Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
B y the time Thursday morning arrives, I’m just about climbing the walls. However, as the clock in the living room hits 8.55 a.m. – five minutes before Vivienne is due to arrive – my impatience is replaced by a jangling nervy feeling. Not so much because I’m worried that she’ll tell me it’s all a big mistake, or that the ticket will spontaneously combust (it’s sitting on the table in front of me pinned down by an empty vase), but because this is the moment when it becomes real. It feels a bit like the adrenaline-fuelled final minutes before an important presentation, or an interview for the perfect job. Only this time the outcome is almost guaranteed to be a good one.
I walk slowly round Cat’s living room, taking slow, deep breaths as per the self-help advice the doctor pointed me to, all while contemplating how my life is about to change. After this meeting, I shouldn’t have to worry about money ever again (provided I don’t lose my head and blow it all in a matter of months). It’s not enough to live the life of a socialite and I’d never want that anyway. I still want a high- flying career. But it’s definitely a game changer. I smile at the thought.
The apartment buzzer sounds and I go to the video entry system, where I see woman with cropped dark-brown hair waiting patiently. I buzz her in and stand at the open door until she emerges from the lift.
‘Emma, it’s a pleasure to meet you in person,’ says Vivienne, as I let her into the apartment. She’s middle-aged, probably in her fifties, with a kind face that matches her phone manner.
‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ I ask, after inviting her to have a seat in the living room.
‘Tea with a spot of milk would be lovely, thank you.’
I make our drinks and return to the living room, where I place the tea laden tray down on the coffee table and invite Vivienne to help herself the assortment of chocolate biscuits I assembled after raiding Cat’s cupboards. I’ve also brought out Cat’s best porcelain cups and saucers for this grand affair. It feels a bit like having a visit from royalty.
Vivienne takes a sip from her cup, and lets out a little gasp of satisfaction. ‘That is good tea, thank you, Emma. Nice and refreshing after a long drive. So, first things first, do you have the winning ticket to show me?’
She’s obviously being polite because the ticket is in plain view next to the tray on the coffee table, still held captive by the empty vase.
‘Ah, yes. My ticket.’ I launch myself at it rather over-enthusiastically, knocking Vivienne’s elbow in the process, and to my horror, her tea slops over the saucer and onto her pristine outfit.
‘ Oh god, I’m so sorry .’ I quickly take the crockery from her. ‘I’ll get you a fresh cup and saucer. And I’ll pay to have your outfit dry-cleaned. You didn’t get scalded, did you? ’
Vivienne puts a hand on my arm. ‘Emma, dear. It’s fine, really.’
‘It’s not, though, is it? That might stain.’ I’m now trying to dab at her outfit with a wad of clean tissues. ‘Think I’m a bit overwhelmed by all this.’
‘Come on, leave that.’ She gently takes the tissues from me and guides me back to my seat. ‘My outfit is fine. It will wash out. Now, allow me to make us another cup of tea while you settle back and relax. Do you have decaf, per chance? Or a nice camomile?’
‘All the teas and infusions are on the counter.’ I murmur, my face puce with embarrassment.
I’m left sitting awkwardly, while Vivienne bustles round the kitchen. When she re-enters the room, she’s carrying two sturdy looking mugs of tea, one of which (mine) is an infusion blend that goes by the name of ‘Calm’. I sip at it gingerly while nibbling at a chocolate biscuit and it does seem to bring me back down to earth.
‘All right, Emma.’ Vivienne’s tone is gentle and soothing. ‘Shall I take a look at that ticket?’
I hand it to her, and she checks it against her paperwork.
‘Well…’ She looks up at me and smiles. ‘I am very pleased to tell you that all is as it should be. Congratulations. You’re about to become the proud recipient of seven-hundred and eighty-four thousand, five hundred and sixty-three pounds and forty-seven pence.’ She reads the amount off the sheet in front of her.
Although this is exactly why Vivienne came here today, I’m completely thrown on hearing her say it.
‘How do you feel?’ she asks, and this has the effect of kicking my brain into gear.
My eyes widen, my mind playing back what she said. She’s confirmed it. This is really happening. I’m rich. Heart pounding with adrenaline, my calmer demeanour is snuffed out in an instant.
‘I feel... AMAZING!!’
To Vivienne’s amusement, I jump up and shamelessly dance around the living room.
After Vivienne leaves – with multiple reminders that I must contact her if I have any questions or concerns – I spend the rest of the morning logging in and out of the banking app on my phone. She said the money could take several hours to come through, but I just can’t help myself.
For what feels like an age, my rather unimpressive current account balance stares back at me defiantly, as if too stubborn to give in. Then, boom . Just as I’ve sat down in front of the TV with my lunch, it’s there. The six-figure sum is so alluring, it’s almost as if it’s dancing in front of my eyes – or maybe the shock of seeing it there is giving me double vision. Even though I knew it was coming, it’s a total head wrecker to see that enormous figure in my bank account.
A whirlwind of excited thoughts rush through my mind: how this will change my life; the financial security I now have; all the things I can now do that I couldn’t before. But one thought in particular returns over and over. Aunt Lottie. What I want more than anything is to return the kindness and support she’s offered me all these years. And I know just how I want to do that.
Dragging myself back to reality – and I’m not sure if it’s my residual anxiety at play again – I suddenly feel an enormous responsibility to keep my money safe. Seeing it there on the screen is incredible, but it also instils a fear in me that someone will hack my bank account and I’ll watch it disappear in front of my eyes. I’ve read about that actually happening. I decide that I’ll take Vivienne’s advice and head to my bank after my lunch to see if I can get some financial advice and some help to keep my money more secure. I need to get out and about anyway, and the thought of speaking to a faceless person on the phone or through a chat window about a figure this size gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Although I took a couple of short walks yesterday and the day before, I didn’t venture into the bustle of the city centre, and it’s a bit of a shock to the system at first. Thankfully, by focusing on my breathing and the excitement of my big win, I make it to George Street without feeling the urge to dash home and hide under the duvet. That’s what I call progress.
On entering the bank, there aren’t any available staff members for me to approach, so I join the small queue for the cashier. While waiting patiently, I take in the hum of the lights and the self-service machines, the murmur of hushed voices and the bustling activity around me, and find myself noticing – probably for the first time – how stressful everyday life is. The man at the front of the queue taps his foot impatiently, eyes boring a hole through the head of the woman in front, willing her to finish her unnecessary nattering with the cashier. A woman with a crying baby and a toddler having a tantrum struggles to use the self-pay-in machine. She looks so stressed that I feel a rush of sympathy for her. An elderly man with mobility issues struggles his way across the foyer, an immense effort just to enter the building and join the queue. Watching them, I realise that I’m in a situation that few people ever have the fortune to experience – which means I need to make the most of it.
The impatient man gets called by the cashier, and as I shuffle forward, a voice comes from close behind me.
‘How was the park bench?’
‘ Excuse me? ’ I turn around, perplexed. ‘I think you’ve got me mixed up with… oh .’
I find myself looking, not at a local pervert, but at the man from the shop on D-day night. The one I told to sod off for patronising me.
‘Hello again.’ He grins at me. He’s dressed in the same office wear, only this time he’s sporting a stylish blue tie. His dark eyes lock on mine.
‘Hi.’ I shift self-consciously, averting his gaze, then I turn back around, hoping that he’ll take the hint.
He doesn’t.
‘Was the wine good?’
I ignore him.
‘Come on…’ he persists. ‘I’ve always wondered what a bottle worth that much would taste like.’
‘It tasted like wine,’ I throw over my shoulder.
‘You must have noticed some difference from the plonk most restaurants and bars sell.’ He sidles up to me and nudges my shoulder playfully with his own, causing me to flush with embarrassment.
‘Nope, not a thing.’ I grit my teeth and remain front-facing so as not to encourage him. ‘I… basically downed it.’
‘I see. Respect. ’ There’s almost a mischievous tone to his voice. ‘You said it was to help you through the night. Are you OK now?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘That’s good… I was concerned about you. Thought about giving you my number, just in case.’
This comment strikes a nerve. ‘As I said in the shop that night, I can look after myself. I’m not a child.’ I may be overreacting, but I don’t care.
‘Hey, sorry, didn’t mean to offend you.’ He flashes his palms in a clear gesture of surrender. ‘What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Actually… I kind of do mind.’
‘Right. I’m James.’ He doesn’t take the hint. ‘And you are?’
‘What… erm… Emma. And I’d rather… Look, I just want to forget about that night.’
‘Got it. Sure. Sorry.’
Even though I can’t see his face, I feel like he’s enjoying this. Glancing around self-consciously, my cheeks flaming, I see to my discontent that we’re being watched with interest by the other customers in the queue.
‘It’s nice to meet you, Emma,’ says James. ‘Properly this time.’
‘It’s not, though, is it,’ I bat back.
‘Not what?’
‘Not properly. It’s hardly meeting properly if I have to introduce myself, under duress, in a bank queue.’
He sucks his teeth. ‘I guess you’re right. Perhaps we should start again. Over coffee or something? You know, to make things more… formal.’
‘Or perhaps not,’ I mutter.
‘Huh.’ He’s undeterred by my comment. ‘So how does a person get past introductions with you, then? Like, if they want to ask you out on a date? Do they have to apply in writing?’
I hear a snigger from further back in the queue, and as a knee jerk reaction, I glare at James, just in time to catch his self-gratified smile – no doubt his response to discovering he has an entertained audience. ‘What… I… no . Of course not.’
‘All right. Good to know.’
My face is now like a furnace, my heart starting to pound. Who is this joker? I really can’t deal with another walking ego who thinks he can charm the pants off every woman in sight. Like sodding Dave.
‘Excuse me, madam?’
I realise I’m at the front of the queue, and the cashier is calling me forward, not for the first time, it seems. Relieved at being rescued from this unbearable interaction, I rush forward.
‘Great to see you again, Emma,’ James calls out from behind.
‘Hi.’ I ignore him and focus on the cashier, while trying to calm myself.
‘Good afternoon, madam.’ She smiles at me, likely unaware of the ridiculous exchange that has just taken place. ‘How can I help you today?’
I look at her, then at the room around me, suddenly aware that I’m surrounded by several pairs of ears. I hadn’t considered the lack of privacy.
‘Madam, are you OK? Can I help you?’
‘Erm… yes, thanks. I’m fine.’ I try to sound bright and carefree, then I lower my voice to almost a whisper. ‘Is there someone I can talk to for some financial advice on a large sum of money?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Could you say it again, please?’
I repeat my request, not raising my voice at all.
‘Forgive me, I still can’t hear you.’ The cashier leans forward in her seat. ‘Can you speak up?’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Madam, is everything all right?’
In her agitation at not being able to hear me, the cashier’s voice has been rising and has attracted quite a bit of attention. Exactly what I didn’t want. I start to get flustered .
‘I can’t speak any louder.’ My frustration causes my voice to rise too. ‘This is a personal matter.’
Wrapping my arms around myself protectively, I scan the vicinity and my eyes meeting those of James, who’s now with the cashier two along from mine. He does that same raised eyebrow gesture from the shop on ‘D-day’ night, which gets me even more worked up. My stomach gives an uncomfortable flip, and I look away quickly.
Just when I’m about to tell the cashier to forget it, another staff member materialises at my side. She flashes him a grateful look.
‘Madam, I’m the Assistant Manager. Would you like to go somewhere more private?’
‘ Yes. ’ I exhale with relief at his presence. ‘Yes, that would be great. Thank you.’