can have a glass of champagne at the press conference without anyone suggesting they will be driving home under the influence. Dad says he could have ‘just the one’ and still drive and that he wants to drive there in the Ferrari. Mum says he can’t because even if he is technically under the limit, it will make a very bad story if any of the journos notice. Dad says Gillian said we’re not as big a story as all that. He sounds disappointed by this. Mum says we don’t want to become a bigger story for the wrong reasons and anyway we can’t all fit in the Ferrari. Logan says if Dad is driving then he wants to go with Dad because the Ferrari is dead cool. Mum pushes us all into the lottery car, which is a stretch limo and not too shabby anyway. She says she doesn’t want to hear another word.
Final!
Camberwell Manor is pretty grand in an old-fashioned way. There’s a gravelled, tree-lined driveway. Inside there are lots of ancient, scruffy rugs on the wooden floors and lots of panelled walls. Posh people like both things. It’s not how I’d decorate a country house if I had one; I’d go all modern, channel the surprise of the unexpected, but I can see its appeal. We are shown into a high-ceilinged room that has pictures of strangely proportioned horses and insipid country scenes hanging on the walls; there are about twenty chairs set up facing a lectern. We are offered drinks, I ask for a cappuccino, but someone brings both Logan and me Coke (full fat so I don’t touch mine). A few journalists start to arrive. They are polarised; they either strut hastily through the door, sweating because they seem to think they are late and want everyone to know they are busy (and therefore in demand, important), or they saunter, clearly prepared to linger over the elevenses on offer and make the ‘job’ last all morning. Dad says it depends entirely as to whether they are staffers or freelancers. A couple of them are struggling to carry lots of equipment – tripods and real cameras – as though the iPhone hadn’t been invented. None of them are sharp and sassy like I thought they’d be. I guess they are all slightly disappointed that the internet has been invented and Fleet Street is no more. I know that Fleet Street was an exciting journo hub in the ancient past from some novel I read by Evelyn Waugh for English, and also from Dad, who often talks about disappointing careers.
The journos are all local and it’s obvious that they know each other; they happily chat amongst themselves, asking after one another’s kids and partners. It sort of starts to feel like a party. Not my kind of party but a parent party. They smile at us, and we shyly smile back, but Gillian (the woman from the lottery company who seems to be our sort of rich-person babysitter) has made it clear it’s best not to say too much to the press until we make the announcement, then there will be an open-floor question and answer session. Whilst the journos tuck into the cakes that Gillian has arranged, our family largely holds back; only Logan bothers. He eats three éclairs and a doughnut in about five seconds. I think the rest of us are a bit nervous, even Dad. When the journos have taken up most of the seats, Gillian stands behind the lectern.
I listen as she tells the world (OK, the dozen journos that work on local papers, mags and radio stations in just one of England’s counties) that we are lottery winners and, suddenly, hearing her say that makes everything seem really real and brilliant. This last week we’ve been on shopping sprees, Dad has bought his bad-ass car, we’ve booked a holiday to New York, all of this stuff has been absolutely bloody awesome. But somehow, unreal. I think Mum in particular has been worried that someone was suddenly going to take it from us, and her worry has sort of hung around in the background for everyone else. She is a constant worrier. Gran calls her worry bones, Dad calls her worry head, basically her entire anatomy is devoted to worrying. I beam at her and she beams back. Suddenly and simultaneously, we believe it. We are OK. We are winners.
At that exact moment, Carla and Patrick Pearson and Jennifer and Fred Heathcote