Chapter 5
‘We’ve got a surprise for you, Mum.’ Tilly plonks herself down in John’s chair across from Paula, then waves at Seb across the kitchen. ‘Haven’t we, bro?’
Seb trots over, holding a glass of lemon squash like he is nine years old.
Paula wonders if she should ask him if he’s going to the dentist and paying his taxes like other grown-ups.
Although it’s quite possible her son’s occasional part-time work for his friend’s food truck doesn’t earn him enough to reach the tax threshold.
‘We think it’ll really cheer you up.’ Tilly’s still speaking and her words start to sink in.
A surprise? Oh goodness, no! No, thank you.
Paula’s never much enjoyed surprises and there have already been far too many in recent months.
Her husband of thirty-three years heading off on a business trip to the Austrian Alps and dying in a freak car accident, for one.
Tilly regards her mother with worried eyes. ‘Are you looking after yourself, Mum?’ She leans in, her voice softer. ‘Have you had a shower today?’
Paula feels defensive. ‘I had a bath last night,’ she says, wondering if it actually was last night.
The days have all been blurring into one a bit lately.
Maybe it was a few nights ago? She’s definitely had at least two or three baths since the funeral two weeks ago.
At least. Would it be too transparent to give herself a sniff?
Tilly disappears into the hallway, reappearing with a carrier bag. She pulls out a pink jumper with a flourish. She holds it up, smiling widely. ‘What do you think?’
Paula blinks at her. ‘You bought me a jumper?’ She’s genuinely touched. She can’t remember the last time anyone bought her something for no reason or—
‘Actually it’s Misha’s,’ Tilly shrugs. ‘But you can keep it. I nicked it this morning for you to wear during your surprise.’
Paula frowns. ‘So the jumper isn’t the surprise?’
Tilly shakes her head, looking mischievous.
‘Nope!’ She places the jumper on the table in front of Paula.
‘It’s your colour and I thought it would look nice.
You’ve been wearing the same blouses on rotation for decades.
’ She catches Paula’s expression and adds hastily, ‘Not that they don’t look lovely!
They do! But I figured you might like to start making a few changes.
’ She checks her watch again, looking excited.
‘Come on, Mum, put it on. It’s high time we celebrated you.
’ She clucks happily, gesturing at the jumper on the table.
When Paula doesn’t react, her daughter leans in closer, her voice conspiratorially low.
‘You’re going to love the surprise.’ She nods at Seb who looks a lot less certain.
‘Um, Tills, are we sure—’ She cuts him off with a full-wattage big-sister glare. This works – it’s always worked – and Seb concedes, giving a petrified thumbs up.
‘Come on, Mum,’ Tilly instructs, standing up, still scowling at her brother. ‘Grab your coat.’
‘I don’t want to go outside,’ Paula says mildly, but with something approximating stubbornness.
Tilly sighs and re-takes her seat, John’s seat.
‘Mum, we’re worried about you.’ She pauses, then reaches for Paula’s hand.
‘You’ve barely left the house since Dad died.
It’s like you’re sitting here, waiting for him to come home and tell you what to do next.
The funeral was two weeks ago and you’ve barely said a word since.
’ She squeezes Paula’s fingers. ‘I think you’re in a slump – which is understandable after everything you’ve been through – but you need to do something.
You need to start making the most of your life and enjoying your money.
I bet you haven’t spent a single penny of it yet, have you?
’ She shakes her head. ‘Frankly, you might as well have given it to the idiot uncles. At least they would’ve enjoyed spending it. ’
‘On iPads and whisky,’ Seb adds in a murmur.
Paula doesn’t say anything for a minute. And then she picks up the pink jumper and pulls it on over her head. It’s too small on her, and tight around the neck. The colour is too bright. She suddenly feels very claustrophobic.
Tilly smiles widely. ‘It looks lovely, Mum!’ she tells her warmly, then nods decisively. ‘You ready?’
‘Yes,’ Paula replies, trying to smile, though she feels sick with dread.
Tilly leads Paula and Seb through the hallway.
Paula’s head spins as she grabs for her coat, immediately feeling for John’s notebook in the pocket. She can’t go anywhere without it. What if someone found it? Really, she should burn or shred it, but she can’t quite bring herself to do it.
Tilly’s hand is on the door handle. She looks abuzz.
Where could they possibly be going? Her daughter’s right that she’s barely left the house lately, but the outside world seems so far away at the moment.
She’s aware of how disconnected she is, but is there anything so wrong with that?
What’s so important about connecting with the world anyway? The world is horrible.
Tilly leads her out the front door and into the bright sunshine. It takes a moment for Paula’s eyes to adjust to the sunlight.
A sudden burst of light explodes in her face and for a moment, Paula is certain she’s having a stroke.
She tries to recall the signs one is meant to check for.
There’s an acronym she’s supposed to remember, she’s sure of that.
Except she can’t remember it. Is it the ABCs?
No, that’s airways, breathing and something else.
She can’t remember that either. FAST – that’s it!
Face, Arms, Speech and . . . what’s the T?
Telephone? Do people even say telephone anymore?
They say phone, surely? But FASP doesn’t roll off the tongue so easily.
But it’s not a stroke at all. It’s people holding cameras, and the flashes are going off in her face, not inside her brain.
‘What’s . . .’ Paula doesn’t understand.
Did her children hire photographers to sit outside her house?
Five of them? There are men shouting at her, calling her name.
Across her front garden, she spots a familiar face.
It’s Amy! The nice lottery girl whose mum is also called Paula.
She’s standing by the gate, smiling nicely.
Amy waves them over, beaming, as Paula wonders fearfully what is happening.
‘Here’s the woman of the hour!’ Tilly shouts to the men, waving at her mother with pride as yet more camera flashes go off.
‘This is my lovely mum. No one has ever deserved to win the lottery more than this hardworking lady right here.’ Her grin gets even wider and more oblivious.
‘She’s won more than twenty million pounds and she’s still planning to go back to work at her care home! ’
Paula looks at her daughter, frozen with horror. She looks back at the scene before her, caught in the glare. This is a . . . press conference? Some kind of public announcement about the win?
It can’t be. They wouldn’t. Surely they wouldn’t? It was humiliating enough that John’s brothers told so many people at the funeral, but these are strangers . . .
This is awful .
Seb touches her arm, smiling gingerly. ‘Are you OK, Mum? Is this OK?’ he asks softly.
When she doesn’t respond he adds, ‘I know this is a lot. I didn’t realise it would be so .
. . We thought it would be one or two . .
.’ His Adam’s apple bobs a little. ‘But it’ll be fun, I promise.
And, like Tills says, it’s time to start celebrating your good luck and enjoying yourself.
You deserve all this.’ He swallows anxiously when Paula doesn’t reply, then gestures at Amy and a makeshift podium across the garden.
‘Come on, we’re supposed to be standing over there.
’ The photographers hover around, waiting.
‘It’s just a few minutes of telling the journos all about your lottery win.
’ He smiles encouragingly. ‘The pink jumper looks very nice.’
A few minutes of . . . telling journalists?! All about the lottery win?
Absolutely not. No. This can’t happen.
She can’t talk to all those people! She can’t perform for them or tell them about the money. She can’t deal with them asking questions about what she might buy or what she might do. Or about her dead husband.
She lets herself be moved towards the podium. Men start shouting questions at her, crowding closer, yelling louder. She reaches into her pocket without thinking and squeezes the notepad.
Help me, John!
‘Paula! Over this way! Tell us what it’s like to win all those millions!’
‘Mrs Sheldon! Givvus a smile, eh? What did you buy first, eh?’
‘Paula! Who was the first person you called when you got the news about your win?’
It was John, she doesn’t say out loud. It was John she tried to call. Of course it was John. He didn’t answer. Because he was dead.
She blinks again and again as the flashes continue in her face. They get closer. There’s a man practically in her face, shouting her name, asking questions. She can feel his hot breath. She can smell his breakfast.
Tilly steps into the foray, forcing a laugh as she tells everyone to step back and give her mother a moment. Paula doesn’t need a moment. She needs this to not be happening.
John would never have let this happen. He would’ve protected her from this.
From this press conference. He would’ve taken care of things – he would’ve taken care of her.
Paula pictures her husband’s face now, his image filling her vision, furious at this intrusion.
Livid with their children for doing this to her.
She can’t do it. She breaks free of Seb’s grip, turning on her heel. As she does so, the notebook spills out onto the ground at her feet. She stares at it, frozen, then glances up at the photographers, the fear plain on her face.
One of them leans down to retrieve it. ‘Here, love, you dropped this—’ he begins, but she’s already pounced on it.
‘Don’t!’ she shrieks, her voice almost unrecognisable.
The flashes stop. Everyone is staring. She swipes for the notebook, shoving it back into her pocket.
For a moment she pants, regarding the strangers with pure panic, as they stare back at her.
‘It’s nothing,’ she adds, glancing at Tilly and Seb, who are watching her with shock.
‘It’s nothing!’ she says it again. The flashes begin around her again.
Tilly’s face is full of regret as she reaches for her mum, but Paula recoils.
Fear, rage and horror pool in her belly as she turns away.
She runs at full speed back the way she came, back towards the front door.
She has to get away, away from the cameras, away from the questions, away from her children.
Away from all of it. She throws herself inside, slamming the door behind her.
She leans against it, breathing like she’s run a marathon, checking her pocket again.
This is all wrong. The whole thing. All wrong.
What have they done?