by Adele Parks
Gillian is already at the table, and as I approach she stands up, draws me into a big hug, which lasts longer than most. She’s a curvy, motherly woman and I enjoy sinking into her. Then she breaks away and produces a small bunch of orange gerberas, tied with an elastic band. She hands them to me with a broad smile. Over the past month we have received at least twenty bouquets of flowers from people congratulating us on our win. Maybe more. I’ve lost count. We didn’t have enough vases and, in the end, put them in glasses and buckets. Every bouquet was beautiful; flowers are an undisputed joy. Many of them came from family, and I massively appreciated the thought of my sister, Jake’s brothers and sisters-in-law wanting to celebrate with us; others came from people I hadn’t heard from in years, people that had fallen off the Christmas card list. I meant to take the flowers to the local old people’s home, but things were so busy that before I got around to it, their stems began to rot. The house was flooded with a pungent, slightly sweet fetid smell of dead foliage. The bouquets were all significantly more elaborate than these five bright blooms, but I think this is the bunch I appreciate most.
“There’s nothing in the rule book that says we can’t buy you a gift,” explains Gillian with a smile. “I’m so sorry about what has happened. You’ve been very unlucky. I checked with all my colleagues who’ve worked with numerous other lottery winners and, as far as we’re aware, no one in the past has endured anything similar.”
“I imagine it’s because I work with people in very difficult situations. They are more vulnerable, and therefore the small minority of them might sometimes be reckless. I suppose that has left me exposed.”
We order, and as we eat Gillian asks, “What did the police say?”
I sigh, it’s awkward. “Jake said there was no point in going to the police.”
Gillian looks shocked. “But of course there is. You said you recognized the woman. I’m certain they’ll be able to track them down.”
I shrug. “He thinks we have had enough upheaval and we should just focus on moving forward.” Obviously, she already knows about the Pearsons and Heathcotes making a claim on our win, and I explain that I’ve been asked to take a break from work, that Jake has resigned and that we are going to change the kids’ school. I don’t tell her about Emily’s beating. It’s not as though she can do anything about that situation, and it would be a case of a problem shared, a problem doubled, not halved. We are not her responsibility.
Gillian understands that it is almost impossible to continue living in our home. There are no walls, fences, not even a gate. What if those three from last night are just the thin end of the wedge? Should we expect to be inundated with people just turning up asking for money? Some might ask politely, or there may be more threats. Either way it will become impossible, intolerable.
“If you move, though, can I recommend you consider staying close by, at least to start with? We’ve found that really works for other lottery winners,” suggests Gillian. “Keep your support system around you, just pick somewhere less accessible for strangers. Maybe somewhere less remote.” She reaches for her iPad. “I’ve taken the liberty of doing a bit of a search on the internet. Just to give you some ideas. There is a new development in Great Chester that’s almost finished. A gated cul-de-sac that might be worth a look.”
Gillian shows me photos of five lovely new houses on a private road. I am aware of the development as Jennifer, Carla and I have been closely watching the building project progress over the last year. We were planning on having a mooch around the showhouse together as soon as it was open to the public. At the time none of us had any intention of moving, but we all like a nose because you can get some inspiration on how to do up your own home—it’s a good way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Although the show house opened up Easter weekend, we never got there. The houses in the photos are certainly grander than ours. They are all basically the same with a few cosmetic differences. For example, you can choose your own kitchen units, and the tiles and carpets vary throughout. There are two different sorts of front doors to pick from. According to the listing, all the houses have five bedrooms, three with en suites, a reception room and a snug—whatever that is, somewhere for the kids to hang out, I suppose. They each have separate garages and huge kitchens. I could see myself living in one of these houses, happily. They are not too impossibly grand, but they are elegant, spacious, aspirational.
“You’d get a level of security without feeling cut off,” points out Gillian. This search is thoughtful of her and so close to an act of friendship that I feel tears sting in my eyes. The fact I notice the kindness somehow draws attention to the lack of it in my life at the moment. I used to want to live in Great Chester, if we could ever have afforded it. I wanted to be able to walk to my friends’ homes, knock on their doors and have impromptu get-togethers, but since I’m no longer friends with Carla and Jennifer, Great Chester has lost its appeal. I don’t say this to Gillian—it would sound ungrateful. Instead, I thank her, tell her I might take a look, although I won’t. Then I change the subject and start talking about the party.
We pass a pleasant hour and a half. I want to linger longer, but Gillian has to get back to the office. I envy her sense of purpose and business. As she stands up to leave, I feel a flush of embarrassment at being the rudderless person who does not have to be somewhere. Anywhere.
“I don’t want to get overinvolved and push my beak in where it’s not wanted,” she says with an apologetic grin.
“What is it? Honestly, all advice welcome.”
She looks uncomfortable but earnest. I recognize the expression because I sometimes wore it at the CAB when I overstepped a guideline. “Even if the development at Great Chester isn’t for you, can I urge you to just maybe think twice about buying somewhere too far away, or too grand, or too—” she searches for the word “—isolated.”
* * *
The first thing I spot when I arrive home is the for-sale sign standing tall in our front garden.
“That was quick,” I comment to Jake.
“Your safety comes first. Why would I delay?” he replies. His comment is somewhat at odds with the one he made this morning about my overreacting, but since it would be very churlish to grumble since he has come around to my point of view I just nod, smile. “I’ve also booked security guys who will start work this evening at six. They are going to stay overnight.”
“Where will they stay?” I ask.
“On the sofa.”
“They agreed to that?”
“People agree to anything for the right price.” His comment is throwaway—his easy, firm belief. “Anyway, it won’t be for long, we’re moving out tomorrow.”
“You’ve found a hotel? Great. Then why can’t we go tonight?”
“Not a hotel, I’ve found a home.”
I had been edging out of my shoes, busy shrugging off my jacket and looking for a vase to put the gerberas in, but this news makes me pivot to face him. I expect him to be wearing a huge triumphant grin, an expression I’ve become accustomed to seeing when he arrives home with his latest booty. I’m more concerned that he is not smirking goofily; he simply looks decisive, firm and matter-of-fact. Choosing us a home isn’t a matter of joy for him, it’s his prerogative. I struggle to process this shift in the dynamics between us. We used to discuss everything from what we were going to have for tea to what we should watch on TV. Certainly, where we live would have been a matter of intense debate. In the past. Why aren’t I involved in these decisions anymore? He checks his watch, then smiles smoothly, as though nothing is different or wrong. “Come on, hurry up. You’ll need to get changed. An agent is arriving in fifteen minutes to take us for a viewing.”
“You haven’t seen it? You’ve bought a house and you haven’t even seen it?” I splutter.
“I saw it online. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s out of this world. Anyway, we’re just renting it at the moment
, but it is up for sale so if we like it, then we can buy it. How great is that?”
I guess it is great; he has at least only chosen a rental, not our next lifelong home. I allow myself to feel some level of relief, though I’m far from reassured or relaxed. I feel rushed. Bulldozed. “You’ve already signed a contract?”
“You are going to love it, Lexi.”
“Where is this house?”
“Just a few miles past Hurtington.”
Hurtington is thirty miles from where we live now. Twenty-five miles from the school Jake has just enrolled the kids in. “How will they get to school every morning?” I ask. “Is there a bus?”
“We’ll hire a driver.”
“But is there a bus?” I insist.
“I have no idea. How would I know?”
I want to point out it will most probably say on the school website, or the estate agent might possibly know. This is the sort of question people ask when uprooting their family, but I stay silent. I would have asked that question if I had been involved in selecting their school or our home. I feel disconnected. Cut off. The kids are really excited about viewing the new house and specifically bagsying their bedrooms so they chatter throughout the journey. I’m grateful that their noise masks the silence that squats heavily between Jake and me. The slim, blonde professional estate agent has a perma-tan and a perma-smile. She drives us along a winding road that I have never traveled on before and had no idea existed.
“Nearly there,” she chirps. I look about; it’s all high walls and tall established trees. Their canopies are vast and lush, their purpose not so much to offer shade as privacy, I suspect. All the houses on the road are unique, purpose-built for people who don’t think there is a house on earth that fits their specific needs and therefore have to have one designed especially. They are all enormous and elegant, and each one elicits a gasp from the children, who have their noses superglued to the car windows. When we stop at an electric gate, the estate agent opens her car window and then with her long, polished nail jabs in a code that makes the gates open. As they slowly swing on their hinges, I do not feel any sense that we’re being welcomed—it’s more as though we are stepping inside a monster’s open mouth. The gates slowly close behind the car, swallowing us.
“You can change that code, personalize it,” says the estate agent. “Maybe to your winning lottery numbers,” she suggests with a simpering laugh.
“That would be too long,” I point out.
The house is exquisite. Breathtaking. Modern, angular, very much how I imagine houses to be in Los Angeles. It’s the exact opposite to our dated, poorly repaired home with flaky paintwork and a weed-pocked garden. This is modern, all white walls, vast windows, and the garden is expertly manicured. Our car inches along the shingled drive and grinds to a halt just outside the vast dark wooden door which the estate agent unlocks. She immediately disarms the intruder alarm by inserting another code into another keypad. I guess I would be safe here. The four of us have dressed up to come on this look round—Jake, Emily and I by tacit agreement that we had to look the part. Logan was coerced, and anyway his idea of dressing up means that he has changed out of a sweaty football top and put on a clean one.
I’m so glad we did.
I get the feeling that anyone who lives in this sort of house has to constantly dress as though they are camera-ready for a shoot with Hello! The hallway is cavernous, double the height of any house I’ve ever been into. There is a glass ceiling that allows the sun to pour onto the floor, which is covered with immense white porcelain tiles that shine like glassy ice.
We dawdle through the vast and numerous rooms. I count them up. There are three reception rooms. I’m thinking maybe one is used as a dining room and another an office, but then we are shown both of those rooms so I struggle to understand why anyone would need three reception rooms. Maybe one for the kids, one for the husband and one for the wife. Oh, dear. The dining room has a huge wooden table running its entire length. I count the seats: twenty. I suppose that would be useful at Christmas. Usually in our home we resort to pulling dressing-table stools and deck chairs up around the table to make sure everyone is seated. Although, other than Christmas, I’m not sure when we’d use the dining room. Like most families we tend to gather in the kitchen, even when we are entertaining. We’re unlikely to need an office, either, since neither of us has a job anymore. The kitchen is vast and, yes, there is a huge dining area in there, too. I try to visualize us all clustered around the industrial-looking stainless-steel worktops. The estate agent is good at her job, a people reader. She asks, “Don’t you like the kitchen?”
“It’s stunning. Very modern.” She waits. “Maybe a little clinical for my taste,” I admit.
“You can have it ripped out of course, if you buy the place. It is three years old.” She rolls her eyes at me and pulls her mouth into a wide grimace; her neck looks like a turtle’s. I think I’m supposed to be horrified at the idea of a kitchen being more than three years old.
There are six bedrooms, each with an en suite. There’s an extra bathroom on top, which the agent describes as the family bathroom, but I don’t understand who would need it because of the multiple en suites. There are a lot of glossy wooden and marble floors and a rich scattering of plush rugs, no carpets. If my parents visit here, the rugs would be a hazard—my dad is always tripping over his own feet. There are a number of lights hidden in the floors, ceilings and recesses, not a dusty lampshade in sight. Some walls are made of glass bricks. I know they’re really trendy, but they’ve been ruined for me because they use them in our local health center. I’ve sat too often waiting to see a doctor to associate them with anything other than one of my children running a fever. The place is minimalist, furnished with a number of tasteful shades of gray. I suddenly think of Carla. She is the only woman I know who freely admits that she’s read Fifty Shades of Grey. I imagine her making jokes about the color scheme and the opportunities to christen the endless rooms. I wonder how Jennifer would have responded. She constantly behaved as though Carla’s unsubtle innuendo was a bit distasteful. She always seemed to be something approaching sexless. She almost behaved as though giving birth to Ridley had been the result of an immaculate conception. Carla used to say it was because, out of the three of us, Jennifer had the least attractive husband and probably wasn’t that into sex with him, specifically. I used to shush Carla when she said things like that. I’d tell her not to be mean. She didn’t listen.
“Do we get to keep the furniture?” I ask. It may all be a bit different from my usual tastes—I generally like bright cheerful colors—but I know we don’t have enough furniture of our own to fill this place. Everything we own could fit in the one room I’m standing in.
“If you like it and want it. It’s from a hire company. I can have it changed if it’s not to your taste. We have a range that you can view online.”
“It’s fine.” I’m certain under normal circumstances there’s nothing Emily would like more than playing interior designer, but at the moment she’s absorbed with party planning. Besides, I’m not sure she needs to feel the buzz of click and collect any more than she already has. I think she’s technically addicted.
We are shown around the rest of the house. It’s wall-to-wall elegance, the very epitome of wealth and success. I sniff the air and swear I can detect the scent of money wafting about. There is a cinema room, a gym and outside, at the bottom of the garden, a pool room. I mean swimming pool, although there is also another room with a pool table in it. The children are beside themselves. They have already picked out their bedrooms, and there were no squabbles because all of them are stunning, huge. This place is the opposite to the sort of place Gillian advised me to move to, but the matter is settled. Jake has signed a contract. The kids like the place. In fact, they love it. And I don’t dislike it. How could I? What is there to dislike?
Emily and Logan go into the garden and
discover a croquet set. Neither of them has ever played croquet in their lives, the very name of the game a source of derision in the past. Now they are knocking a ball about with a lack of expertise but complete enthusiasm. I stand at the window and watch them.
They giggle and chatter, gently squabbling about whose ball is closest to the hoop. There are no electronic devices in sight. I’m living the dream. Jake is at my side.
But we’re not touching.
The estate agent says breezily, “I’ve a bottle of champagne in the car. I should have got it out when we arrived and put it in the fridge to chill. Will you excuse me for a moment while I go and fetch it? I imagine you want a moment just to take in all this fabulousness.”
A strange thing has happened to Jake and me over the past few weeks. For years we used to talk about anything and everything. The big stuff and the little stuff. The value of my career, how many children we should have, where and how we should raise said children, what we should spend our money on. We discussed, in detail, what we’d do if we only had five minutes left to live and if we have fifty years left to live. Now we only talk about what we—he—wants to buy next. I wish I could keep up with him. I wish I could simply enjoy spending it all. I can’t, and somehow that means we no longer know how to reach each other. I’ve noticed when we are alone together, we seem to be more alone than when we are apart.
“How much does this cost to rent?” I ask.
“We can afford it,” replies Jake, which doesn’t answer my question.
“And if we did want to buy it, how much would that cost?”
Jake shrugs. “I’m not sure exactly.” I stare at him. He looks just above my eyebrows. Doesn’t he even care anymore? Has he gone past that?
“A ballpark?”
“No clue.”
“Did you ask?”