“Maybe,” said Patrick, and he yawned. He looked bored.
“Or would you perhaps just make improvements on the places you already own?” she asked hopefully, desperately. Part of her wanted to keep the show on the road. They had all been friends for so long. If they weren’t friends, what would they be?
“Oh, no, not that,” he chuckled. His big belly, the result of too many indulgent work lunches, shook. “Don’t want to spoil the tenants.” Lexi felt sick.
“I think I’d send Ridley to a posh sixth form. Marlborough or Eton,” chipped in Jennifer.
Jake excitedly took up the mantle. “I’d want swimming pools in all my properties. I’d only ever fly first class from then on in.”
“I’d dress entirely in haute couture, even to do the housework,” said Carla.
“You don’t do the housework,” muttered Patrick. “We have a cleaner.”
“Wouldn’t any of you do anything good with it?” All five pairs of eyes swivelled to Lexi, who had asked the question.
“Good?” they chorused.
“Give to charities? Sent up trusts or foundations?”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” they hurried to reassure her.
“I’m just saying it would be great fun to spoil oneself, you know, totally,” commented Carla. Patrick looked irritated. As far as Lexi could tell, he did a good job of spoiling his wife as it was; the woman could be so greedy. Did she have any idea how others lived so she could wear Jimmy Choos, so her husband could get fat? Surely not. Lexi hoped not. If Carla knew about the state of the properties, that would be too much. That would be unbearable.
“I’d buy a really decent watch for every day of the week,” said Jake. “You know, a Patek Philippe for Monday, a Chopard for Tuesday, a Rolex for Wednesday—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, man, grow up,” Patrick snapped.
Startled, Lexi and Jake turned their heads toward him, and the others all dropped their eyes to their plates. Lexi felt something in the air, a chill.
“Will you cut the crap. All this talk about lotto wins is doing my head in. That’s not how you make money in this world. You need to graft.”
“Patrick, playing the lotto is only a bit of fun,” said Lexi, in what she hoped was a placating tone.
“It’s crass,” he muttered aggressively. Lexi felt the hairs on her body stand in revolt. Crass? Coming from him? She wanted to slap him. But she also wanted to preserve what they had around this table. Fifteen years of friendship.
“It’s a few quid, man, what are you making a fuss for?” Jake asked with a laugh that may have been designed to mollify but sounded a bit insistent.
Patrick looked uncomfortable, shifted on his seat, fingered his collar as though his tie was too tight, although he wasn’t wearing a tie. “It’s not the money, of course it’s not the money.” He paused and then added, “It’s what it says.”
“What it says?”
“About us.” No one was making eye contact. Lexi thought about offering dessert or another drink, but she didn’t bother.
“What does buying a lotto ticket say about us, exactly?” challenged Jake. He held his smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Come on, mate, you know what I’m saying.”
“I really don’t.”
“It’s for losers. Even the winners are losers,” Patrick sniggered to himself. “You know how it goes. Someone wins a huge amount and they buy a big house or two, fancy cars, just as you’ve described. They snort a fortune up their nose, go on flash holidays and in less than a few years they are back riding the bus, living in a rented house. They can’t hack it, these people.”
“These people?”
“And the sad thing is, they’re not as happy as they were before, because they’ve tasted the high life, seen how the other half lives.” Patrick reached for the whiskey bottle that Lexi’s mum had given Jake for his birthday. Patrick poured himself a generous measure.
Then with some bitterness, he added, “The wrong sort always wins. Statistically they have a better chance because it’s idlers and doleys that buy tickets.”
Jake snorted. “Does anyone say doleys anymore?”
“I just did,” replied Patrick seriously. “It’s such a waste. Those people aren’t used to having money, they don’t know how to deal with it. How to invest, how to spend, how to save, most importantly. Losers.”
“Well, dreamers,” Lexi suggested.
Jake laughed. It was a strained, overly dramatic laugh. “If you think this way, why have you been doing the lottery for fifteen years?”
“To humor you.” Patrick grinned coldly. “You seem to enjoy doing it. You like a flutter.” He paused over the word “flutter,” his tone mocking, derisory.
“Well, you don’t have to be part of the syndicate,” said Lexi. “You’re under no obligation.”
“Fine. I don’t want to be a killjoy, but...”
“But?”
“We’re going to pull out.”
“Okay.” Lexi nodded. She felt a flush of shame rise up her chest and neck, and she hoped it wouldn’t reach her face. She wasn’t absolutely certain what she felt ashamed of. Something intangible. She suddenly felt accused. Accused of what? She wasn’t sure. Had she and Jake press-ganged their friends into coughing up every week? Into doing something they didn’t want to do? But it was just a few quid. Why wouldn’t they want to do it? It was fun. And for it to be Patrick of all people to judge her. He had no right. Yet she felt insulted, hurt.
“It’s not as though we’re ever
