Chapter 8

Beth

I pulled up to a large grey building in an industrial suburb east of the city and dialled the office number, as per Eric the newsagent’s instructions. There were few people around, apart from a pair of panelbeaters smoking outside the workshop to the left of the Lottery Head Office, and a middle-aged woman wearing an impossibly frilly apron stacking chairs outside the cafe across the road. There was no obvious sign of any would-be lotto ticket thieves.

The office door opened, and a short, slightly built woman with waist-length dark, shiny hair and a huge smile emerged.

I unfurled from my car.

She laughed as she approached me. ‘I’ll bet a new car is at the top of your shopping list.’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘It’s so great to meet you, Beth,’ she said, shaking my hand with a vigour that seemed at odds with her tiny frame. ‘I’m Amarita Patel. You can think of me as your lotto win concierge, if you like.’

I wondered how a person found themselves in such a career. I didn’t remember seeing ‘Lotto win concierge’ in our careers guide handbooks at school.

‘You must be so excited,’ she continued, grinning so enthusiastically that the veins on her neck ribboned from her jaw to her shoulders.

‘I’m … I’m … I guess I’m still in shock,’ I stuttered. ‘This was actually the first lotto ticket I’ve ever bought. I don’t even enter the office syndicates. So it’s all come as a bit of a surprise.’

‘Your first ticket? My goodness. No wonder you’re in shock. Well, let’s get you inside where we can talk it through and get all the paperwork sorted.’

We walked towards the building, and Amarita used a swipe card to open the heavy front door. The young woman behind the reception desk, who was wearing a headset that made her look like a 90s pop star performing on stage, looked up from her computer and beamed at me.

‘Welcome,’ she said, bringing her hands together in a dainty applause. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Th– thanks,’ I stammered awkwardly.

I followed Amarita down a corridor lined with photos of smiling people holding oversized novelty cheques and standing next to cars festooned with giant red bows. Every third or fourth office door was open and, as we passed, the occupants called out offerings of ‘congratulations’ and ‘good for you’.

When we arrived at a boardroom at the end of the corridor, Amarita gestured for me to enter.

‘I’ll just run and grab our CEO, Leo, so that he can authorise the transfer of funds,’ she said. ‘You make yourself comfortable.’

I sat on one of the twenty-or-so chairs that surrounded a giant mahogany board table. Like the hallway, the boardroom walls were adorned with photos that captured the moments when peoples’ lives had changed.

One of the photos showed an elderly couple holding a cheque for $2.76 million made out to ‘Mary and William Finkelstein’. Mary balanced her half of the cheque on her walking frame while William clutched his half with hands disfigured by arthritis. I wondered what motivated Mary and William to buy lotto tickets at their advanced age. How many years would they even have to spend their new-found fortune? Based on my experience, the shock of winning might have actually reduced the amount of time they had to enjoy it.

In a frame to Mary and William’s right, ‘Simon Black’ was giving a thumbs up to the camera with one hand, while clutching a $3.8 million cheque with his name on it with the other. To his right, ‘Barry Furnish’ was poking his smiling face over the top of a cheque made out for $30.5 million. His dirty, high-vis work gear gave the impression he’d come straight from work. I wondered how long he’d waited after the picture was taken to hand in his notice.

Amarita reappeared with the news that Leo would be along shortly, and explained that she was responsible for coordinating the handover of funds. She also provided post-win support, such as dealing with the media and carrying out long-term wellbeing checks. She explained that wellbeing checks were recommended for winners of large amounts, to avoid the effects of ‘Sudden Wealth Syndrome’ – an affliction that can lead to anxiety, guilt and isolation, as well as poor personal and financial decisions.

‘Some of the stories are truly heartbreaking,’ she said sadly. ‘Couples fight over the money in divorce courts; families and friends turn on each other; people develop drug and alcohol problems or gambling habits; and some end up broke after they buy houses they can’t afford to maintain and cars they can’t afford to insure.’

I scanned the beaming faces of Mary and William, Simon and Barry in the pictures on the wall. Their smiles conveyed feelings of joy, relief, excitement and optimism; I wondered what had become of them and their fortunes.

However, I was comforted by my ability to make rational and measured decisions, no matter how much money was involved.

‘Hello, hello.’

Leo Phillips’s voice reverberated around the room before he stepped over the threshold. He was about seven feet tall and muscular, with spectacularly white teeth. He reminded me of a basketball player. Or a game show host.

‘You must be Beth. Welcome,’ he boomed. He shook my hand and then sat down and placed his right foot on his opposite knee. His feet were enormous. ‘Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself?’

‘This is the first lotto ticket Beth has ever bought,’ Amarita said.

‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘To be honest, I subscribe to the theory that we create our own luck. So I didn’t think in a million years that I would win lotto.’

‘You know, Beth,’ Leo started, his brow furrowing slightly. ‘Mark Twain said: “Fortune knocks at every man’s door once in a life, but in a good many cases the man is in a neighbouring saloon and does not hear her.”’

‘I guess I did pay attention to fortune knocking this time,’ I said, wondering whether deciphering the proverb of a famous eighteenth-century author was a condition of receiving my winnings. ‘Or maybe she used the doorbell.’

Leo laughed, and then he got to work finalising the paperwork and funds transfer.

~

I stared at the spreadsheet titled ‘Lotto funds distribution’, which was open on my laptop in front of me. I had set up a formula to experiment with different scenarios of how to divide the money between seven columns: gifts, donations to charity, short-term investments, travel, long-term investments, miscellaneous purchases and incidental expenses. It was the third consecutive night I’d spent adjusting and readjusting it.

The days since I’d found out I’d won lotto were much the same as any other; I got up, went for a run, went to work, came home, cooked dinner and went to bed. But the knowledge of my win nagged at me like an earworm. Mainly, thoughts of the money and what it meant for my life existed as a soft background hum. But occasionally, they rivalled an entire orchestral symphony, complete with a choir, and left me with ringing ears, a spinning head and a stomach full of knots and butterflies.

I had accepted that winning $264,412.51 would be ‘life-adjusting’, rather than ‘life-changing’. I was certainly not about to quit my job, buy a house in the golden triangle and never think about money again. However, I suspected my life would forever be different. And certainly a little easier.

Before I left the Lottery Head Office, Amarita gave me a pamphlet, which I had read so many times I could recite it verbatim. It cautioned winners against making rash decisions and implored them to scrutinise new or returning ‘friends’ and anyone with opportunistic investment proposals. It also suggested winners withhold the exact amount they won from anyone they gift money to, to avoid discussions about fairness and entitlement. ‘Instead, consider using statements such as: “I’ve come into some money” or “I’ve recently had some good luck, which I’d like to share”’, the pamphlet advised.

I felt like I’d been preparing for this my whole life. I was hardly likely to make rash decisions, and withholding key details about my personal affairs was my modus operandi. It helped that my family never seemed interested in my life anyway; they were too busy oversharing the details of their own adventures. Settling on what I would actually do with the money was proving a bit trickier. Of one thing, I was sure: I had no intention of moving house. I had accrued some equity in my apartment, so I committed to paying whatever was left after I’d divided it between columns A1 to A6 off my mortgage. This would free up my income to invest elsewhere over time.

The pamphlet had a blank space for jotting down some ‘luxury splurge items’. So far, I had listed new shoes (leather Derby shoes with punch hole detailing) – $179 – and two new bras (one black and one flesh coloured, without fussy lace or bows, to replace the ones I had worn to death) and matching knickers (four pairs) – $185.

While it pained me to do so, my altered financial position forced me to reconsider the long-term viability of my car. I had to admit that it had become a liability. Any money I spent on repairs – cosmetic or otherwise – would only prolong the inevitable. And now that I had the means to do so, it made financial sense to invest in a more reliable vehicle with better long-term prospects and fuel economy. After I conducted a comprehensive analysis of the new car market, and synthesised consumer reviews and expert articles, I settled on a hybrid hatchback and made an appointment for later in the week for a test drive.

After confirming how much holiday leave I had (nine weeks), I turned my mind to travel and made a list of places I was keen to visit. Topping the list was the UK; I had a guilty fondness for the royal family, and was keen to do the Harry Potter studio tour.

Unlike many of my peers, I’d never taken a gap year. Instead, I had travelled to the UK and Europe for a few short stints and used some money Gran gave me as a graduation present to travel to South-East Asia. Shortly before I was due to leave for that trip, Leah Knight – a friend from uni – said she was keen to tag along. I decided it would be good to share the cost of a double room, and the company would be nice too, I thought.

Two days into our trip, Leah convinced me to attend a Full Moon Party on a Thai island. Parts of the island were absolutely beautiful; warm turquoise water lapped gently at magnificent beaches that were fringed with lush green jungle. But the tourists who visited the island to enjoy its beauty ruined it with the vulgar behaviour they brought with them and the rubbish they left behind. Shortly after we arrived at the party, Leah spent the equivalent of two days’ food budget on a mango-flavoured mushroom shake. I spent the next eight hours following her around while she sang in colours, stared at lights, giggled uncontrollably and professed her love to anyone and everyone in her vicinity. After the effects of the mushrooms had abated and I was sure she was safe, I told Leah I didn’t think our travel styles were compatible. I retreated back to the mainland, and my meticulously planned itinerary, to enjoy the rest of my trip alone.

I had to admit, it would be nice to travel to the UK without needing to stay in a hostel, or to take seven connecting flights via Narnia to save on airfares. With travel, a new car, and new shoes, bras and knickers locked into my spreadsheet, I redirected my cursor to the ‘Gifts’ column, and the conundrum of what to give to my family.

Amarita’s pamphlet had recommended that ‘any money you gift to friends and family, you do so without any expectation or condition’. ‘Any’ was bolded and underlined for emphasis. Winners needed to accept that not everyone would spend the gift in ways they approved of.

‘Consider how you would feel if you gave money to a relative to pay off a student loan and they used it to fund a holiday instead,’ it urged. ‘What you would do if you gifted a friend the opportunity for a fresh start and they used the money to perpetuate destructive behaviours or activities?’

This had certainly provided cause for pause. Jarrah’s fiscal habits had always driven me crazy. She was frivolous with her spending, impulsive with her employment status, and she never sacrificed anything to save for the future because she never planned for anything. The real kicker: somehow, she ended up with everything she wanted anyway.

When I was about ten, I’d collected a twelve-part magazine series about animals of the world. The first issue was $2.95 and included a free binder to hold the collection. Subsequent issues came out each month and cost $4.95. There was a shortfall between the recommended retail price and the $1 I earned each week by unstacking the dishwasher and feeding the pets. So I negotiated with my parents for a pocket money pay rise – an additional 20 cents a week to take out the rubbish as well.

I looked forward to the first Tuesday of each month when Mum would take me to the newsagent. I would hand over my money, take possession of the next issue, and spend much of the following week poring over its contents.

I was so proud the day I went to collect the final instalment. I had worked hard to earn the money and was excited about the bonus magnifying glass that was promised with the edition that profiled insects of the Amazon.

While we were in the newsagent, Jarrah spotted a copy of The Complete Guide to Arts and Crafts – another collectable series. Because she’d spent what little allowance she did earn (her approach to chores was unreliable, at best) on mixed lollies from the milk bar, she had no money. She swooned over the series and told Mr Altemura – the newsagent owner – about her ambitions to become an artist.

Mr Altemura disappeared into his storeroom and reappeared a few moments later with the complete series of The Complete Guide to Arts and Crafts, which he handed to her with a smile.

Mum made a half-hearted effort to pay for the series, but Mr Altemura insisted on supporting Jarrah’s dream, in exchange for a signed painting when she became a famous artist one day. To make matters worse, he made me pay for my copy of Animals of the World and he’d run out of magnifying glasses.

Would gifting Jarrah a huge cheque just reinforce this pattern of getting things without earning them? And could I actually hand it over without ‘expectation or condition’?