Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (7 page)

When we get back home, Mum goes straight inside, but I stay in the driveway, carefully transferring my purchases from her car to mine.

“Becky! What a surprise!”

Oh God. It’s Martin Webster from next door, leaning over the fence with a rake in his hand and a huge friendly smile on his face. Martin has this way of always making me feel guilty, I don’t know why.

Actually I do know why. It’s because I know he was always hoping I would grow up and marry Tom, his son. And I haven’t. The history of my relationship with Tom is: he asked me out once when we were both about sixteen and I said no, I was going out with Adam Moore. That was the end of it and thank God for that. To be perfectly honest, I would rather marry Martin himself than marry Tom.

“Hi!” I say overenthusiastically. “How are you?”

“Oh, we’re all doing well,” says Martin. “You heard Tom’s bought a house?”

“Yes,” I say. “In Reigate. Fantastic!”

“It’s got two bedrooms, shower room, reception room, and open-plan kitchen,” he recites. “Limed oak units in the kitchen.”

“Gosh,” I say. “How fab.”

“Tom’s thrilled with it,” says Martin. “Janice!” he adds in a yell. “Come and see who’s here!”

A moment later, Janice appears on the front doorstep, wearing her floral apron.

“Becky!” she says. “What a stranger you’ve become! How long is it?”

Now I feel guilty for not visiting my parents more often.

“Well,” I say, trying to give a nonchalant smile. “You know. I’m quite busy with my job and everything.”

“Oh yes,” says Janice, giving an awe-stricken nod. “Your
job.”

Somewhere along the line, Janice and Martin have got it into their heads that I’m this high-powered financial whiz kid. I’ve tried telling them that really, I’m not—but the more I deny it, the more high powered they think I am. It’s a catch-22. They now think I’m high powered
and
modest.

Still, who cares? It’s actually quite fun, playing a financial genius.

“Yes, actually we’ve been quite busy lately,” I say coolly. “What with the merger of SBG and Rutland.”

“Of course,” breathes Janice.

“You know, that reminds me,” says Martin suddenly. “Becky, wait there. Back in two ticks.” He disappears before I can say anything, and I’m left awkwardly with Janice.

“So,” I say inanely. “I hear Tom’s got limed oak units in his kitchen!”

This is literally the only thing I can think of to say. I smile at Janice, and wait for her to reply. But instead, she’s beaming at me delightedly. Her face is all lit up—and suddenly I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned Tom’s bloody starter home. I shouldn’t have mentioned the limed oak units. She’ll think I suddenly fancy Tom, now he’s got a starter home to his name.

“It’s limed oak and Mediterranean tiles,” she says proudly. “It was a choice of Mediterranean or Farmhouse Quarry, and Tom chose Mediterranean.”

For an instant I consider saying I would have chosen Farmhouse Quarry. But that seems a bit mean.

“Lovely,” I say. “And two bedrooms!”

Why can’t I get off the subject of this bloody starter home?

“He wanted two bedrooms,” says Janice. “After all, you never know, do you?” She smiles coyly at me, and ridiculously, I feel myself start to blush. Why am I blushing? This is so stupid. Now she thinks I fancy Tom. She’s picturing us together in the starter home, making supper together in the limed oak kitchen.

I should say something. I should say, “Janice, I don’t fancy Tom. He’s too tall and his breath smells.” But how on earth can I say that?

“Well, do give him my love,” I hear myself saying instead.

“I certainly will,” she says, and pauses. “Does he have your London number?”

Aarrgh!

“I think so,” I lie, smiling brightly. “And he can always get me here if he wants.” Now everything I say sounds like some saucy double entendre. I can just imagine how this conversation will be reported back to Tom. “She was asking
all
about your starter home. And she asked you to call her!”

Life would be a lot easier if conversations were rewindable and erasable, like videos. Or if you could instruct people to disregard what you just said, like in a courtroom.
Please strike from the record all references to starter homes and limed oak kitchens
.

Luckily, at that moment, Martin reappears, clutching a piece of paper.

“Thought you might cast your eye over this,” he says. “We’ve had this with-profits fund with Flagstaff Life for fifteen years. Now we’re thinking of transferring to their new unit-linked growth fund. What do you think?”

I don’t know. What’s he talking about, anyway? Some kind of savings plan? Please don’t ask me, I want to say. Please ask someone who knows what they’re talking about. But there’s no way they’ll believe that I’m not a financial genius—so I’ll just have to do the best I can.

I run my eye over the piece of paper in what I hope looks like
a knowledgeable fashion and nod several times. It’s a letter making some kind of special offer if investors switch to this new fund. Sounds reasonable enough.

“The company wrote to us, saying we might want a higher return in our retirement years,” says Martin. “There’s a guaranteed sum, too.”

“And they’ll send us a carriage clock,” chimes in Janice. “Swiss-made.”

“Mmm,” I say, studying the letterhead intently. “Well, I should think that’s quite a good idea.”

Flagstaff Life, I’m thinking. I’m sure I’ve heard something about them recently. Which ones are Flagstaff Life? Oh yes! They’re the ones who threw a champagne party at Soho Soho. That’s right. And Elly got incredibly pissed and told David Salisbury from
The Times
that she loved him. It was a bloody good party, come to think of it. One of the best.

Hmm. But wasn’t there something else? Something I’ve heard recently? I wrinkle my nose, trying to remember … but it’s gone. I’ve probably got it wrong, anyway.

“D’you rate them as a company?” says Martin.

“Oh yes,” I say, looking up. “They’re very well regarded among the profession.”

“Well then,” says Martin, looking pleased. “If Becky thinks it’s a good idea …”

“Yes, but, I really wouldn’t just listen to me!” I say quickly. “I mean, a financial adviser or someone would know far more …”

“Listen to her!” says Martin with a little chuckle. “The financial expert herself.”

“You know, Tom sometimes buys your magazine,” puts in Janice. “Not that he’s got much money now, what with the mortgage and everything … But he says your articles are very good! Tom says—”

“How nice!” I cut in. “Well, look, I really must go. Lovely to see you. And love to Tom!”

And I turn into the house so quickly, I bump my knee on the
door frame. Then I feel a bit bad, and wish I’d said good-bye nicely. But honestly! If I hear one more word about bloody Tom and his bloody kitchen, I’ll go mad.

By the time I sit down in front of the National Lottery, however, I’ve forgotten all about them. We’ve had a nice supper—chicken Provençale from Marks and Spencer, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, which I brought. I know the chicken Provençale comes from Marks and Spencer because I’ve bought it myself, quite a few times. I recognized the sun-dried tomatoes and the olives, and everything. Mum, of course, still acted like she’d made it from scratch, from her own recipe.

I don’t know why she bothers. It isn’t like anyone would care—especially when it’s just me and Dad. And I mean, it’s pretty obvious that there are never any raw ingredients in our kitchen. There are lots of empty cardboard boxes and lots of fully prepared meals—and nothing in between. But still Mum never ever admits she’s bought a ready-made meal, not even when it’s a pie in a foil container. My dad will eat one of those pies, full of plastic mushrooms and gloopy sauce, and then say, with a perfectly straight face, “Delicious, my love.” And my mum will smile back, looking all pleased with herself.

But tonight it’s not foil pie, it’s chicken Provençale. (To be fair, I suppose it almost does look homemade—except no one would ever cut a red pepper up that small for themselves, would they? People have more important things to do.) So anyway, we’ve eaten it and we’ve drunk a fair amount of the Pinot Grigio, and there’s an apple crumble in the oven—and I’ve suggested, casually, that we all go and watch telly. Because I know from looking at the clock that the National Lottery program has already started. In a matter of minutes, it’s all going to happen. I cannot wait.

Luckily, my parents aren’t the sort who want to make conversation about politics or talk about books. We’ve already caught up with all the family news, and I’ve told them how my work’s
going, and they’ve told me about their holiday in Corsica—so by now, we’re grinding to a bit of a halt. We need the telly on, if only as a conversational sounding board.

So we all troop into the sitting room, and my dad lights the gas flame-effect fire and turns on the telly. And there it is! The National Lottery, in glorious Technicolor. The lights are shining, and Dale Winton is joshing with Tiffany from
EastEnders
, and every so often the audience gives an excited whoop. My stomach’s getting tighter and tighter, and my heart’s going thump-thump-thump. Because in a few minutes those balls are going to fall. In a few minutes I’m going to be a millionaire. I just
know
I am.

I lean calmly back on the sofa and think what I’ll do when I win. At the very instant that I win, I mean. Do I scream? Do I keep quiet? Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone for twenty-four hours. Maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone
at all
.

This new thought transfixes me. I could be a secret winner! I could have all the money and none of the pressure. If people asked me how I could afford so many designer clothes I’d just tell them I was doing lots of freelance work. Yes! And I could transform all my friends’ lives anonymously, like a good angel.

I’m just working out how big a house I could manage to buy without everyone twigging, when a voice on the screen alerts me.

“Question to number three.”

What?

“My favorite animal is the flamingo because it’s pink, fluffy, and has long legs.” The girl sitting on the stool excitedly unwinds a pair of long glossy legs, and the audience goes wild. I stare at her dazedly. What’s going on? Why are we watching
Blind Date?

“Now, this show used to be fun,” says Mum. “But it’s gone downhill.”

“You call this rubbish fun?” retorts my dad incredulously.

“Listen, Dad, actually, could we turn back to—”

“I didn’t say it was fun
now
. I said—”

“Dad!” I say, trying not to sound too panicky. “Could we just go back to BBC1 for a moment?”

Blind Date
disappears and I sigh with relief. The next moment, an earnest man in a suit fills the screen.

“What the police failed to appreciate,” he says in a nasal voice, “is that the witnesses were not sufficiently—”

“Dad!”

“Where’s the television guide?” he says impatiently. “There’s got to be something better than this.”

“There’s the lottery!” I almost scream. “I want to watch the lottery!”

I know strictly speaking that whether I watch it or not won’t affect my chances of winning—but I don’t want to miss the great moment, do I? You might think I’m a bit mad, but I feel that if I watch it, I can kind of communicate with the balls through the screen. I’ll stare hard at them as they get tossed around and silently urge on my winning numbers. It’s a bit like supporting a team.
Team 1 6 9 16 23 44
.

Except the numbers never come out in order, do they?

Team 44 1 23 6 9 16
. Possibly. Or
Team 23 6 1
…

Suddenly there’s a round of applause and Martine McCutcheon’s finished her song. Oh my God. It’s about to happen. My life is about to change.

“The lottery’s become terribly commercialized, hasn’t it?” says my mum, as Dale Winton leads Martine over to the red button. “It’s a shame, really.”

“What do you mean, it’s
become
commercialized?” retorts my dad.

“People used to play the lottery because they wanted to support the charities.”

“No they didn’t! Don’t be ridiculous! No one gives a fig about the charities. This is all about self, self, self.” Dad gestures toward Dale Winton with the remote control and the screen goes dead.

“Dad!” I wail.

“So you think no one cares about the charities?” says my mum into the silence.

“That’s not what I said.”

“Dad! Put it back on!” I screech. “Put-it-back-on!” I’m about to wrestle him for the remote control when he flicks it back on again.

I stare at the screen in utter disbelief. The first ball has already dropped. And it’s 44. My number 44.

“ … last appeared three weeks ago. And here comes the second ball … And it’s number 1.”

I can’t move. It’s taking place, before my very eyes. I’m actually winning the lottery. I’m winning the bloody lottery!

Now that it’s happening, I feel surprisingly calm about it. It’s as if I’ve known, all my life, that this would happen. Sitting here silently on the sofa, I feel as though I’m in a fly-on-the-wall documentary about myself. “Becky Bloomwood always secretly knew she would win the lottery one day. But on the day it happened, even she couldn’t have predicted …”

“And another low one. Number 3.”

What? My mind snaps to and I stare perplexedly at the screen. That can’t be right. They mean 23.

“And number 2, last week’s bonus ball.”

I feel cold all over. What the hell is going on? What
are
these numbers?

“And another low one! Number 4. A popular number—it’s had twelve appearances so far this year. And finally … number 5! Well, I never! This is a bit of a first! Now, lining them up in order …”

No. This can’t be serious. This has to be a mistake. The winning lottery numbers cannot possibly be 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 44. That’s not a lottery combination, it’s a … it’s an act of torture.

And I was winning. I was
winning
.

“Look at that!” my mum’s saying. “Absolutely incredible! One-two-three-four-five-forty-four.”