Just My Luck(16)

‘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 Bront? 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.’

‘I’m upset too.’

‘Yeah, but you are rich upset and that’s never as bad.’ He flashed me a fast grin and then ran off to catch up with Megan. It was confusing because in that moment I sort of thought I had everything and nothing at the same time.

Driving in Dad’s new car was fun, but I couldn’t get Ridley and Megan out of my head. ‘Can I leave school, Dad?’

‘Maybe. You could take a year out, get tutors as we travel. Or just take a year out and drop back a year when you return. You’re young in your school year and anyway, there’s more to life than classrooms. Your mum and I need to flesh out a plan. You can certainly change school if don’t like the one you are at. We can send you to a private school if you want.’

‘Yeah, I think I do.’

That’s when he said we should loop back and pass the Heathcotes’ and Pearsons’ houses just one more time. God, that engine is loud.





10


Lexi


I instantly like the lady from the lottery, Gillian. She looks just like someone who could work alongside me at the Citizen’s Advice Bureau. Sensible, bordering on mumsy. She has dyed blonde hair; her roots are a mix of a darker colour and some premature grey streaks. She probably does her own colour in the bathroom at home, like I do. This is somehow reassuring. Gillian wears secretary glasses and carries a large handbag that is functional rather than beautiful.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I offer. I’ve laid out the cake, plates and mugs. I would have put out cups and saucers if we had any; we don’t. Emily says maybe we should buy some now. I also forgot to buy paper napkins.

‘Oh, yes please. Just straightforward builder’s with milk, no sugar,’ says Gillian, in the tone of a woman gasping for a cuppa after a long car journey.

‘I thought champagne would be more appropriate.’ Jake is holding the bottle aloft.

Gillian flashes a fast look between the two of us; we are being weighed up. I do the same when sat opposite clients at the CAB. The advice I offer is always the same but has to be delivered in a myriad of ways depending on what sort of person I am talking to.

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having. Champagne is always lovely, but I’m driving so only half a glass for me. I have a lot of information for you, so I guess it depends how good you are at keeping a clear head,’ Gillian replies with a diplomatic chuckle.

Jake is already twisting the wire that encases the cork. He bounces into the kitchen to pour. Gillian and I sit in silence until we hear the pop sound. Then Gillian smiles, ‘You have so much to celebrate.’

‘Yes, we do.’

We toast. Jake downs his as though it’s going out of fashion, then immediately refills his glass. Gillian begins to pull documents and files from her large handbag and sets about pegging our dreamy unreality into something that approaches a practical proposal.

‘We need to set up meetings with accountants and financial advisors. As you can imagine, it wouldn’t do to pop this sort of money into a high-street bank. You can get it to work harder for you, if you talk to the wealth management arm of your bank.’