Oh, and £300 for that swirly coat in Whistles, which I must buy before they’re all snapped up. So how much does that leave? Four million, nine hundred and forty-three thousand, minus—

“Excuse me.” A voice interrupts me and I look up dazedly. The woman behind is trying to get at the pen.

“Sorry,” I say, and politely make way. But the interruption has made me lose track of my calculations. Was it 4 million or 5 million?

Then, as I see the woman looking at my bit of paper covered in scribbled numbers, an awful thought strikes me. What if one of my rejected sets of numbers actually comes up? What if 1 6 9 16 23 44 comes up tonight and I haven’t entered it? All my life, I’d never forgive myself.

I quickly fill in tickets for all the combinations of numbers written on my bit of paper. That’s nine tickets in all. Nine quid — quite a lot of money, really. I almost feel bad about spending it. But then, that’s nine times as many chances of winning, isn’t it?

And I now have a very good feeling about 1 6 9 16 23 44. Why has that particular set of numbers leapt into my mind and stayed there? Maybe someone, somewhere, is trying to tell me something.

Four


WHEN I ARRIVE AT my parents’ house, they are in the middle of an argument. Dad is halfway up a stepladder in the garden, poking at the gutter on the side of the house, and Mum is sitting at the wrought-iron garden table, leafing through a Past Times catalogue. Neither of them even looks up when I walk through the patio doors.

“All I’m saying is that they should set a good example!” Mum is exclaiming. She’s looking good, I think as I sit down. New hair color — pale brown with just a hint of gray — and a very nice red polo-neck jumper. Perhaps I’ll borrow that tomorrow.

“And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it?” replies Dad, looking down from the ladder. He’s got quite a few more gray hairs, I notice with a slight shock. Mind you, gray hair looks quite distinguished on him. “You think that would solve the problem?”

“Danger!” says Mum derisively. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Graham. Is that the opinion you really have of British society?”

“Hi, Mum,” I say. “Hi, Dad.”

“Becky agrees with me. Don’t you, darling?” says Mum, and points to a page of Past Times, full of 1930s reproduction jewelry and trinket boxes. “Lovely cardigan,” she adds sotto voce. “Look at that embroidery!” I follow her gaze and see a long, purple coatlike garment covered in colorful Art Deco swirls. I’d save the page and get it for her birthday — if I didn’t know she’ll probably have bought it herself by next week.

“Of course Becky doesn’t agree with you!” retorts my dad. “It’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”

“No it’s not!” says Mum indignantly. “Becky, you think it would be a good idea for the royal family to travel by public transport, don’t you, darling?”

“Well. .” I say cautiously. “I hadn’t really. .”

“You think the queen should travel to official engagements on the ninety-three bus?” scoffs Dad.

“And why not? Maybe then the ninety-three bus would become more efficient!”

“So,” I say, sitting down next to Mum. “How are things?”

“You realize this country is on the verge of gridlock?” says Mum, as if she hasn’t heard me. “If more people don’t start using public transport, our roads are going to seize up.”

My dad shakes his head.

“And you think the queen traveling on the ninety-three bus would solve the problem. Never mind the security problems, never mind the fact that she’d be able to do far fewer engagements. .”

“I didn’t mean the queen, necessarily,” retorts Mum. “But some of those others. Princess Michael of Kent, for example. She could travel by tube, every so often, couldn’t she? These people need to learn about real life.”

The last time my mum traveled on the tube was about 1983.

“Shall I make some coffee?” I say brightly.

“If you ask me, this gridlock business is utter nonsense,” says my dad. He jumps down from the stepladder and brushes the dirt off his hands. “It’s all propaganda.”

“Propaganda?” exclaims my mum in outrage.

“Right,” I say hurriedly. “Well, I’ll go and put the kettle on.”

I walk back into the house, flick the kettle on in the kitchen, and sit down at the table in a nice patch of sunshine. I’ve already forgotten what my mum and dad are arguing about. They’ll just go round and round in circles and agree it’s all the fault of Tony Blair. Anyway, I’ve got more important things to think about. I’m trying to figure out exactly how much I should give to Philip, my boss, after I win the lottery. I can’t leave him out, of course — but is cash a bit tacky? Would a present be better? Really nice cufflinks, perhaps. Or one of those picnic hampers with all the plates inside. (Clare Edwards, obviously, will get nothing.)

Sitting alone in the sunny kitchen, I feel as though I have a little glowing secret inside me. I’m going to win the lottery. Tonight, my life is going to change. God, I can’t wait. Ten million pounds. Just think, tomorrow I’ll be able to buy anything I want. Anything!

The newspaper’s open in front of me at the property section and I carelessly pick it up to peruse expensive houses. Where shall I live? Chelsea? Notting Hill? Mayfair? Belgravia, I read. Magnificent seven-bedroom detached house with staff annex and mature garden. Well, that sounds all right. I could cope with seven bedrooms in Belgravia. My eye flicks complacently down to the price and stops still with shock. Six point five million pounds. That’s how much they’re asking. Six and a half million.

I feel stunned and slightly angry. Are they serious? I haven’t got anything like £6.5 million. I’ve only got about. . 4 million left. Or was it 5? I stare at the page, feeling cheated. Lottery winners are supposed to be able to buy anything they want — but already I’m feeling poor and inadequate.

I shove the paper aside and reach for a freebie brochure full of gorgeous white duvet covers at £100 each. That’s more like it. When I’ve won the lottery I’ll only ever have crisp white duvet covers, I decide. And I’ll have a white cast-iron bed and painted wooden shutters and a fluffy white dressing gown. .

“So, how’s the world of finance?” Mum’s voice interrupts me and I look up. She’s bustling into the kitchen, still holding her Past Times catalogue. “Have you made the coffee? Chop chop, darling!”

“I was going to,” I say, and make a half move from my chair. But, as always, Mum’s there before me. She reaches for a ceramic storage jar I’ve never seen before and spoons coffee into a new gold cafétière.

Mum’s terrible. She’s always buying new stuff for the kitchen — and she just gives the old stuff to charity shops. New kettles, new toasters. . We’ve already had three new rubbish bins this year — dark green, then chrome, and now yellow translucent plastic. I mean, what a waste of money.

“That’s a nice skirt!” she says, looking at me as though for the first time. “Where’s that from?”

“DKNY,” I mumble back.

“Very pretty,” she says. “Was it expensive?”

“Not really,” I say. “About fifty quid.”

This is not strictly true. It was nearer 150. But there’s no point telling Mum how much things really cost, because she’d have a coronary. Or, in fact, she’d tell my dad first — and then they’d both have coronaries, and I’d be an orphan.

So what I do is work in two systems simultaneously. Real prices and Mum prices. It’s a bit like when everything in the shop is 20 percent off, and you walk around mentally reducing everything. After a while, you get quite practiced.

The only difference is, I operate a sliding-scale system, a bit like income tax. It starts off at 20 percent (if it really cost £20, I say it cost £16) and rises up to. . well, to 90 percent if necessary. I once bought a pair of boots that cost £200, and I told Mum they were £20 in the sale. And she believed me.

“So, are you looking for a flat?” she says, glancing over my shoulder at the property pages.

“No,” I say sulkily, and flick over a page of my brochure. My parents are always on at me to buy a flat. Do they know how much flats cost?

“Apparently, Thomas has bought a very nice little starter home in Reigate,” she says, nodding toward our next-door neighbors. “He commutes.” She says this with an air of satisfaction, as though she’s telling me he’s won the Nobel Peace Prize.

“Well, I can’t afford a flat,” I say. “Or a starter home.”

Not yet, anyway, I think. Not until eight o’clock tonight. Hee hee hee.

“Money troubles?” says Dad, coming into the kitchen. “You know, there are two solutions to money troubles.”

His eyes are twinkling, and I just know he’s about to give me some clever little aphorism. Dad has a saying for every subject under the sun — as well as a wide selection of limericks and truly terrible jokes. Sometimes I like listening to them. Sometimes I don’t.

“C.B.,” says Dad, his eyes twinkling. “Or M.M.M.”

He pauses for effect and I turn the page of my brochure, pretending I can’t hear him.

“Cut Back,” says my dad, “or Make More Money. One or the other. Which is it to be, Becky?”

“Oh, both, I expect,” I say airily, and turn another page of my brochure. To be honest, I almost feel sorry for Dad. It’ll be quite a shock for him when his only daughter becomes a multimillionaire overnight.



After lunch, Mum and I go along to a craft fair in the local primary school. I’m really just going to keep Mum company, and I’m certainly not planning to buy anything — but when we get there, I find a stall full of amazing handmade cards, only £1.50 each! So I buy ten. After all, you always need cards, don’t you? There’s also a gorgeous blue ceramic plant holder with little elephants going round it — and I’ve been saying for ages we should have more plants in the flat. So I buy that, too. Only fifteen quid. Craft fairs are such a bargain, aren’t they? You go along thinking they’ll be complete rubbish — but you can always find something you want.