Lia's Guide to Winning the Lottery (4 page)

He knows who my friends are, I thought. Wow. . . Eight million pounds! Eight million pounds!

The annoying thing was that the hugeness of the jackpot was slightly diminishing the enormity of being with Raf, and vice versa. I needed to concentrate on both things and my mind was skittering like a spider on speed.

‘No . . . Shazia's busy,' I said. ‘Don't worry about me. I'll just go home, I suppose.'

‘What about that guy, Jack?' he asked, ‘He's—'

‘Nah,' I interrupted. ‘He's busy too.'

‘It can't be too bad at home. They'll be so happy when they hear your news. And it's late. They'll be worried about you.'

I wanted to spend time with him, but I felt like such a wimp . . . a damsel in distress, needing an escort home.

‘I'll be fine,' I told him.

But he shook his head. ‘You fainted. It could happen again. And those guys, they saw your ticket and where you . . . umm . . . where you keep it. I'll walk with you, it's fine. You live up on Windermere Road, don't you?'

He knew where I lived. How? OK, that did seem a little strange. Could he have followed
me
one day? Surely not. I mean, what a coincidence. Also, although it was a completely normal, sane thing for me to have done, in a cool boy it would seem demented. I glanced sideways at him. He was frowning.

Actually, it was kind of helpful to be obsessing about Raf as we walked uphill to my road. It stopped my mind churning around, thinking, eight million! Eight million! Every now and again an
eight million!
would break through and once I let out a little squeak. Raf didn't say anything. His default silence
was infuriating. At last I had a chance to talk to him and he wasn't making it easy at all.

We walked past the big, posh houses, and got to our end of the street – the line of modern maisonettes that someone had squeezed onto an empty plot in the 1970s. I always felt that our house was a bit embarrassed to be living near such impressive neighbours. Well, never mind. I was soon going to be looking at luxury penthouses in Hampstead or Primrose Hill, maybe. . . Yes, Primrose Hill, to be closer to Camden Market, with all the lovely shops and stalls. I'd be able to buy anything I wanted. One of those pretty cupcake-pink houses. Oh my God.

I dragged my mind back from clothes and jewellery and an amazing, bright purple velvet sofa that I'd seen last time I'd been to Camden. In two minutes time we'd be at my house. I had to find something to say to Raf.

‘Look – that guy, shutting up the café – was it OK?' I asked. ‘I'm not going to lose you your job or something? He sounded pretty angry.'

‘It's OK,' he said. ‘Jasper loses his temper really easily. He's just a bit . . . a bit tired, that's all.'

‘Jasper?'

‘My half-brother. He owns the café. I have to work for him.'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘Why? My dad owns the bakery but I don't work for him.'

He shrugged. ‘I just do.'

I was going to ask more but the door opened. Grrr. My dad must've been looking out of the window. He was wearing his dressing gown, pale-faced and unshaven. God, how embarrassing. He should know to keep out of the way, looking like that. Just because it was midnight, there was no reason to show himself in public looking like a zomboid hospital patient.

‘Where on earth have you been?' he asked. ‘Your mum's been so worried about you. . . She's gone out in the car to see if she could spot you.'

What the hell? ‘She threw
me
out,' I said, furious again. ‘She told me to leave. Did she tell you that,
huh
? Oh no, I suppose it was all
my
fault.'

‘She said you were rude and obnoxious.'

‘She's a cow! She's a liar!'

‘Well, come in now, anyway. You'll have to apologise when she gets back.'

‘I'd rather
die
!'

Raf gave a little cough. ‘Err. . . Good evening, Mr Latimer.' He offered my dad his hand and, after
a tiny, amazed pause, my dad shook it. ‘My name is Rafael Forrest. I'm at school with Lia and I manage the internet café on the Broadway.'

I loved the way he said his name. Raff-ay-el, overlaid with some sort of sexy foreign accent.

‘
Do
you? Impressive, that, if you're still at school,' said Dad, King of Sarcasm.

‘I work nights,' said Raf.

‘Well, I have to say, we were all glad to see that unit open again.'

‘Thanks,' said Raf, politely. ‘You run Latimer's Loaves, don't you?'

‘Been in my family since 1834,' said my dad, clearly delighted to find someone who was possibly interested. ‘Opened by my great-great-grandfather. We've been hit recently by the credit crunch . . . and the mall . . . and all those low-carb diets, but yes, it's a great little business.'

I glanced at Raf to see if his eyes were glazed with boredom. Instead he looked bizarrely interested.

‘It must be a challenge to work out how to compete,' he said.

My dad perked up immediately. ‘Well, we small businesses must stick together,' he said. ‘I've got a few plans—'

‘I
fainted
!' I interrupted. ‘I
collapsed
!' I was slightly overdramatic, to head off Dad's lengthy explanation of the benefits of setting up a Tithe Green Retailers' Association.

‘Lia had some exciting news,' said Raf. ‘It was too much for her.'

‘She fainted? That's not like you, Lia. She's as strong as an ox,' Dad beamed proudly.

‘I'd better be getting back,' said Raf. ‘Bye, Lia, see you at school.' And he walked off, fast, into the shadows of the night, no doubt imagining me as a sturdy, bovine, cud-chewing beast.

‘Well, Lia, found yourself a guardian angel then?' said Dad with, I swear, an actual sneer. I felt like he'd tied my guts into a knot.

‘Raf was actually
worried
about my safety. He actually walked me home because I
fainted
. Not that
you
care.'

Dad scratched his head. ‘Had you been drinking? Surely not, with that very well-mannered young man – not your style, I'd have thought, but wonders never cease.'

My parents were convinced that it could only be a matter of time before I started binge-drinking and smoking skunk. They often predicted that I'd be
starring on one of those awful reality TV shows where normal British teenagers are shipped off to boot camp in Oregon. They have to hike round the wilderness with horrible, militaristic American hippies, and are forced to share their feelings until they crack up and start wailing over letters from home and saying they were wrong and bad and they love their mummies and daddies so much. Parent porn, Jack and I call it.

‘Shut up,' I said automatically, although I was also a bit stunned by Raf's general . . . poise, you could call it. He had the manners of someone who'd been around a long time . . . a vampire, perhaps . . . but the face . . . the stern, serious beauty of him. . .

Fallen angel. Or just angel, as apparently the fallen ones are really unpleasant. Had to be. He'd told me that everything would be all right with my family once they heard my news. Maybe he was giving me some sort of Angelic Message.

‘Well,' said my dad, ‘you're going to have to apologise to your mum. She's very upset, says you were rude to her.'

‘She was rude to
me
.'

‘C'mon, Lia. Think about it. Keep the peace. She's been worrying about you.'

‘Oh, yeah, right,' I said.

‘What's this exciting news, then? Talent-spotted by a modelling agency? Decided to do some work for your GCSEs? Hit me with it.'

He was always so busy being funny, my dad, that I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a proper conversation with him.

‘Ha, ha, very amusing. No, I've won the lottery.'

Dad laughed. How he laughed. He started wheezing and had to blow his nose on a tatty old hankie.

‘You're as good as Harry Hill,' he said, playfully ruffling my curls. ‘Won the lottery, eh? How much? A tenner?'

‘Nope. Eight million,' I muttered, head down.

‘Eight million? Eight
million
? Ha, ha . . . pull the other one.'

I fished around for the ticket. ‘Here you go. You can check if you want.'

‘You're not serious, are you? How can we check?'

‘Internet,' I said, but he chortled to himself and said, ‘I must be getting soft in the head. You can't trick me, young lady.'

‘It's true . . . it is,' I said. ‘I'll prove it. I'll ring them.'

He flopped down on the sofa and watched as I pulled out the ticket, found my mobile phone, checked
the credit on it. There was a bit, but not enough for a long conversation. I held out my hand for his. He handed it over, saying with a big grin, ‘When you've got your eight million you can pay me back.'

I got my ticket out and turned it over and found the number you have to call if you think you've won. Some woman with a strong Liverpool accent answered.

‘Hello, I think I've won your jackpot. The Double Rollover. Eight million.'

Dad shook his head.

‘Just putting you through.'

I waited. Dad waited.

‘Hello,' said another voice, with an equally strong Scouse flavour.

‘Hello,' I said. ‘I've won, I think. I've got all the numbers.'

‘Can you give me your name?'

‘Lia. L-I-A. Lia Latimer. L-A-T-I-M-E-R.'

‘Hello, Lia, I'm Ruth. Can I take your number?'

I gave her my mobile.

‘Can you read me the numbers on your ticket?'

‘Thirty-four,' I said. ‘Seventeen. Twenty-three. Forty-one. Thirteen. Eight. Seven.'

Dad pretended he was the lottery company
representative. He mimed writing down the numbers, checking them carefully. . .

‘Well, those numbers are all correct,' said Ruth. ‘We'll get a Winner's Adviser to call you.'

‘Oh!' I said. ‘Wow!' I was
squee
ing like a WAG. ‘Oh! Wow! It's real! I really have . . . are you sure?'

Dad grinned, rolled his eyes and waved his finger in a circle. ‘You can't wind me up,' he said.

Ruth said something about security checks and validation, and asked for my address. I was trembling as I spelled it out.

Dad said, ‘Who is it then? Shaz? Jack? That boy Ralph?'

Ruth asked where I'd bought the ticket. I gave her the address of the newsagent at the bottom of Jack's road.

Dad yawned and said, ‘That's enough, Lia. I'm going back to bed.'

‘Hang on a minute,' I said to Ruth. ‘Can you just talk to my dad? He thinks I'm joking.'

‘Hand him over.'

So I did. Dad took the phone. And I stood and watched as he refused to believe her . . . told her she was joking . . . accused her of being Shaz . . . listened . . . shook his head . . . looked at the ticket . . . wandered
over to his laptop . . . and finally, voice choking, said, ‘Oh Lord. It's not a wind-up at all, is it?'

And then he handed me back the phone, collapsed onto the sofa, and drank a big gulp of Mum's Burgundy.

Ruth told me to write my name and address on the back of my ticket. ‘Someone's going to ring you back,' she said.

She told me all sorts of stuff about security arrangements and documents and all the time my heart was thumping so loud I could hardly hear her. I sat down next to Dad. I didn't want to faint again, without Raf there to catch me.

‘And then what?' I asked. ‘When do I get the money?'

And she explained that they had to check the ticket, and make an appointment, and they'd come to our house and sort things out. I shouldn't tell too many people yet, and quite soon, all being well, I'd be having the whole winner experience.

The Whole Winner Experience. Woo hoo. I liked the sound of that.

And then she said, ‘Goodbye, Lia,' and I said, ‘Goodbye, Ruth,' and I didn't quite know what I was going to say to Dad because he was still just sitting
there, with his head in his hands, murmuring softly, ‘Eight million. Eight bloody million. Oh God. Eight million.'

Then the front door slammed and I heard Natasha chattering away about some lame movie, and Mum fussing about shoes being left in the hall for people to fall over, and Dad rushed out to meet them.

‘Sarah!' he said, ‘Sarah! You'll never guess . . . you'll never believe it.'

‘
What?
' said my mum. ‘Has Lia rung? Is she at Shazia's?'

‘It's . . . it's . . . Lia . . . eight million. . . Sarah, we've won! We've won the lottery!'

That's what he said. ‘We've won the lottery!'

And I stood there and thought, who said anything about ‘we'?

Chapter 4