Obviously, I'll do loads for charity. In fact, I'll probably set up a charitable foundation. I'll support all those unfashionable charities that get ignored, like skin diseases and home helps for the elderly. And I'll send a great big cheque to my old English teacher, Mrs James, so she can restock the school library. Perhaps they'll even rename it after me. The Bloomwood Library.
Oh, and three hundred for that swirly coat in Whistles, which I must buy before they're all up. So how much does that leave? Four million, eight 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 biro.
'Sorry,' I say, and politely make way. But the interruption has made me lose track of my calculations.
Was it four million or five 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 comes up? What if 1 6 9 16 23 44 comes up tonight and I haven't entered it? I'd hate myself, wouldn't I? All my life, I'd never forgive myself. I'd be like the guy who committed suicide because he forgot to post his pools coupon.
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.
Brompton's Store
CUSTOMER ACCOUNTS
1 Brompton Street
London SW4 7TH
Ms Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
2 March 2000
Dear Ms Bloomwood
Our records suggest that we have not received payment for your latest Brompton Gilt Card bill. If you have paid within the last few days, please ignore this letter.
Your outstanding bill is currently ?235.76. The minimum payment is ?43.00. You may pay by cash, cheque or on the enclosed bank giro credit slip. We look forward to receiving your payment.
Yours sincerely
John Hunter
Customer Accounts Manager
Brompton's Store
1 Brompton Street
London SW4 7TH
Ms Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd
London SW6 8FD
2 March 2000
Dear Ms Bloomwood
There's never been a better time to spend!
For a limited time, we are offering EXTRA POINTS on all purchases over?Ј50 made with the Brompton Gilt Card* – so take the opportunity now to add more points to your total and take advantage of some of our Pointholders' Gifts.
Some of the fantastic gifts we are offering include:
An Italian leather bag
1,000 points
A case of pink champagne
2,000 points
Two flights to Paris **
5,000 points
(Your current level is: 35 points)
And remember,' during this special offer period, you will gain two points for every ?5 spent. We look forward to welcoming you in store soon to take advantage of this unique offer.
Yours sincerely
Adrian Smith
Customer Services Manager
*excluding purchases at restaurants, pharmacy, newsstand and hairdresser
**certain restrictions apply – see enclosed leaflet
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 saying.
'And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it? You think that would solve the problem.'
'Danger!' say 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. 'Lovely cardigan,' she adds sotto voc. 'Look at that embroidery!'
'Of course she 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 93 bus?' scoffs Dad.
'And why not? Maybe then the 93 bus would become more efficient!'
'So,' I say, sitting down next to Mum. 'How 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 travelling on the 93 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, and pauses for a second. '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 travelled 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 cuff links, 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 bedroomed detached house with staff annexe 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 six point five million pounds. I've only got about… four million left. Or was it five? Whatever it is, it's not enough. 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.