchbacks. This was bound to be a moment for him. I just hadn’t expected him to select one so quickly. And so expensive. But in the spirit of keeping the show on the road, I say, “I treated myself, too. I bought teapigs tea bags.”
Jake and Emily burst out laughing. Emily recovers first when she realizes I’m not joking. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she offers.
“No need, I have champagne on ice,” says Jake. “It’s Cristal. It cost two hundred quid a bottle.”
“I don’t want champagne. I want a cuppa,” I say.
“Yeah, but when the lottery lady gets here, she might want a glass,” says Jake. With a sigh, I accept this might be true.
CHAPTER 9
Emily
I don’t know if it’s just because Dad is jazzed about his new car or if he has actually forgotten, but I’m massively relieved that he obviously doesn’t feel the need to tell Mum the details of why I am home.
I walked out of school. It was as simple as that. Then I texted Dad. I don’t want to be here.
Coming, princess. Wait until you see my chariot!
The car is awesome. It’s just like this great big daffodil-colored pile of perfection. You can see it a mile off and hear it from even farther away. Dad sat at the school gates revving the engine. Since I was skipping lessons, I should have been keeping a low profile. That would have been the wise thing to do, but it was pretty cool to see kids with mouths hanging wide-open. Ridley was one of them. I pretended not to see him but I could feel his glare on my back. I flicked my hair over my shoulder and then Dad zoomed away. It cheered me up a bit after my fallout with Ridley and Megan. I just can’t believe the way they acted! It was like we’d never been friends! Like we weren’t a thing! So jealous.
“Did you see their faces, did you?” I asked Dad as we sped away.
“Sure did.” Dad started to give me lots of info about the car then. I didn’t take much of it in. I got the gist. Bottom line, the car is fast and expensive. We drove around for a bit. Neither of us wanted to go straight home—we drove past Ridley’s house and Megan’s house. Not, like, on purpose, that’s just the way home, although I think the revving outside their homes was deliberate. Dad is definitely being more crazy since we won the lottery. I think I saw someone at the window at Ridley’s house. Probably Jennifer, she’s usually at home. We decided to drive on the big A road.
“Just to let her open up a bit,” said Dad.
It wasn’t just schoolkids who turned to look our way—every other driver stared enviously, tongues lolling. He didn’t say anything for a bit, we just drove enjoying the warm feeling that comes from knowing you have it better than anyone else. Then he turned to me and asked, “So what was up at school?” I should have known I’d get grilled. Yeah, Dad is the fun parent, but he’s still a parent and so always wants to know what’s going on in my life.
“It sucks,” I muttered.
“I thought you liked school.”
“Nope.”
“You used to.”
I shrugged. “Ridley and I had a row. Megan, too.”
“About the lottery win?”
I shrugged again because technically I wasn’t supposed to talk about the lottery win but on the other hand Dad ha
s just driven a great big, bold Ferrari up their street. Not exactly subtle.
“I know you won’t believe me now, but you are young and there will be other boys, other best friends.” I looked out the window. He’s wrong. Every emotion I have ever felt wanted to explode out of my body right then. I am, like, obviously really, really happy we are so rich but I just can’t believe Ridley and Megan! How could they act like that? It feels like they’ve punched me. I can’t explain it. Even if I could, Dad wouldn’t get it. He’s too old. Because I didn’t say anything he carried on, “And maybe it’s for the best. You are going to be busy in the next few months.”
“With my GCSEs,” I said with a groan. I’m in Year 10 but my GCSE mock of the mocks are in a couple of months’ time. Honestly, the results make zero difference to precisely anything but my parents still talk about those exams approximately every thirty seconds.
“Busy spending money,” laughed Dad. “We’ll be moving to a new house, going on holidays.” I beamed at him, relieved. To hell with school. I don’t need qualifications now! We are rich!
It was brutal today.
Ridley and Megan went schizo. They were pleased for me for like a split second when they thought that the win was between all three families but as soon as I told them that their parents had chucked in the syndicate before the win, they went proper mental. They kept saying that it wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. Megan said—and I quote—she “hated fucking rich bitches.” She said we weren’t going to be able to be friends anymore. Just like that. An actual lifetime of friendship, like, binned.
“Ridley, what about you? Do you feel the same?” I asked, pulling him by the arm to make him face me. You know it’s weird, even in the middle of a big row the touch of him floors me. I feel him all the way through my body. Like I’ve swallowed him whole, or something.
“Em, this is hard.”
He is the only person who calls me Em. My mum is pretty keen that I get the full Emily thing as her homage to Emily Brontë and corrects most people if they dare to shorten it. She doesn’t do that to Ridley, though. She has some boundaries. He calls me Em and I call him Rids. It’s our thing. And even though he wouldn’t look me in the eye, his gaze bolted to the floor, he did call me Em so I was melting. Megan had stomped off, but was doing that annoying thing she sometimes does when she’s in a mood; she doesn’t disappear altogether, just keeps herself in our periphery, so we’ll chase after her. She can be quite the attention seeker. “I mean, I’m pleased for you,” he added. “It’s great news but I didn’t know my mum and dad had ditched the lottery. Probably Megan didn’t know, either. So when you said you’d won, I thought we’d all won. You know?” He kept glancing over at Megan as he explained this. “She’s upset. I’ll go and talk to her.”