Chapter 7
By the time Sylvia’s Easter holidays approached, Pam had made several excursions into Belcaster on her own. She had added several more items to her wardrobe, including a warm fleece jacket and some trainers and she had treated herself to a ‘make-over’ in Boots. She had occasionally worn a little makeup before, but had always applied it in such an amateur fashion it did nothing to enhance her looks. Within moments she was seated in a chair with a gown round her while someone called Jackie worked on her face.
“You’ve good bone structure,” Jackie told Pam as she applied the cleanser and toner to her skin. “What make up do you usually wear?”
“None, really, “Pam admitted, “but I’d like to start.”
Jackie smiled at her in the mirror. “Great,” she said, “we’ll soon get you set up.”
Pam left Boots a great deal lighter in the wallet, but her face glowed with new-found interest, delicate colour bringing life to her eyes and her cheeks, and her bag full of all the new cosmetics she would need.
“There,” Jackie had said, surveying both her handiwork and Pam’s pile of purchases with satisfaction. “When you get home tonight your own husband won’t recognise you!”
“No, “Pam agreed with a beam, “I don’t think he will.”
Sylvia encouraged Pam in her days out. She could see the difference in her friend since she had arrived two or three weeks ago and she wanted her metamorphosis to continue.
“We’ll make an appointment with David Watson, my solicitor friend,” Sylvia said, “and get things going on your divorce. As far as I know you should be entitled to almost half Roger’s assets.”
“Half?” Pam was amazed. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes, I do,” Sylvia said. “You’ve been married how many years?”
“Nineteen in July.”
“Well, that’s a big chunk out of anyone’s life to devote to the care of one man and his child. Who knows, you could have been running ICI or British Airways by now if you hadn’t had to do that.”
“Hardly!” laughed Pam. “Still I did work for him for some of the time…office work I mean. I did all his typing and book-keeping.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t any qualifications,” Sylvia said, surprised.
“I hadn’t, not to start with, but when he needed help he sent me on a computer course to learn the relevant skills.” She smiled across at Sylvia. “I quite enjoyed it actually. I got hooked at the classes and didn’t just stick with the office skills. I didn’t tell him when the course finished, I simply enrolled in the next one and learned all about graphics, desk top publishing and of course, the Internet. It was wonderful, it opened up a new world to me, and of course it was useful to Roger when he found out I knew how to use it, because I could search for items he wanted for the shop, or for his special customers.
“But didn’t he learn himself?” asked Sylvia.
Pam gave a shout of laughter. “What Roger? I doubt if he can even send an e-mail! He doesn’t believe in keeping a dog and barking himself.”
“So, he owes you wages as well?”
Pam nodded. “That’s why I felt justified in taking the money from the safe. I don’t think I could have done, otherwise.”
“Will you keep his surname,” Sylvia enquired on another occasion, “after the divorce?”
Pam shrugged. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it. You think I should revert to my maiden name?”
“Up to you,” Sylvia said. “I certainly would. I’d want to change everything that reminded me of him.”
“I might, I suppose,” Pam mused. “It isn’t as if I’ve got any children who would then have a different surname. It’s probably a lot of hassle, but I’ll think about it.”
“I expect David can advise you on that as well,” Sylvia said.
The day before term finished Sylvia said quite casually, “I’m going up to London on Monday. Do you want to come too?”
Pam stared at her, “You mean, as in going up to London…like you told me?”
Sylvia laughed. “Yes,” she said. “Like I told you.”
One evening in the previous week, Pam had asked Sylvia why she hadn’t married.
“Never felt the urge,” Sylvia had replied cheerfully. “I never found anyone, and anyway, I wouldn’t want to commit to just one man.”
“But you don’t even have a boyfriend,” began Pam and then continued in confusion, “Oh, lord, Sylvia, I’m sorry it’s none of my business.”
“No, it isn’t,” Sylvia agreed, “but I’ll tell you anyway. You’re quite right, I don’t have a boyfriend as such, far too complicated, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t like male company.” She grinned across at her friend and added mischievously, “I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Pam felt the colour flood her cheeks as she stammered, “No, no. Oh, I wasn’t thinking anything like that….”
Sylvia laughed. “It wouldn’t have worried me if you had,” she said. “The thing is, I enjoy good sex as much as the next, but I don’t want to get involved, you know?” Pam didn’t, but she nodded anyway. “So,” Sylvia went on, “I go up to London where I am registered with a very discreet agency who supply me with suitable young men for my stay.”
Pam eyes widened with incredulity. “You go to an agency…?” she murmured, “and they….”
“They find me interesting partners.”
“And you pay them?”
“Of course I pay them,” Sylvia replied briskly. “That’s the whole point. A business arrangement. No strings. I go up to town where no one knows me. I am extremely unlikely to bump into any of my pupils…or their parents, which would happen all the time if I went out in Belcaster. I have a wonderfully relaxing three or four days. The hotel where I stay is extremely luxurious and extremely discreet. They pamper me and I pamper myself. I shop or go to galleries or museums in the day time, and in the evening I go out for dinner or I take in a show in entertaining company, followed by….well an even more entertaining night.”
“You pay for sex,” stated Pam, flatly.
“I pay for my pleasures,” Sylvia replied, “and certainly sex is high on that agenda.” She smiled across at the stunned Pam. “It is very stimulating and relaxing,” she went on. “Being a head of department in a big city comprehensive can be very stressful, you know. A trip to London in the holidays and at half terms sets me up for the weeks ahead. Don’t look so shocked, Pam, it suits me very well…and you might find it suited you too!”
“Oh no, I don’t think so,” Pam had said then, and she said it again now. “No, I don’t think so, Syl. Do you mind if I stay here at the cottage while you’re away?”
Sylvia laughed. “Not at all. I’ll be glad to have someone in the house. Anyway, I’ll be back on Friday, and then we’ll go and see David Watson and get your divorce on the road. Feel free to use the car while I’m away.”
So, on Monday morning, Pam drove Sylvia to the station and then went on to Belmouth. It was a beautiful April day and she felt that a walk on the sands would blow the cobwebs away and clear her mind. She still couldn’t quite believe that her quiet and sedate friend, Sylvia, was going to London for four days of shopping and sex, or more probably, the other way around.
Pam had sat on the bed whilst Sylvia had been packing her case and seen the wonderful array of underwear she had packed, and some other items that Pam had never seen before, whose purpose she could only guess. She didn’t ask. Sylvia had also packed numerous beauty preparations and scents, and when she lifted, from her wardrobe, clothes that Pam had never seen her wear, wafting traces of elusive and exotic fragrance.
“Do you know who you are going to meet?” Pam asked as Sylvia folded a sheath of black silk on to the top of her case and closed the lid.
Sylvia shook her head. “No,” she smiled, “that’s the exciting part. I don’t know who he is or what he’s like, but I can tell you something, I’ve never yet been disappointed!”
Pam parked on the sea front and walked down onto the sands, the sun on her back and a stiff breeze in her face. White clouds scudded across the palest of blue skies, and the marram grass on the dunes bent almost horizontal as the wind from the sea hissed through. Pam enjoyed being alone, and had never needed company; a good thing, as she had never had easy companionship with anyone. Even Sylvia’s undemanding friendship made Pam feel awkward at times. Indeed, she thought, as she strode out along the sands her hands thrust deep in the pockets of her fleece, it was probably the very undemandingness of Sylvia that was making Pam uneasy. She was so used to having everything in her life ordered and regimented, that the laid-back approach Sylvia had to life, rather disconcerted her. It would be a relief in a way to have the cottage to herself for a few days. It would give her a chance to decide exactly what she wanted to do. It was lovely of Sylvia to say that she could stay as long as she liked, but Pam was beginning to think it was time she moved on to the rest of her life.
I’ll stay until we’ve seen this David Watson chap, she decided and then I’ll find a place of my own.
She had never really lived alone, only for the few months after her mother died, before she married Roger. At the time the idea of living alone had filled her with dread, perhaps another reason she had been so quick to accept Roger’s offer of marriage, but now the thought of a place, entirely her own, appealed to her more and more. She might have a dog, or a cat. She could watch her own TV, she could eat when she felt like it, or not at all. She could choose her own furniture and begin a new collection of books. The idea was wonderful, the possibilities, endless.
As she walked, she considered all the other things she and Sylvia had discussed. First she must find some sort of job, though quite what she didn’t know. She had computer skills, but she had never actually worked in an office. The work she had done for Roger probably equipped her to do most things, but she had no references or CV to offer a prospective employer.
I’ll get a paper on my way home, she thought, and look in the small ads to see if there’s anything there I might try.
The fresh air and exercise had made her feel better, more positive about her future, and as she returned to the promenade she knew that she had made some decisions. Not only would she look for a job in the Belcaster Chronicle, but also for a place to rent, a place of her own.
She had lunch in waterfront pub, another tick on her list of things Roger wouldn’t like, and then went into Belcaster to the cinema and saw the latest James Bond film, he’d hate that!
As she walked back to the car in the April evening sun, she passed a newsagent and went in to buy the Chronicle. As she got out the money to pay, she found the lottery ticket in her purse, and handing it to the girl behind the counter said, “Anything on this?”
“Just check for you,” the girl replied. She ran the ticket through the machine and then gave a sort of strangled squeak.
“What’s the matter?” Pam asked the goggling girl.
“Its…you’ve…”
“Have I won something?” Pam asked, her own face cracking into a smile. “Great! How much? Ten? Twenty?”
“The jackpot,” the girls voice came out in a scratchy whisper. “You’ve won the jackpot…from three weeks ago. It was a roll-over.”
Now it was Pam’s turn to stare. She clutched the counter and said, in a voice quite unlike her own, “Say that again.”
“The roll-over, three weeks ago. It was eight million pounds.”
Pam’s legs buckled under her and she sat down hard on a chair by the counter.
“How much?” she tried to ask, but her voice didn’t come out. For a long moment Pam and the shop girl just stared at each other, and then they were brought back to reality by the strident jangle of the shop bell as another customer came in. Pam leapt to her feet and snatching the ticket from the girl’s hand, shot out into the street, leaving the stunned girl and the new customer staring after her. Stuffing the ticket into her bag and zipping it closed, Pam ran; along the road, round the corner, through the park and back on to the High Street, as if the girl were chasing her to snatch the ticket back. She dived into a café and sitting down heavily at a secluded table at the back, she ordered coffee. It wasn’t until the waitress had brought it and left her to drink it that Pam dared to take the ticket out again. She looked at the six numbers, 3, 9, 17, 29 31 and 45. All of them odd numbers…Pam had never liked even numbers…but all chosen at random, with no particular significance. It had never crossed her mind that she might have won. She had bought the ticket, stowed it in the back of her purse and by the time of the Saturday draw, she had forgotten all about it.
Perhaps that girl’s wrong, Pam thought now as she stared at the ticket. Perhaps she punched the wrong numbers into the machine. Pam certainly wasn’t going back to ask. She replaced the ticket carefully into the zippered pocket of her bag and then zipped up the outer zip.
The best thing to do, Pam decided was to go home and Google the winning numbers on Sylvia’s computer. She hurried back to Sylvia’s car and locked herself into it.
Eight million pounds! Eight million pounds!
“The girl probably got it wrong,” Pam announced to the silent car. “It’s probably only a million!” and then she gave a shout of laughter….“Only a million.”
Pam drove home extremely carefully. She didn’t want an accident, suppose she crashed and someone stole her handbag. When she reached St Jude’s she parked the car in the garage and hid the bag under the seat until she had made sure there was no one lurking in the house. Once safely locked inside she went to the computer and with shaking hands began to type.
Pam stared at the numbers displayed on the screen.. 3, 9, 17, 29 31 and 45…the ones on her ticket….and the jackpot was, as yet, unclaimed. Eventually she got up and taking the precious ticket from her bag, looked round for somewhere to hide it, somewhere it couldn’t get destroyed, thrown away or lost by mistake. In the end she put it inside the grandfather clock which stood, ticking steadfastly, in the hall.
Sylvia’s wine rack stood in the dining room, and amongst the bottles Pam found a single bottle of Lanson champagne. It seemed the obvious choice, she had so much to celebrate; her future was assured, she’d never have to worry about money again and the icing on the cake was that she was free of Roger at last.
Chapter 8
When Pam finally made it up to bed that night she had consumed the whole bottle of champagne, and unused as she was to more than a glass or so of wine, she felt decidedly tipsy. She hoped Sylvia wouldn’t mind her opening the only bottle of champagne in the rack. It had just seemed so appropriate for a celebration, even if a rather solitary one. There was, however, no one with whom she could share her amazing news. She didn’t know where Sylvia was staying in London, and she didn’t want to tell anyone else of her win, at least not yet. So, when she had popped the cork, she sat down in front of Sylvia’s living room fire with the bottle and the glass and drank alone to the dazzling brightness of her new future. The champagne made her thirsty, so she had another glass, and then another, and after that she didn’t feel like cooking herself any supper, so she had another glass of bubbles instead. When the bottle was empty, she negotiated the stairs with some difficulty and crashed on her bed in an uneasy sleep.
She woke in the small hours, desperately thirsty and with a pounding head. Going into the bathroom she drank two glasses of water, downed a couple of paracetamol she found in the cabinet and then crawled back to bed. Sleep, however, didn’t return. When she closed her eyes her head spun alarmingly, and she was afraid she was going to throw up, so she lay on her back trying to fall asleep with her eyes open. At last, as the silver light of dawn crept into her room, she dozed off for another hour or so before waking properly to the new day, the day when she could begin to come to terms with the fact that, when she claimed it, she was now the rightful owner of eight million pounds. As she lay on the bed watching the sun on her wall, her brain still whirled, not now so much with exc
ess champagne as with dizzying knowledge of her incredible good fortune.
If that ticket is really worth eight million pounds, she thought, I can live in luxury for the rest of my life. I can live anywhere, a flat in London, have a holiday home in Spain or even the Caribbean. I don’t need to find a job now. I don’t need a job now.
Her taste for revenge stirred again as she thought of how Roger and Karen would feel when they discovered that she was rich beyond the dreams of avarice, that she had eight million pounds and they had no part of it. She tried to imagine their faces when she broke it to them.
I’ll never have to worry about money again, she thought euphorically. I’ll never have to ask for money again. Or explain why I need it. Or say what I want to spend it on.
As each thought followed the other, she hugged her excitement to herself. The rest of her life was truly her own. The eight million pounds would all be hers….unless of course there had been a co-winner. That was a thought, there might be someone else with the same numbers, but even if she had to share the jackpot, there would still be more money than she could ever need.
She made a large mug of black coffee and took it and Sylvia’s laptop back to bed and looked up how to make a claim. It was all there on the National Lottery website, including a note which said that there need be no publicity about her win if she didn’t want it. She could opt for privacy and her name would not be revealed to anyone.
Do I mind some publicity? she wondered. It would really make Roger sick. Serve him bloody right! There was I thinking I’d have to go begging for enough money to live on. Stuff you, Roger Smith! Now I’ve got more money than you’ll ever have.
It was as she thought this that another, and altogether more dreadful thought, struck her. Sylvia said that in a divorce settlement, Pam could be entitled to half of everything that Roger had. Suppose that worked in reverse? Suppose that if she sued for divorce now, Roger would be entitled to half of everything that she had. Her eight million. Might he have a claim on some of that…even if she had bought the ticket? She felt a sickening chill run through her at the very thought. She pulled the duvet round her with shaking hands and sat cocooned in its folds, feeling sick. She thought of the way he had treated her over the years of their marriage, the slights she had endured, the insults, the verbal abuse and the occasional physical attacks. She visualised the sneering curl of Roger’s lip, the contempt in his eyes, the disdain in Karen’s, and a wave of hatred surged through her.
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