I’m lying on the sofa an hour or so later when a textpings through.
It’s from Doug. Surprised, I sit up to read it. I reallywasn’t expecting to hear from him – and certainly not so soon...
The text is brief:
Hope you slept well. Let me know if walking’s on youragenda any time and you’d like some company? Doug
I smile to myself, a warm feeling creepingthrough me. Doug seemed really nice.
I lie back down again, thinking. Nice is the wrong word.It’s alazyword. That’s what my English teacher used to say. Then she’dmake you think of other descriptive words you could use instead.
Which words would I use about Doug?
Funny, for sure. Kind and considerate. It was lovely the wayhe waited at the corner to make sure I got back home safely. And handsome? Yes,definitely. Dark eyes, great smile. And he’s tall. I’m five foot nine, which Isuppose is fairly tall for a female, but Doug towered over me. I felt sort of safeand protected, walking alongside him. After my horrible confrontation withRyan, he cheered me up no end.
I try to think of something witty to say in response to histext, although I obviously don’t want to look as if I’ve laboured for a longtime over it. It has to sound as if I just dashed it off in between looking forsomewhere else to live and buying a new car to replace my old Fiat which brokedown again last week...
Suddenly I stop, a feeling of dread gripping my stomach.
Just before we parted last night, Doug said he couldn’t helpbut overhear the argument in the pub about my sister’s lottery win. Hecongratulated me on my windfall, gave me a teasing smile and asked when I’d bemoving into my new mansion in the country. It seemed just a throwaway remark atthe time, and so I laughed and told him that I did want to move to a nicerplace (I didn’t tell him it was mainly to escape having more bricks hurledthrough my window) and I desperately needed a new car.
Now, I stare up at the ceiling in despair.
I need to startthinkingbefore blurting out all mypersonal plans to people I don’t know. I’m so naïve. Carrie would be dismayedif she knew I’d had this conversation with Doug, a total stranger. She’d sayRyan and I shouldn’t have been shouting about the win in the pub where everyonecould listen in, and she’d probably be a little suspicious of Doug asking meabout the win.
I can hear her in my head now. ‘People are always interestedin money – and especially the idea of someone hitting the jackpot on the lottery!’
Oh, hell!
Maybe Doug, intrigued by what he heard between Ryan and me, madean excuse to leave and followed me out of the pub? Perhaps he wanted to findout how much I was worth – just like Ryan did – and then be all friendly so I’dthink he was a lovely person. (Which I did.)
If that really was his aim, I played right into his hands.
I look at his text again, my thumb hovering over the‘delete’ button, my head swimming in confusion. I’d never imagined there couldbe a downside to coming into money. Far from it. I’d always assumed thatbecoming wealthy would transform a person’s life into something happy andgolden... a place where having choices enabled you to becomethe person you were supposed to be, because at last, you could follow yourdreams.
But clearly, that was me being naïve again.
I had to toughen up. Stop being so gullible. Be more aware ofthe seamier side of life and people’s darker motives. It was sad but true. Ihad to become more ‘Carrie’.
My thumb hits ‘delete’.Nice knowing you, Doug.
To distract myself from the little pang of sadness I’mfeeling, I grab this month’s glossy magazine from the table nearby and startflicking through the ‘houses for sale’ section, fantasising about what I’d buyif our win was ten times the size. A luxury one-bed apartment in an elegantGeorgian mansion set in acres of manicured grounds: £800,000. Or a beautifuldetached Victorian property in a village on the outskirts of Guildford, withviews over the cricket green: £1.2 million. Or a more modern house with anoutdoor swimming pool and a tennis court, in an exclusive gated community inthe heart of the Surrey countryside: £2.7 million.
I turn the page and a pretty, white-painted cottage catchesmy eye. It’s in a rural setting, sheep in the fields behind it, with a big, lush-lookinggarden wrapped around it.
Ooh, now then... that’s more me.
There’s an attractive patio area to the rear of theproperty, and I can just imagine sitting at a cute table in my new sunglasses, sippinga delicious glass of chilled white wine while gazing out over the fields on abalmy summer’s evening. Who needs a tennis court anyway?
The cottage isn’t for sale. But it’s available to rent, andwhen I glance at the figure, I’m actually quite surprised. Two thousand pounds percalendar month. I would have imagined it’d be a lot pricier than that – butwhat do I know? It’s not as if I’ve ever looked seriously at the cost of these amazingproperties. But now, with money burning a hole in my pocket, I could actually affordto move to the country – especially if I’m renting instead of buying.
I quickly calculate how much I’d be shelling out to live fora year in the pretty, white-washed cottage. Including council tax, I’d get nochange out of twenty-five thousand pounds.
Twenty-five thousand pounds!
I snort with laughter. No way would I splash out to thatextent! I just couldn’t do it. It’s far too expensive. And Carrie would say Iwas mad to rent, when I could easily afford to buy a lovely three-bed semioutright and still have lots of money left over to save for a rainy day. Thesensible option.
Of course she’s right. I know she’s right.
