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heart starts to thump. “What did you say? Did you say I’ve got glandular fever?”
    “What?” It’s Suze’s turn to stare. “Of course I didn’t say you’ve got bloody glandular fever!”
    “Did she ask about my leg? Anything about my health at all?”
    “No! She just said where were you? And I said you were at work—”
    “Suze!” I wail in dismay.
    “Well, what was I
supposed
to say?”
    “You were supposed to say I was in bed with glandular fever and a broken leg!”
    “Well, thanks for the warning!” Suze gazes at me, eyes narrowed, and crosses her legs back into the lotus position. Suze has got the longest, thinnest, wiriest legs I’ve ever known. When she’s wearing black leggings she looks just like a spider. “What’s the big deal, anyway?” she says. “Are you overdrawn?”
    Am I overdrawn?
    I smile back as reassuringly as I can. If Suze had any ideaof my real situation, she’d need more than yoga to calm her down.
    “Just a tad.” I give a careless shrug. “But I’m sure it’ll work itself out. No need to worry!”
    There’s silence, and I look up to see Suze tearing up my check. For a moment I’m completely silenced, then I stutter, “Suze! Don’t be stupid!”
    “Pay me back when you’re in the black,” she says firmly.
    “Thanks, Suze,” I say in a suddenly thickened voice—and as I give her a big hug I can feel tears jumping into my eyes. Suze has got to be the best friend I’ve ever had.
    But there’s a tense feeling in my stomach, which stays with me all evening and is still there when I wake up the next morning. A feeling I can’t even shift by thinking about my Denny and George scarf. I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling and, for the first time in months, calculate how much I owe to everybody. The bank, VISA, my Harvey Nichols card, my Debenhams card, my Fenwicks card … And now Suze, too.
    It’s about … let’s think … it’s about £6,000.
    A cold feeling creeps over me as I contemplate this figure. How on earth am I going to find £6,000? I could save £6 a week for a thousand weeks. Or £12 a week for five hundred weeks. Or … or £60 a week for a hundred weeks. That’s more like it. But how the hell am I going to find £60 a week?
    Or I could bone up on lots of general knowledge and go on a game show. Or invent something really clever. Or I could … win the lottery. At the thought, a lovely warm glow creeps over me, and I close my eyes and snuggle back down into bed. The lottery is by far the best solution.
    I wouldn’t aim to win the jackpot of course—that’s
completely
unlikely. But one of those minor prizes. There seem to be heaps of those going around. Say, £100,000. That would do. I could pay off all my debts, buy a car, buy a flat …
    Actually, better make it £200,000. Or a quarter of a million.
    Or, even better, one of those shared jackpots. “The five winners will each receive £1.3 million.” (I love the way they say that: “One point three.” As if that extra £300,000 is a tiny, insignificant amount. As if you wouldn’t notice whether it was there or not.)
    One point three million should see me straight. And it’s not being greedy, is it, to want to share your jackpot? Please, God, I think, let me win the lottery and I promise to share nicely.
    And so, on the way down to my parents’ house I stop off at a petrol station to buy a couple of lottery tickets. Choosing the numbers takes about half an hour. I know 44 always does well, and 42. But what about the rest? I write out a few series of numbers on a piece of paper and squint at them, trying to imagine them on the telly.
    1      6      9      16      23      44
    No! Terrible! What am I thinking of? One never comes up, for a start. And 6 and 9 look wrong, too.
    3      14      21      25      36      44
    That’s a bit better. I fill in the numbers on the