“How nice

“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 thedoor 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, how-ever, I’ve forgotten all about them. We’ve had a nice supper—chicken Proven?ale from Marks and Spencer, and a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, which I brought. I know the chicken Proven?ale 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 per-fectly 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 Proven?ale. (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, casu-ally, 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 conver-sation about politics or talk about books. We’ve already caught up with all the family news, and I’ve told them how my work’sgoing, 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 fromEastEnders, 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 justknow 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 anyoneat all.