The Lottery Winner Widows Club

Honestly, Paula really thought by the time she was sixty-one, she’d have learned a thing or two about having a normal conversation. But – standing here in her outdated, beige-coloured kitchen – she’s realising now that she doesn’t have a clue. How does one even begin to handle something like this?

She’s on the phone – the landline – and staring at a suspicious patch on the ceiling in the corner. Is it a new leak coming through from the upstairs bathroom, or is it a shadow? She can’t tell.

‘. . . we know it must be a shock . . .’ the man is saying down the line and his voice sounds awfully far away. ‘. . . it’s been registered with the local authorities here, and we’ll arrange for the paperwork, including a death certificate to be sent to you, of course . . .’

She wants to turn on the overhead light so she can have a proper look at that corner – the lamp isn’t any use at all – but the phone cord doesn’t stretch to the switch by the door.