“Would you like a cup of tea?” I offer. I’ve laid out the cake, plates and mugs. I would have put out cups and saucers if we had any—we don’t. Emily says maybe we should buy some now. I also forgot to buy paper napkins.
“Oh, yes please. Just straightforward builder’s with milk, no sugar,” says Gillian, in the tone of a woman gasping for a cuppa after a long car journey.
“I thought champagne would be more appropriate.” Jake is holding the bottle aloft.
Gillian flashes a fast look between the two of us; we are being weighed up. I do the same when sat opposite clients at the CAB. The advice I offer is always the same, but has to be delivered in a myriad of ways depending on what sort of person I am talking to.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having. Champagne is always lovely, but I’m driving so only half a glass for me. I have a lot of information for you, so I guess it depends how good you are at keeping a clear head,” Gillian replies with a diplomatic chuckle.
Jake is already twisting the wire that encases the cork. He bounces into the kitchen to pour. Gillian and I sit in silence until we hear the pop sound. Then Gillian smiles. “You have so much to celebrate.”
“Yes, we do.”
We toast. Jake downs his as though it’s going out of fashion, then immediately refills his glass. Gillian begins to pull documents and files from her large handbag and sets about pegging our dreamy unreality into something that approaches a practical proposal.
“We need to set up meetings with accountants and financial advisors. As you can imagine, it wouldn’t do to pop this sort of money into a high street bank. You can get it to work harder for you if you talk to the wealth management arm of your bank.”
“Wealth management arm?”
“Looking at who you currently bank with, I’d suggest Coutts. Have you heard of them?”
I think of the elegant branding on the side of a massive, seemingly impenetrable building I sometimes pass on the Strand, in London. Only ever pass—I’ve never dreamed of going in. Curly, rich-looking black lettering on a creamy background. Coutts is the royal family’s bank. “Will they accept us?” I ask.
“Without a doubt,” Gillian says, and smiles.
“Money talks,” chips in Emily.
“Money shouts,” laughs Jake.
I’m uncomfortable with Emily being privy to this conversation about finances. In the past, we’ve always avoided talking about money in front of the kids. Although that was because previously all our discussions were about whether we had enough and if not, how could we make more?
“My notes say you are undecided about publicity, but we’ve been online and there’s already a leak that the winner is local to this area. Is it to do with...?” Gillian tactfully trails off, but swivels her eyes to the front garden where the car is parked.
“Yes,” I confirm. “My husband lacks discretion.”
“Ah, but I make up for it in enthusiasm.” Jake taps his fingers in a way that imitates someone hitting a cymbal. Emily laughs. Gillian smiles politely. I swear the man doesn’t take drugs, but he’s as high as a kite.
“Well, I suggest you take publicity now. With the leak and a Ferrari parked on your road, it will only be a matter of time before the local press reveal who has won the seventeen-point-eight-million pounds. If that happens, you can’t easily control the narrative. If we take the lead, then we can help direct and manage the publicity so that it’s the least intrusive.”
“Control the narrative?” I ask, bemused.
“Well, there’s a lovely story to be told here,” says Gillian with a reassuring smile. “Family of four, big win, people will relate.” She means ordinary family. We’re quite ordinary. She’s just too polite to put it into words. She could, I wouldn’t mind. I am okay with being ordinary. I smile. If it’s a little stiff, Gillian doesn’t seem to notice. “We can introduce you to publicists and even image consultants if you want.” I have no idea what an image consultant is, but I nod anyway. I want a team...support. “In that case, if you are taking publicity, we need to set up a little ceremony to hand over the enormous check. That can be a lot of fun. How about this Friday? Does that work?”
“Yes, I only work a half day on Fridays, I’m sure I can swing it,” I say. Again, Jake and Emily giggle between themselves. Clearly work and school are not considerations for their availability.
“It can take place wherever you want, but I’d suggest not in your home. Maybe at a local country house, somewhere grand for the photos. We’ll invite the local press and radio stations. We’ll talk you through the sort of questions they are likely to ask. We can practise answers if you like. There’s nothing to worry about. It won’t be huge. This isn’t a national story.”
“It’s not?” I’m relieved.
“Not really. You’d need to have won sixty million upwards to make the national press.”
“Imagine that,” says Jake in awe.
“I took the liberty of scouting around the area this morning, in case you did want to go in this direction. This manor house hotel looks lovely. Just the ticket.” Gillian hands over her iPad. “I’ve already spoken to the events manager there. They can accommodate us, if you like it.” There are pictures of the stately home hotel, Camberwell Manor. I know of it; they host big weddings and corporate balls. I’ve never visited, but somewhere in the very back of my mind I’ve always thought it might be the perfect venue for Emily’s wedding in, say, fifteen years’ time.
“Very nice.” I nod.
“Yup, great. I always wanted to take the publicity. I think it will be fun,” comments Jake. “Only one thing. Will we have to wait until Friday to get the actual money? We were originally told it could be in our account by Wednesday.”
I close my eyes, embarrassed by his greedy
