Just My Luck(19)

I glance at my parents. They look cool, younger than either the Pearsons or Heathcotes but they also look a bit too shiny. They are undoubtedly people wearing new clothes, which is never a good thing. Except maybe on holiday. My mum is basically pretty but doesn’t do anything about it and as neither Carla nor Jennifer work, they both have a lot of time to go to the gym and beauty salon. Maybe now we are millionaires, Mum can even things up a bit. I remember once joking with her that when me and Ridley get married, she’ll have to work really hard not to let the mother-of-the-groom outshine the mother-of-the-bride. All she said to that though was, ‘You’re too young to be talking about marriage.’ Mum isn’t really very competitive.

Is Ridley still even my boyfriend?! The thought scuttling into my mind sends actual shots of pain through me, like someone is repeatedly flicking at my flesh. This has to be a blip. It has to be!

Patrick, Megan’s dad, is wearing his usual weekday uniform, a suit and tie. I briefly wonder why he is not at work. Usually Patrick is permanently attached to his phone and talks about nothing except work. Not something my dad is guilty of. In fact, shouldn’t both Patrick and Fred be at their offices? It’s got to be a good sign that they’ve taken time off specially to come to this press announcement, hasn’t it? They must want to be supportive. Or at the very least, to suck up to us. I’m pretty sure that now they know we are lottery winners they’ll want to blag a free holiday when we rent some amazing chateau somewhere. Everything is going to be OK. Once they see how generous we’ll be. I’ll get my boyfriend and my best friend back. Things will be OK.

Carla basically looks better than I’ve ever seen her look. She is wearing a green and blue mid-calf, slim-fitting (but not vulgarly tight) bodycon dress. Green and blue shouldn’t work but it does; the season is all about the bold colours (a woman in Armani told me that when we were on our shopping spree). I have to admit it, Carla has upstaged Mum. Honestly? She always kind of does upstage everyone. Carla likes to be the best at everything. She has to be the slimmest, the chicest, the fastest if they go on a run. Her kids certainly have to be the cleverest. Look, that’s just my opinion. Mum likes Carla a lot, but I think she’s a bit full-on. You know, she’s one of those mothers that can tell you exactly what percentage Megan got in her mid-week Physics test and who played defensive fullback in Megan’s last hockey match. Megan has two younger brothers, Scott who is twelve and Teddy who is nine; Carla watches them all like a hawk. She constantly complains how exhausting it is being a mother of three but I wonder what would she do with herself if she wasn’t living through them?

At least I can’t complain that my mum lives through me.

Gillian politely asks the Heathcotes and Pearsons to take a seat, two or three times over, but they still don’t. Instead Patrick marches up to the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press,’ he says, which is a bit over the top, but he can be though. He knows that a slow, posh voice makes people sit up and listen. ‘We are thrilled that the entire syndicate of winners are able to be here today after all, for this photo opportunity, rather than just the syndicate representatives, Mr and Mrs Greenwood.’

What?! I don’t get it! I turn to Mum and Dad, who look like a bus has just hit them. No one seems to know what is going on and there’s a confused murmur throughout the room. The words ‘syndicate’ and ‘team’ are repeated by the press people, over and over, the words are stones, the pond is rippling. What is he on about?! There isn’t a syndicate anymore. They dropped out!

Mum opens her mouth, but no words come out, just a little phut sound. She reaches for my hand and puts her other arm around Logan’s shoulder, but her gesture isn’t comforting, it’s freaking me out. She’s behaving like when she had to tell me Grandpa Greenwood had died. And I’m behaving a bit the same too. My brain is heavy and slow, like wet cotton wool.

‘Fuck off,’ says Dad. ‘You are not the fucking winners. We are not a syndicate.’

The ‘ladies and gentlemen of the press’ suddenly turn from lethargic doughnut-eating sloths into twitching, hungry beasts sniffing out a story. So much closer to the journo stereotype I had imagined, but also quite frightening. They leap to their feet and start yelling questions at us. ‘So, this is a syndicate win? The six of you are winners?’ one journalist shouts loudly. It’s basically the same question that everyone is asking, so people pipe down and wait for a response.

‘No, there are not six fucking winners,’ my dad yells back. It’s not like him to swear so much. I mean if he hits his thumb with a hammer the air turns blue but mostly, in front of Logan and me, he’s pretty careful not to say any of the words that we hear constantly at school. I don’t like to see him losing control. I don’t think it’s helping, and I get the feeling we do need help. A number of journalists scribble something in their books. I can’t think that’s a good thing.

‘We have all been doing the lottery together for fifteen years, four months,’ says Patrick loudly, although no one asked. He sounds calm and smooth. Authoritative. ‘We, as a group, have bought a ticket every single week for all those years.’ He has hold of Carla’s hand, she is smiling at the cameras, she is very photogenic.

‘That’s not true,’ insists Dad.

‘What’s not true?’ asks Patrick. He turns to my dad, smiling. But it’s a bullshit, so obviously fake smile. How could anyone be convinced by it? ‘Have we, or have we not, been a syndicate for over fifteen years?’