The Lucky Dip

Philip Marks is my Secret Santa recipient and I don’t know what to buy him.

Like thousands of other people around the world trying to buy something for someone they cannot stand. I tried to get out of it – I already missed the Christmas dinner at Ye Olde Cockrel and Wastrel – but they’re doing Secret Santa on the final work day and I cannot take the day off’ I’ve used up all my annual leave.

In previous years, I always drew women as recipients. They’re easier – a bar or two of soap usually does the trick. But Philip Marks is a young, loud, large man with a penchant for flirting and a need for extra-strength deodorant that exceeds our £5 budget.

Rather than spend hours browsing seasonal tat, I venture to the supermarket and browse the chocolates. Everyone likes them, right? At the end of the aisle in front of me, there are boxes of Maltesers for £2 each. Bargain. It’s not a bad gift, either, as Maltesers are popular and less calorific than other chocolates. And Philip needs to watch his calories.

I pop a box into my basket and calculate that I still have £3 to spend. Should I get two boxes?

No. I might be a recluse but I’m not unimaginative. The supermarket has reduced all its seasonal vegetables to 50p each: parsnips, cabbage, swede and carrots. I could get a bag of each and say that I’m buying him a vegetarian Christmas meal. That joke would fall flat at my work, though; they don’t get my humour – they’re too stupid.

People are dashing around me in a hysteria of consumerism. I cannot think in this chaos.

My eyes settle on a desk right in front of me selling tobacco, contraception and Lottery tickets. I dislike the idea of Philip becoming a millionaire at my expense, but with the odds of winning at 45 million to 1, it is a scenario that I am unlikely to face.

The kiosk is quiet and I approach the bored-looking assistant called Dan (according to his name badge) with pretend insouciance.  

“I’d like a Lucky Dick, please.”

His mouth falls open.

I realise my dreadful faux pas and instinctively clap a hand to my mouth.

“A Lucky Dip – a dip!” I correct myself. “I’d like to buy a Lucky DIP!”

Refusing to meet my eyes, Dan feeds a blank ticket through the machine. As we wait, he admires the wall of distressing photographs on the cigarette packets. Anything rather than look at the woman who said Lucky dick.

He pushes the ticket forward. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you.” I tap my card onto the reader but it beeps in protest.

“You’ll have to put it in. Your card in,” Dan looks suicidal at his unintentional double entendre.

As I slide it into the reader, a wonderful idea hits me. Why not have a go myself?

I still have £1.50 left from the £5. Don’t judge me.

Yes, I should be spending it on Philip but he earns more than I do and £5 is the limit, not the minimum.

“You need to type in your code,” Dan says, not masking the frustration in his voice.

“I know,” I say and remove the card from the machine altogether.

“You can’t get a refund!” He’s panicking now. “That ticket is yours now – you’ve got to pay for it.”

“Oh, I will,” I reply. “I just want to buy another one, please.”

He sighs, and his shoulders drop.

“Do you want another Lucky … DIP?”

I’m about agree, when I decide that I don’t want to leave two tickets to Fate. If I choose the numbers, at least I have some say in what happens. (It’s crazy, of course…)

“I’ll choose my own,” I announce, and I swear he mutters, “Of course you will.”

A queue has formed behind me now. Dan pushes a blank Lottery ticket towards me with a pencil. Which numbers should I choose? Birthdays? Years divided into two parts? House numbers? Phone numbers?

“There’s a queue.” Dan nods behind me.

18. 27. 10. 06. 23. 07.

“There you go.” 

I insert my card into the reader and pay while he puts the ticket through the machine. I thank Dan for his time, making a mental note not to share any wealth I gain with him, and leave.

At home, I sit down with the two Lottery tickets and make a note of his numbers. Some might say they’re none of my business but I bought the ticket and in my book, that means I’m entitled to know his fate. After all, we won’t be back in the office until 27 December and the draw is on the 23^rd. It’s a long time to wait to find out, though no doubt he’d be bragging about it on our work Whatsapp group.

Still …

51. 39. 21 34. 03. 09.

None of our numbers overlap but that’s OK. Because no one’s going to win anything.

I put his ticket into an envelope and am about to seal it when a thought pops into my head. What if he has the winning numbers?

Should I switch the tickets?

I chew my fingernail. It’s not like there’s a 50/50 chance he will win. Neither of us will hit the jackpot.

Right?

I seal his envelope, writing on the front: Hoping this dip makes you lucky! All the best for Saturday night!  

It’s highly unlikely that Philip will even be at home on a Saturday night. He’s known for his (literal) pub crawls, which often end with him making it home on his hands and knees after being spat out by the night bus.

He probably won’t even read the envelope. How sad to have such a clever use of words wasted on his dull brain.

***

The last two days at work drag. No one is even pretending to do anything now. Instead, they’re parading around the office in tacky Christmas-themed sweaters. Someone has brought in a huge bunch of mistletoe and taped it over the entrance to the kitchen.

I go without hot drinks.

Friday, finally. Christmas pop songs blare across the open-plan office and people howl along to them while eating mince pies. At two, Cynthia announces it’s: ‘Secret Santa Time!’ and everyone gathers in the largest boardroom we have – fits about fifteen and there are twenty-five of us. The air is pungent with alcohol drunk at lunchtime; I’ll be inebriated from the fumes.

We all left our labelled presents on the boardroom table first thing in the morning and Cynthia is now dishing them out. She’s obviously designated herself Chief Elf – she’s wearing a bloody badge that says it.

She flits back and forward with gifts, shoving a rectangular present into my hands. I can tell straight away that it’s a book.

“Come on, Chief Elf!” roars Philip. “Where’s my present?”

“If you’re naughty instead of nice, you might not get one!” she trills, and I want to chuck my book at her head. I fear what the book’s about. No one at work knows what I like reading – they’ve just assumed I read because I don’t talk much or interact with them.

“Someone knows me well!” barks Philip. He’s waving the envelope, then clears his throat. He’s actually going to read the label!

“The label says: ‘Hoping this dip makes you lucky!’ And what might this dip be, ladies?” His eyes pan the room. “A skinny dip?”

“Shut up, Philip. No one wants to see your carcass!”

Philip laughs and shrugs. Does he really not feel hurt by that comment?

“C’mon, girls! ‘Fess up! Who wants to give me a Lucky Dip?”

Obviously not.

Philip is swaying his hips grotesquely, winking at everyone, as he runs his finger under the envelope’s flap. He peers inside and pulls out the ticket, raising his eyebrows.

“A Lucky Dip for the Lottery draw this weekend! Wow – this is pretty cool.”

I am angry with myself for feeling a flush of pleasure.

“That’s the only way you’re going to get lucky this weekend, Philip!” shouts his sidekick, Luke.

Raucous banter ensues. I wander over to pick up a glass of prosecco and nearly spill it as an errant elbow bangs into me.  

“Aren’t you going to open your present?”

Philip is right next to me, munching his Maltesers.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a book,” I reply.

“Yeah, but you don’t know what type it is. Here, want one?” He offers me the box.

“Thanks.” I pop a Malteser into my mouth and, to appease him, start removing the wrapping paper.

Inside is a big book of ‘Would You Rather…?’ situations.

“Might as well tell you I’m your Secret Santa,” Philip says. “Didn’t know what to get you – you’re so secretive. Pegged you as a reader because you’re so quiet. And I didn’t know what kind of stuff you read so guessed this would be a good fit. Who doesn’t like to answer these kinds of questions.”

“Indeed.”

“Had a quick peek at it before I wrapped it. Hope you don’t mind. There are some interesting choices in there. For example: Would you rather win the Lottery or Live Forever?”

There’s an awkward pause until I realise he’s waiting for me to reply.

“Oh. That’s difficult, isn’t it? I mean, if you were going to live forever then you’d need lots of money to pay for it.”

“Exactly. See? It’s quite philosophical, isn’t it?”

“It’s quite spooky, Philip, since you got a Lottery ticket for your present.”

“I know! I might not be able to choose the answer to that question tomorrow evening!” He laughs, then adds, “So, who did you get for Secret Santa?”

“Isn’t the point of Secret Santa is that it’s a secret?”

“Yeah, well...” He waves a hand dismissively. “I’ve told you, right? Anyway, Cynthia tells everyone anyway – reckon she’s got our names on a spreadsheet or something.”

He pauses.

“I reckon you might be mine. I mean, you like reading and everything and I could imagine you writing that message on the envelope. It’s clever.”

Cynthia chooses that moment to screech that it’s time to pack up and go to the pub. She grabs Philip by the arm and pulls him away from me, talking about pints or something. As they exit the meeting room, he glances back at me and I look away, as if fascinated by Matilda juggling the three pairs of socks she was given for her present.

I got Philip and he got me for Secret Santa. What are the odds of that?

***

Saturday night. The Lottery is about to be drawn online and I feel sick to my stomach.

There is no chance that Philip or I will win.

Except there is a chance, even if it’s only one in 45 million.

The balls are spinning in the machine. The voiceover man says the Lottery makes two millionaires a week. Two? Suddenly that seems like an awful lot.

I’ve decided just to check my numbers in the first instance, as those are the ones that are most important to me. I don’t want the distraction of Philip’s too.

The first number is out: 21

Not one of mine. I won’t get the jackpot. I am surprised to find myself disappointed. That means I was entertaining the possibility of winning. That makes me dumb and gullible.

Second ball: 09. Still not on my list.

39.

51.

03.

34.

Waste of time and money, just as I always said.

Now to check Philip’s numbers.

The voiceover man is helpfully putting the numbers into the correct numerical order.

03. 09. 21. 34. 39. 51.

Wait … He’s done it.

No! Not him. I’ve fucking done it.

Yet he’s the ticket holder. He’s just won a jackpot of £5.7 million.

I run into the bathroom and throw up.

***

The work’s Whatsapp group is eerily silent. Are they all having a Lottery party and are now celebrating Philip’s win?

No. I’m sure he would have asked me since I bought him the ticket.

So why is he not shouting from the rooftops that he’s won the Lottery?

What’s he playing at?

Did he lose the damn ticket?

I want to message him to ask but he still doesn’t know that I was his Secret Santa. Or maybe he does – he did look at me knowingly as Cynthia dragged him from the room.

I select his profile and start typing.

Have you seen the Lottery result?

He reads my message straight away.

Who’s this?

I feel insulted till I realise I don’t have a personal account photo, just the standard App picture.

Lisa. Your Secret Santa.

There. I said it.

Of course! I knew it was you! And I got you the book. Weird coincidence that we got each other, wasn’t it?!

I don’t want to talk about coincidences. I want to talk about the Lottery.

What about the Lottery ticket, Philip? Have you checked to see if you’ve won?

There is a slight delay before his reply comes in.

Honestly – I forgot all about it. Been out all afternoon with the boys.

How can he be so blasé?

I’m still at the Duke of York if you fancy a drink. The others have gone on to a club. Didn’t feel like it.

OK. Be there in half an hour.

***

In the end, it takes me a little longer than half an hour. I fuss over what to wear, whether to put on make-up. I want to look nice but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. I need to get that ticket from him and he sounds drunk enough to manage it. I settle on a pair of jeans, a smart blouse, some knee-high boots and mascara and red lipstick.

Philip is at the bar when I walk in and as he spies me, he whistles appreciatively.

“You scrub up well outside of work.”

I smile and order a white wine. He waves his card at the barman to pay for the drink.

“Why don’t you come out with all of us more often?” he asks.

“Pubs aren’t really my scene.”

He nods. “Yeah. I imagine you playing bridge or something. But damn.” He nods at my boots.

“Those are so sexy. Wasted at a bridge club.”

“I don’t play bridge.”

“Origami or knitting, then.”

I am getting annoyed now.

“So? Have you checked your Lottery numbers?”

“Lottery?” He laughs. “No. I won’t have won it. I’m not lucky like that.”

Thank God he’s not checked his numbers.

“Surely you should check them, though? Just in case?”

“For you, Lisa? Anything!”

He fumbles in his wallet and pulls out the ticket. He sways a little then looks at me through narrowed eyes. “Wait – have you seen the result?”

“No. I don’t gamble. I just wanted to know if you had won.”

“That would be weird, wouldn’t it?”

“What?”

“Buying me a ticket and me winning.”

“Well, it would be nice for you, wouldn’t it?”

“’Course! But it would be weird. You buying the ticket and me winning. Your money making me money?”

“I suppose it would.”

“I wouldn’t like it,” he continues. “I’d feel that that was my money.”

“I suppose you could share the winnings. That sounds fairer, doesn’t it?”

He snorts. “Share? I dunno. I mean, the ticket was a gift. You don’t expect someone to give the gift back. ‘S rude.”

“It’s a bit of a different scenario, Philip,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Not really. For example, I wouldn’t ask for half of the book back I gave you.”

I’d happily give him the whole thing.

“No, but this is a huge amount of money.”

He nods, then leans forward. “I know! I could refund the cost of the ticket!”

He is laughing, swaying. I want to hit him.

“It’s all moot anyway, isn’t it?” he asks. “I’ve not won. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.” He punctuates his words by jabbing my chest with his index finger.

“Look, give me your ticket. I’ll hold it while you look up the numbers on your phone.”

“You look them up,” he counters. “Read them out to me? I’m a little longsighted.”

“I’ve no reception.”

“Ah. OK. Well – here you are.”

That was close.

As he Googles the Lottery website, I swap his ticket for mine. He doesn’t see a thing.

“Right. Here they are.” He reads out the winning numbers and I shake my head.

“Sorry, Philip. You didn’t get any.”

“Lemme see.”

Does he suspect me?

I hand over my ticket; his Lucky Dip is secured up my sleeve.

“18. 27. 10. 06. 23. 07. Damn.” He shakes his head. “Ah well. What are the chances?”

“45 million to one!” we say simultaneously and laugh. I stroke the winning ticket up my sleeve and start dreaming of my future.