Million Dollar Que$tion
By Ellie Campbell
Genre:
Contemporary Romance, Women's Fiction, ChickLit
Out April 25, 2015
Just as a huge
financial scandal ejects Olivia Wheeler from her high-flying Manhattan job and
high-society engagement, a silver Mercedes pulls up at lonely single-mother
Rosie Dixon’s house with a cheque for one million pounds from the Premium
Bonds. Two very different strokes of luck. And yet both women
have more in common than they realize. While Olivia struggles with the
humiliations of surviving in London broke and homeless, shy unassuming Rosie
discovers that unexpected wealth arrives with its own mega-load of problems.
Can a
career-obsessed workaholic find a passion for something earthier and warmer
than cold hard cash? And can Rosie sift through envy and greed to discover true
friends, true family and even true love?
Two strangers
who've never met. Yet neither realises how each is affecting the other’s
destiny or the places their paths touch and fates entwine.
But will they
surmount the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune?
That is the million
dollar question.
Chapter One
Rosie Dixon perched
herself on the hard plastic chair, watching the drawing take shape. A line,
followed by a squiggle. Snake maybe? Then what looked like a head of a person
with ears on top. And was that a saddle on its back or—
‘Do you like it,
Miss?’ Emily asked.
‘Oh yes, it’s
good.’ Rosie smiled encouragement as the young girl plucked another crayon from
the Tupperware box and worked earnestly, tongue curled stiffly against her
cheek in concentration. ‘Extremely good. I love the bright colours you've
chosen.’
Finished, Emily
pointed at the purple object. ‘What do you think that is?’
‘Um. Let’s see.’
Rosie peered closer. It vaguely resembled a bear, although how that fitted in
with the ‘My Family at Home’ project, heaven knew. She didn't want to offend
but… ‘What’s his name?’
‘Bruno.’
Ah yes. ‘Bruno the
bear. Of course.’
‘Bear?’ The girl
shook her two perfect bunches and wrinkled her tiny freckled nose. ‘It’s not a
bear, Miss, it’s a chocolate Labrador. Mummy’s boyfriend has one. Durr…’
‘Well it’s lovely.’
Rosie stood up. ‘And I’m Rosie, remember?’
Not that Rosie
didn't appreciate being called Miss, she did. Made her feel like a teacher,
although the rather less grand title of ‘Teaching Assistant’ suited her fine.
She’d been working at Avondale Infants for eighteen months now, supporting
primary-aged pupils in classes of thirty-plus without needing to fret about
parents’ evenings, lesson plans and the mountains of paperwork expected of a
real teacher. She loved the small children and the hours meant she could still
collect her own two sons from junior school.
‘Miss?’ Max,
angelic curls disguising an impish spirit, frowned at his latest creation. ‘Can
you help me?’
‘Shove over then.’
She nudged him playfully, as she squeezed beside him. Who’d have ever thought
that she, shy little Rosie, always too timid to raise her hand in class, would
be making a difference, however small, in the world of education? Just showed
that good could come from the direst of situations. Even if it had taken a
broken heart and some other God-awful trials to get her here.
She tucked a lock
of shoulder-length hair behind her ear and handed Max a glue stick.
All things
considered she really was incredibly lucky.
$$$
Mid-morning, the
kettle in the staffroom had boiled and Rosie’s fellow teaching assistant,
Gemma, was handing round the custard creams. Also in her early thirties, Gemma
was recently divorced and had a secret obsession with The X Factor’s Simon
Cowell that Rosie was sworn, on pain of death, never to reveal.
‘Anyone got an
astrophysics degree?’ Carol, teacher of Orange Class, leafed through a stack of
forms, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Certainly need one to fill in all these bloody risk
assessments. Talk about ’elf and safety!’
Rosie joined in the
laughter as she dropped a teabag in a smiley face mug. She was about to ask her
colleagues, flopped onto chairs for their short break, if they were all right
for beverages when Pauline Dawkins, Admin Officer, sidled up, a giant birthday
card tucked under one paisley-clad arm.
‘Barry’s fiftieth.
Whip-round,’ she hissed, spy-like from the corner of her mouth, as if the sole
male teacher might burst in and discover the dastardly plot. ‘Drinks and cake
at four.’
Pauline took her
charge of The Birthday Book extremely seriously. Rosie had suffered the same
ordeal when she’d turned thirty-three in March.
‘Oh, I’d love to be
there, but I've my sons to pick up.’ Dutifully she scribbled, ‘Have a great day,
Barry!’ unable to conjure anything witty or mildly original.
The envelope under
her nose was stuffed with pound coins and larger notes. Rosie opened her
ancient leatherette handbag, pushed aside her soggy egg sandwich and peeked
inside her purse.
A lonely fiver lay
folded next to a single fifty pence piece.
Her heart sank.
That cash had to last the next two days until her monthly salary reached her
bank. The twins, being eleven, always needed money for this or that and
Charlie’s cheque was late again.
But then again poor
Barry had recently lost his wife. Fifty pence seemed so stingy and she’d never
dare offer the five pound note and ask for change.
There was an
uncomfortable beat. Rosie’s fingers froze. Nobody was paying attention but
still damp pooled in her armpits and along her hairline, her insecurities
running rampant under Pauline’s scrutiny.
Was she assessing
the havoc a runaway husband could create? Maybe worse – thinking it no wonder
he’d strayed? If Rosie had once felt young, pretty and loved, it had all
vanished with the end of her marriage. She cursed herself for not finding
something smarter to wear than the skanky black cords pilled from the washing
machine and a faded cotton blouse (Selfridges Sale 70% off) which sagged where it
used to cling. And she’d totally messed up her hair attempting to add subtle
honey-gold streaks from a Superdrug box to her mousy-brown frizz and ended up
with tiger stripes instead.
Blow it, she
thought, and handed over the fiver with a flourish, smiling to silence the
warning pang from her gut.
‘Ta ever so.’
Pauline stuffed the note in the envelope. ‘We want to buy him a special
present. Poor devil’s all on his lonesome…’ She broke off, fiddling with the
plastic ID badge dangling from her neck. ‘I didn't mean…well, it’s different
for you with those darling boys, never a dull minute in your house, I’m sure.’
Her eyes fired with matchmaking zeal. ‘Now there’s a thought. Don’t suppose you
and Barry…?’
‘No. Really.’ Rosie
tried looking appreciative instead of appalled. Bearded bespectacled Barry was
even more tortuously shy than Rosie and any attempts to speak made him extra
nervous. They only had to reach the kettle at the same time and Rosie could
feel her hands sweat, watching him twitch and stammer. As for fireworks,
there’d be more sparks with two squibs in a rainstorm.
‘Just an idea.’
Pauline shrugged it off. She was basically a kind woman, Rosie thought,
whatever catty things people said – just maybe a touch too blunt for the
fragile sensitivities of a mostly female environment. And it must be
excruciating asking people to hand over cash.
Pauline left to
corner someone else and Rosie slumped onto an empty seat, tea forgotten. Two
years since Charlie had walked out and no one – except Rosie in the secret
corners of her soul – believed he was ever coming back. The beautiful home
they’d spent ages lovingly doing up had been sold, Rosie and the boys now
installed in a tatty two-bed terrace in a scruffy housing estate, where luckily
the neighbours had welcomed her as one of their own.
Better off without
him, everyone declared. What self-respecting woman stayed with a cheat after
all? Outraged friends wanted him to suffer and occasionally Rosie did too. Not
in a nasty, vengeful way, but at least to experience a few twinges of her own
devastation.
She had fantasies
in which he came crawling back, grief-stricken over what he’d carelessly tossed
aside. She’d imagine herself on the arm of Colin Farrell, wearing a fiery-red
figure-hugging dress, strikingly elegant, flawlessly made-up, her belly flat
and her legs mysteriously three inches longer. She’d be ice-cool, telling him
it was too late but usually in these daydreams – and she knew it was wrong –
just as Charlie left, dejected, her stony heart would relent, she’d apologise
to Colin, kick off her heels and run to Charlie’s joyful arms.
Other times her
sleep betrayed her. She’d walk in the kitchen to find Charlie cooking spaghetti
bolognese, wearing only a chef’s apron and an endearingly rueful smile. Silly
stuff. Like last night – they’d sat in the bath together, him soaping her back.
So convincing was this dream that in the morning she’d lazily stretched out her
arm to him, forgetting that his side of the bed was empty and cold. He’d been
her best friend and lover for so long. Not easy persuading her subconscious to
switch from love to hate. Or even indifference. And he’d been such a caring
father to Luke and Tim. Were they truly ‘better off without him’?
Determined not to
submerge into despondency, she jumped up and tackled the backlog of crockery
clogging the staffroom kitchenette.
Damn. She’d thought
she’d got past all those predictable emotional stages, familiar to her as
commuter stations. Denial. Shock. Anger. Depression. Last stop – Guilt – where
she still lingered, scolding herself for not leaping to action the second
Charlie’s secretary warned her about the female customer who showed more
interest in the showroom’s Sales Manager than the vehicles on sale.
And why hadn't she?
Jumped? Leapt? Fought?
Because it had been
unthinkable. Laughable even. With the red flag flapping inches from her face,
Rosie had brushed it away with a smile, too certain of her husband to fall for
that alarmist nonsense. This was Charlie, after all, her soul mate, who’d
rescued her in her darkest hours, made her believe in her own worth after years
of her mother’s jibes. He loved her even if she had grown two dress sizes
finishing the kids’ meals, barely ever wore make-up, slumped around the home in
baggy sweatshirts and couldn't stay awake to watch an entire film when the boys
were finally in bed.
‘…first out. Hey,
what’s so fascinating about that sponge? You've been staring at it ages.’
Rosie hadn't
realised Gemma had joined her at the sink, let alone that she’d been speaking.
‘Sorry, Gem.’ She
came out of her daze. ‘What was that?’
‘I was saying that
as long as it’s not last in, first out, ’cos technically speaking…’ Gemma
pushed her glasses up her nose and gave Rosie a meaningful glance before
picking up a tea towel.
‘Technically
speaking…?’
Gemma sighed as she
wiped a saucer. ‘Rosie, you dingbat, did you hear a word I said? That meeting
with the union reps yesterday, Carol’s just filled me in. They’re talking staff
cuts. Redundancies. Teaching assistants in particular. Some of us – God knows
how many – are for the chop!’
So here we are planning
our imaginary dream cast for our brand-new novel Million Dollar Question.
Which, it turns out, is a whole lot of fun and yet harder than you would think,
even if we don’t have to cough up for big Hollywood star salaries. But anyway
here we go. Gosh, we really want to see this movie now.
Olivia Wheeler
Red-haired, foxy,
somewhat mercenary and ambitious, she’s a financial whiz kid, living in New
York until she loses her job and her fortune. Amy Adams jumps to mind. Right
age, right coloring and after starring in Shopaholic and Leap Year we know
she’s good at playing someone driven, uptight, and uppity that you enjoy seeing
taken down a peg. Plus she’s funny.
Rosie Dixon
Definitely more of
a challenge. Rosie a mother of twins, very sweet, unassuming, insecure and shy
and pining for her ex-husband. Don’t want anyone too overly sexy and confident,
like Cameron Diaz, and hard to imagine Kate Winslett playing anyone that
vulnerable. But Rachel McAdams would be a great choice. She’s pretty without
being unrealistically glamorous. She’s got a great acting range and could still
be believable as a normal British housewife.
Charlie Dixon
Rosie’s ex-husband, a good-looking car salesman,
who has left her and her sons for another woman. We absolutely have to pick
Jude Law. He has the perfect blend of roguish unscrupulous charm. The man
who swept her off her feet and who she is desperate to win back even if he
‘done her wrong’.
Alex
The rugged Scot
Rosie meets in Marbella and then again in Skye. Ewan MacGregor – who else could
it be? He’s sexy but in a very real, manly way – not conventional movie star
handsome but incredibly appealing and a great actor. He’d look quite at home
tramping across the heather or winning Rosie over with his boy next door
friendliness while perhaps hiding ulterior motives.
Zac
Zac is a gorgeous wicked womanizer, able to
sweep a woman off his feet with his piratical devil-may-care charm. He’s an
unabashed bad boy. Hugh Grant would have been perfect in his day, (or Colin
Farrell if not too old), but we have picked a different Hugh – Hugh Dancy. He
has Zac’s combination of dark hair and striking eyes, although Zac’s are blue
so perhaps contact lenses. Have to say Hugh Dancy is also head-turningly
beautiful.
Marcus
Zac’s brother.
Marcus is an independent documentary film-maker, in turns serious, intense,
funny, idealistic, enthusiastic. We love the idea of Jim Sturgess for the part.
At least one of us has had a crush on him ever since he starred in the
Beatle-inspired musical Across The Universe and he has an appealing twinkle in
his eye while being incredibly soulful. And he has the crazy sticky-up hair of
a mad genius.
Anya
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