'What?' It's Suze's turn to stare. 'Of course I didn't say you've got bloody glandular fever!'

'Did she ask about my leg? Anything about my health at all?'

'No! She just said where were you? And I said you were at work-'

'Suze!' I wail in dismay.

'Well, what was I supposed to say?'

'You were supposed to say I was in bed with glandular fever and a broken leg!'

'Well, thanks for the warning!' Suze gazes at me, eyes narrowed, and crosses her legs into the lotus position. Suze has got the longest, thinnest, wiriest legs I've ever known. When she's wearing black leggings she looks just like a spider.

'What's the big deal anyway?' she says. 'Are you overdrawn?'

Am I overdrawn?

'Just a tad.' I shrug. 'It'll work itself out.'

There's silence and I look up, to see Suze tearing up my cheque.

'Suze! Don't be stupid!'

'Pay me back when you're in the black,' she says firmly.

'Thanks Suze,' I say, and give her a big hug. Suze has got to be the best friend I've ever had.

But there's a nagging feeling in my stomach which stays with me all evening and is still there when I wake up the next morning. A feeling I can't even shift by thinking about my Denny and George scarf. I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling and, or the first time in months, calculate how much I owe to everybody. The bank, VISA, my Harvey Nichols card, my Debenhams card, my Fenwicks card… And now Suze, too.

It's about… let's think… it's about six thousand pounds.

A cold feeling creeps over me as I contemplate this figure. How on earth am I going to find six thousand pounds? I could save six pounds a week for a thousand weeks. Or twelve pounds a week for five hundred weeks. Or… or sixty pounds a week for a hundred weeks. That's more like it. But how the hell am I going to find sixty pounds a week to save?

Or else I could bone up on lots of general and go on a game show. Or invent something clever. Or I could win the Lottery. At the thought a lovely warm creeps over me, and I close eyes and snuggle back down into bed. The Lottery far the best solution.

I wouldn't aim to win the jackpot of course – that's completely unlikely. But one of those minor bets. There seem to be heaps of those going around. Say – a hundred thousand pounds. That would do. I could pay off all my debts, buy a car, buy a flat…

Actually – better make it two hundred thousand. Or a quarter of a million. Or, even better, one of those shared jackpots. 'The five winners will each receive one point three million pounds.' (I love the way they say that. 'One point three.' As if that extra three hundred thousand pounds is a tiny, insignificant amount. As if you wouldn't notice whether it was there or not.)

One point three million should see me straight. And it's not being greedy, is it, to want to share your jackpot?

Please God, I think, let me win the Lottery and I promise to share nicely.

And so, on the way down to my parents' house I stop off at a petrol station to buy a couple of lottery tickets. Choosing the numbers takes about half an hour. I know 44 always does well, and 42. But what about the rest? I write out a few series of numbers on a piece of paper and squint at them, trying to imagine them on the telly.


1 6 9 16 23 44


No! Terrible! What am I thinking of? 1 never comes up, for a start. And 6 and 9 look wrong, too.


3 14 21 25 36 44 


That's a bit better. I fill in the numbers on the ticket.


5 11 18 27 28 42


I'm quite impressed by this one. It looks like a winner. I can just imagine Moira Stewart reading it out on the news. 'One ticket-holder, believed to live in southwest London, has won an estimated jackpot of ten million pounds.'

For a moment, I feel faint. What'll I do with ten million pounds? Where will I start?

Well, a huge party to begin with. Somewhere smart but cool, with loads of champagne and dancing and a taxi service so no-one has to drive. And going-home presents, like really nice bubble bath or something. (Does Calvin Klein do bubble bath? I make a mental note to check next time I'm in Boots.)

Then I'll buy houses for all my family and friends, of course. I lean against the lottery stand and close my eyes to concentrate. Suppose I buy twenty houses at ?250,000 each. That'll leave me… five million. Plus about fifty thousand pounds on the party. And then I'll take everyone on holiday, to Barbados or somewhere. That'll cost about… a hundred thousand pounds, if we all fly Club. So that's four million, eight hundred and fifty thousand.

Oh! and I need six thousand to pay off all my credit cards and, overdraft. Plus three hundred for Suze. Call it seven thousand. So that leaves… four million, eight hundred and forty-three thousand.

Obviously, I'll do loads for charity. In fact, I'll probably set up a charitable foundation. I'll support all those unfashionable charities that get ignored, like skin diseases and home helps for the elderly. And I'll send a great big cheque to my old English teacher, Mrs James, so she can restock the school library. Perhaps they'll even rename it after me. The Bloomwood Library.

Oh, and three hundred for that swirly coat in Whistles, which I must buy before they're all up. So how much does that leave? Four million, eight hundred and forty-three thousand, minus…

'Excuse me.' A voice interrupts me and I look up dazedly. The woman behind is trying to get at the biro.

'Sorry,' I say, and politely make way. But the interruption has made me lose track of my calculations.

Was it four million or five million?

Then, as I see the woman looking at my bit of paper covered in scribbled numbers, an awful thought strikes me. What if one of my rejected sets of numbers comes up? What if 1 6 9 16 23 44 comes up tonight and I haven't entered it? I'd hate myself, wouldn't I? All my life, I'd never forgive myself. I'd be like the guy who committed suicide because he forgot to post his pools coupon.

I quickly fill in tickets for all the combinations of numbers written on my bit of paper That's nine tickets in all. Nine quid – quite a lot of money, really. I almost feel bad about spending it. But then, that's nine times as many chances of winning, isn't it?

And I now have a very good feeling about 1 6 9 16 23 44. Why has that particular set of numbers leapt into my mind and stayed there? Maybe someone, somewhere, is trying to tell me something.


***

Brompton's Store

CUSTOMER ACCOUNTS

1 Brompton Street

London SW4 7TH


Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd

London SW6 8FD

2 March 2000


Dear Ms Bloomwood

Our records suggest that we have not received payment for your latest Brompton Gilt Card bill. If you have paid within the last few days, please ignore this letter.

Your outstanding bill is currently ?235.76. The minimum payment is ?43.00. You may pay by cash, cheque or on the enclosed bank giro credit slip. We look forward to receiving your payment.


Yours sincerely

John Hunter

Customer Accounts Manager


***

Brompton's Store

1 Brompton Street

London SW4 7TH


Ms Rebecca Bloomwood

Flat 2

4 Burney Rd

London SW6 8FD

2 March 2000


Dear Ms Bloomwood

There's never been a better time to spend!

For a limited time, we are offering EXTRA POINTS on all purchases over?Ј50 made with the Brompton Gilt Card* – so take the opportunity now to add more points to your total and take advantage of some of our Pointholders' Gifts.

Some of the fantastic gifts we are offering include:


An Italian leather bag

1,000 points


A case of pink champagne

2,000 points


Two flights to Paris **

5,000 points


(Your current level is: 35 points)

And remember,' during this special offer period, you will gain two points for every ?5 spent. We look forward to welcoming you in store soon to take advantage of this unique offer.


Yours sincerely

Adrian Smith

Customer Services Manager

*excluding purchases at restaurants, pharmacy, newsstand and hairdresser

**certain restrictions apply – see enclosed leaflet

Four

When I arrive at my parents' house, they are in the middle of an argument. Dad is halfway up a stepladder in the garden, poking at the gutter on the side of the house, and Mum is sitting at the wrought-iron garden table, leafing through a Past Times catalogue. Neither of them even looks up when I walk through the patio doors.

'All I'm saying is that they should set a good example!' Mum is saying.

'And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it? You think that would solve the problem.'

'Danger!' say Mum derisively. 'Don't be so melodramatic, Graham. Is that the opinion you really have of British society?'

'Hi, Mum,' I say. 'Hi Dad.'

'Becky agrees with me. Don't you, darling?' says Mum, and points to a page of Past Times. 'Lovely cardigan,' she adds sotto voc. 'Look at that embroidery!'

'Of course she doesn't agree with you!' retorts my dad. 'It's the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard.'

'No it's not!' says Mum indignantly. 'Becky, you think it would be a good idea for the Royal Family to travel by public transport, don't you, darling?'

'Well…' I say cautiously. 'I hadn't really…'

'You think the Queen should travel to official engagements on the 93 bus?' scoffs Dad.

'And why not? Maybe then the 93 bus would become more efficient!'

'So,' I say, sitting down next to Mum. 'How things?'

'You realize this country is on the verge of gridlock?' says Mum, as if she hasn't heard me. 'If more people don't start using public transport, our roads are going to seize up.'

My dad shakes his head.

'And you think the Queen travelling on the 93 bus would solve the problem. Never mind the security problems, never mind the fact that she'd be able to do far fewer engagements…'

'I didn't mean the Queen, necessarily,' retorts Mum, and pauses for a second. 'But some of those others. Princess Michael of Kent, for example. She could travel by tube every so often, couldn't she? These people need to learn about real life.'

The last time my mum travelled on the tube was about 1983.

'Shall I make some coffee?' I say brightly. 'If you ask me, this gridlock business is utter nonsense,' says my dad. He jumps down from the stepladder and brushes the dirt off his hands. 'It's all propaganda.'

'Propaganda?' exclaims my mum in outrage.

'Right,' I say hurriedly. 'Well, I'll go and put the kettle on.'

I walk back into the house, flick the kettle on in the kitchen and sit down at the table in a nice patch of sunshine. I've already forgotten what my mum and dad are arguing about. They'll just go round and round in circles and agree it's all the fault of Tony Blair.

Anyway, I've got more important things to think about. I'm trying to figure out exactly how much I should give to Philip, my boss, after I win the Lottery. I can't leave him out, of course – but is cash a bit tacky? Would a present be better? Really nice cuff links, perhaps. Or one of those picnic hampers with all the plates inside.

(Clare Edwards, obviously, will get nothing).

Sitting alone in the sunny kitchen, I feel as though I have a little glowing secret inside me. I'm going to win the Lottery. Tonight, my life is going to change. God, I can't wait. Ten million pounds. Just think, tomorrow I'll be able to buy anything I want. Anything!

The newspaper's open in front of me at the property section and I carelessly pick it up to peruse expensive houses. Where shall I live? Chelsea? Notting Hill? Mayfair? Belgravia, I read. Magnificent seven bedroomed detached house with staff annexe and mature garden. Well, that sounds all right. I could cope with seven bedrooms in Belgravia. My eye flicks complacently down to the price and stops still with shock.

Six point five million pounds. That's how much they're asking. Six and a half million.

I feel stunned and slightly angry. Are they serious? I haven't got anything like six point five million pounds. I've only got about… four million left. Or was it five? Whatever it is, it's not enough. I stare at the page, feeling cheated. Lottery winners are supposed to be able to buy anything they want – but already I'm feeling poor and inadequate.