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 herPast