Hello loyal readers. As promised, the first chapter is written and ready for prying eyes, more or less. I just want to note a few things that I am happy about first.
1. I am remarkably over word count.
2. I have somehow managed to conquer my fear of writing dialogue, even if it is not necessarily good.
3. I actually have a chapter done that I don't hate, though I may have broken my own rules and edited very slightly so as to feel somewhat less embarrassed when others read it.
Enjoy.
Chapter 1
As Tim walked out the door of the hotel, he moved one degree quicker than would be expected of a man on vacation. While his tacky shirt and shorts would have immediately signalled him out as a foreigner, there was something hurried both in his dress and manner that might give a careful observer pause. Luckily for him, in a city of millions, at the peak of tourist season, no one did. Not that there was much to look at really, Tim was remarkably unremarkable in almost all respects.
As he stepped out onto Boulevard Saint-Michelle the heat was already oppressive, particularly for early morning and the throngs of loud, camera wielding tourists didn’t help matters. He could see why no Parisian who had any choice in the matter was still in the city. The combination of rushed travel, jet lag and a decidedly uncomfortable French bed produced a disorienting sensation so much so that he had to take a minute to get his bearings, despite having walked the street many times before. He headed towards the river hoping to get some respite, however brief, from both crowds and heat.
The Seine did offer distraction if not relief. As Tim turned the corner onto the street running parallel to it, he was greeted with the usual summer bazaar of merchants selling everything from old French classics to knick knacks of every imaginable variety. Of course there was the usual tourist trinkets present in every European city, but there were also the distinctly Parisian items, particularly the collection of magazines some of which would make even a liberal North American tourist blush. But that was part of the unique charm of the city, offering up bawdy authenticity to all passers-by without any sense of shame. One could certainly have an entertaining morning just sitting en terrace with a cold drink and watching the reactions of the tourists as they tried not to look shocked at the scandalous material, while simultaneously scooting their children on to the snow globes and fuzzy Asterix dolls at the next stall.
As he walked briskly along the river, to the extent one can through crowds of people, he surveyed the shops for a newspaper stand and a coffee shop. Despite the plethora of stores, he had to walk for a ways before he found anywhere that might possibly have sitting room as every shop was doing its best to entice the tourists with the kind of charm and ambiance present in a light up Eiffel Tower that sings La Marseillaise. While this may have been exactly what most tourists were looking for, Tim needed somewhere quiet where he would not be disturbed.
Finally he found a newspaper stand a couple streets down that catered to tourists. Though the man at the shop couldn’t immediately say which Canadian papers he carried, a few minutes searching revealed both The Globe and Mail and The National Post. Tim thanked the man and paid him while politely refused supplications to purchase magazines featuring “the most beautiful French girls.”
Newspapers in hand, Tim took a side street away from the river in search of a café off the beaten path that might offer some privacy and quiet along with his latte. After a few blocks, he found a small shop offering an assortment of baked goods and coffee. It was not charming or even particularly clean looking, but it did afford him refuge from the tourists and hopefully, a chance to get to work.
Finding a free table in the back he set his papers down, took off his vest and sat down. The man behind the counter seemed far more interested in the football match playing on a small TV in the corner than making coffee, which suited Tim just fine.
He started with the National Post and looked through it slowly, one page at a time, scanning headlines and captions. Nothing in the first few pages, it appeared his subject of interest was not front page news. Just to be sure, he kept scanning through the other sections until he came to the sports and classifieds, which clearly would be no help. He tossed the paper onto another chair and began the same task with The Globe and Mail.
At first it seemed a similarly futile task as the press seemed preternaturally preoccupied with the usual drivel about which politician was going to create a better future for our children and, of equal importance, which pop star had discovered the secret to diet-free weight loss. But on page four, a brief article with a picture of a smiling idiot holding up an oversized cheque caught his attention. He quickly scanned the text of the article to find the words he was looking for and, a few lines into the text, he found them.
“Vancouver local Jeremy Evans woke up on Thursday morning expecting it to be like any other day, but a stop at his local drug store changed all that. ‘You always keep hoping, but you never really expect it to happen to you,’ said Evans, commenting on his spectacular $50.3 million dollar win on the 649.”
Tim’s body relaxed noticeably and his face almost betrayed a slight smile, though he was ever conscious of betraying the cause of his relief. He carefully folded up the page and slipped it into his vest pocket, discarding the rest. Looking over at the man behind the counter, Tim decided he would rather get his coffee elsewhere anyway. He got up, put on his vest and quietly slipped out.
Cutting up along Boulevard Saint-Germaine he headed back the way he had come until he hit Boulevard Saint-Michelle and turned left, heading for one of his favourite spots in the city. Passing numerous stores of all varieties, Tim happily noted that the tourist herd had thinned out in this direction, probably because it was neither right beside the Seine, nor at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. It was only by chance and boredom that he himself had discovered the spot he was now headed. He quickened his pace in anticipation of an escape from the heat into the quiet bliss of the Jardin du Luxembourg.
For all of the many faults that the French possess, one could not accuse them of neglecting their public parks. The Luxembourg Garden is very likely one of the nicest parks in the city. The garden itself surrounds a palace built in the 1600s by the widow of Henry IV. It now houses the French senate, which is perhaps why the garden itself is in such impeccable shape. Regardless, it remains one of the nicer parks in a city of nice parks, complete with benches in the shade. This was what Tim was hoping to take advantage of, a quiet spot to think and contemplate his next move.
As he neared the park, he noticed a series of buses pulled up beside it with a stream of British retirees milling about and chatting. Hoping that the group was headed in another direction, Tim ventured onwards towards a particular set of benches nestled in the shade beside an old duck pond. Unfortunately he was not the only one who was seeking tranquillity on such a hot day. The benches were covered in an assortment of tourists reading, eating sandwiches, talking about how picturesque it all was and above all ruining any ambiance there might have previously been. Though he was determined to find somewhere quiet, he also noted that he never had gotten his morning coffee and as it was nearing lunch time, so he postponed his search and instead looked for somewhere to grab a sandwich.
He didn’t have to travel far before hitting Cybercafé Luxembourg, an internet café that served basic sandwiches, cold drinks and even passable coffee to keep its patrons alive and awake amidst their online gaming.
He walked in and paid for a half hour of internet time along with a coffee and Croque Monsieur Sandwich, which would be brought out to him at his computer. Apparently the patrons of the café found it too taxing to leave their screens for even the briefest of moments, regardless of nutritional needs. Tim chose a spot a little ways away from the loudest of the game players, beside a young woman typing frantically and an older man playing hearts. He sat down and logged in to the computer with the information he had been given at the desk and, a few moments later, the familiar windows start-up music played. All the applications were helpfully labelled in English, though the keyboard layout was a little different than he was used to. He managed to open up his email successfully, despite his tendency to enter a € when he wanted a backslash.
No one of great importance had written to him. In addition to the usual newsletters and advertisements he had one from a colleague advising him that a project deadline had been postponed and another from eBay saying that he had been outbid on the pair of Doc Martins that he had been after. He considered writing some emails about his trip, but decided it would raise too many questions. He hadn’t exactly told most people that he was going, beyond informing his work of his absence. While he wanted to be out of the country for a few days, he also didn’t want to explain why he was away so instead he closed off his email and opened up the New York Times website instead.
Shortly thereafter his coffee and sandwich arrived. While the coffee was quite clearly from a pouch of Nescafe, the sandwich was surprisingly good. It seemed like the café had some kind of arrangement with the local bakery and deli as everything tasted as if it had been brought in fresh that morning. The emmental was perfectly melted and the ham was tender and not chewy. Altogether a very pleasant experience and he certainly appreciated it after being out in the sun. The café was not exactly cool, but it was better than outside. He even found that he could block out the sounds of orcs and elves coming from the other monitors long enough to appreciate that he was in Paris, albeit not the part highlighted in brochures. Tim spent the remainder of his time reading news sites until his 30 minutes had expired. Finally, he decided it was time to move on.
As he walked out of the café, a thought occurred to him. In a city full of camera wielding tourists, there was at least one place that he could find peace and quiet. With that in mind, Tim started off further down Boulevard Saint-Michelle and after several blocks he turned off onto a small side street and walked a ways further until he saw what he was looking for.
On the corner of the adjacent street was an old church, crumbling with age but simultaneously breathtaking. As this was off the beaten path and old churches are a dime a dozen in Paris, Tim felt confident that he would not be bothered by too many tourists, and as the sway of organized religion in the French capital was in continual decline, he could be sure not many of the devout would likely be there mid-week either.
What Tim didn’t account for was that due to his accurate assumptions, the church was not quite as easy to get into as he had hoped. He walked up the steps to the main double doors and pulled on the handles. Though the wood creaked a little, neither one would open. Not easily deterred, he walked around the side of the building and found a smaller door, but it too was firmly locked. Continuing around the structure, Tim surveyed all possible manner of entrance and exit but found himself rebuffed. Though he was tired from walking and not terribly keen on searching out another church, he didn’t see many other options. He sat down on a nearby bench for a minute to collect his thoughts and determine where to head next.
While he was weighing his options he looked at the old building, impressed. Tim would not have identified himself as a man of faith, but he did have a certain respect for those that possessed it. He felt there was something incredibly appealing about having that degree of certainty about anything in the world. The building itself was a testament to an unshakable confidence in the divine, so much so that ordinary selfish people somehow came together to build architecturally astounding edifices as a symbol of what they were confident existed just beyond the clouds. The idea held a certain allure, even if it seemed a little simplistic. Tim was strangely jealous of those who could be so certain.
As he was considering these things, he spotted a priest out of the corner of his eye approaching the side door of the church. Seizing the opportunity, he walked over and enquired about going inside. At first, the priest seemed confused and then later suspicious as to why this man was so insistent on seeing his church. Surely he was looking for Notre Dame or perhaps Sacre Coeur? They are much larger and grander than this old building, the priest explained, there really isn’t anything much to see here so tourists usually don’t even bother giving it a second glance.
But that was precisely the appeal to Tim and, after considerable pleading in imperfect French, the priest finally granted his request and let him in, though he stood close by and watching, not entirely convinced Tim should be left alone. The inside of the church was quite small; deceptively so given the facade outside. Though it possessed the typical towering ceilings of the era, there was only room for twelve pews, a rather modest pulpit, and an organ at the side with huge pipes that dwarfed the rest of the structure. Most of the stonework and stained glass had faded and worn over the years and it was evident that restoration was not a priority. Likely there wasn’t the money for it even if it had been and, judging by the priest’s manner, there didn’t seem to be much of a regular congregation. Nevertheless, from Tim’s perspective the building was exactly what he was looking for. It offered quiet and an opportunity to collect his thoughts and process the last few days.
It really had only been a few days. Tim glanced at his watch. It was just after two o’clock on Friday. This time on Wednesday he had been living a rather ordinary, if not altogether unsatisfying life. It was not until later that evening that he happened to be watching the news when the anchor was speaking about the substantial flurry of lottery purchases that day due to the unusual size of that week's jackpot. Tim remembered that he had bought a ticket for the draw earlier in the week, primarily because he needed change for the bus and the store had a ‘no change without purchase’ policy in place.
As the news was not terribly compelling that evening, he decided to check his email and at the same time, just for the hell of it, look up the winning numbers on the BC Lottery website. He got his ticket from out of his jacket pocket and logged in to his computer to bring up the right page. After it had loaded and he closed all the pop-up ads demanding his attention, he clicked on the link to bring up the numbers from that night’s draw.
As he started comparing the winning numbers to his own he was a bit surprised to notice that the first three he checked matched. Tim was not exactly a lucky man by nature and in his experience winning even a free ticket was cause for celebration. But as he continued checking, he was surprised to find that the next number matched as well, as did the following two. He had to read over the numbers again a few times to make sure he hadn’t missed something. Surely he must be missing something. He checked the date on the ticket, Wednesday, August 18th, 2010, the same as the date on the website. Tim Harding was a multi-millionaire.
Looking back it was difficult to remember all the thoughts he had at that moment as they seemed to come and go with such dizzying speed. For some reason, though he had bought several tickets over the years, Tim hadn’t ever seriously considered the possibility of winning. Sure, he had sat around with friends and talked about the mansion and sports car he’d buy and the exotic trips he take and so forth if he were rich, but only in the way people talk about what they would do if they were President, the kind of discussions that are had late at night in coffee shops when the topics of today’s weather and local sports team victories have been exhausted. Tim now allowed himself to indulge in some of these dreams knowing he was no longer planning some far-fetched what if scenario, but rather considering possibilities soon to be entering his grasp.
Then one thought stopped all the others. As the reality of his good fortune was setting in, Tim’s mind gradually moved from the spectacular to the practical, as it was accustomed to do. Winning the lottery didn’t just mean millions of dollars; it meant swarms of publicity, immediate addition to every charity list, general harassment and requests from everyone he had ever met. Suddenly the image of relaxing on the deck of his yacht with a cocktail melted into a phone ringing ceaselessly; friends, family, and distant acquaintances constantly making requests and badgering him indefinitely. And then there was everything that comes with having your name in the paper from kidnapping threats to gold diggers and likely many things Tim couldn’t even contemplate.
For some, life in the limelight is a desirable thing, but for Tim it would be unbearable. He would have to find a way to avoid this seemingly inevitable deluge of uninvited interest. He resolved to find a lawyer familiar in such matters to see if there was some way out of the seemingly clear terms and conditions of the 649: you must agree to have your name, city of residence and picture published in the paper alongside your winnings. But perhaps there were legal ways around these conditions. With some creative thinking and knowledge of precedent, perhaps Tim could have his prize without all the publicity. Either way, there was certainly nothing he could do himself. He endeavoured to research law firms specializing in these matters in the morning and decided to go to bed.
Of course sleep proved quite illusive that night. Alternating thoughts of a lavish life and perpetual hounding by the press captured his thoughts. He still could not be sure that he was not dreaming, in fact it seemed more likely than the alternative. He thought about his family and friends and tried to picture how he would change in their eyes once he was a millionaire. Would they ask for money or insist on paying for everything? Would they try to ingratiate themselves to him or grow more distant? These questions and many others seemed quite impossible to answer. He likely would not know until the situation actually arose.
If these thoughts weren’t enough, he was plagued with questions of responsibility. Should he be giving the money away? What about saving? How much should go to family and friends? Did he really want a big house and expensive cars? What about travel? As he wrestled with all these questions in his head, his body eventually gave in to sleep and, though it may not have been entirely restful, Tim was able to leave the questions until morning. As he drifted off, he promised himself that whatever happened, he would not be like the lottery winners he had read about that were flat broke and friendless after a few years. He would be a success story. Somehow, he would find a way to beat the odds.
-
Tim awoke to his alarm at 6:30am as it was always set so he could have comfortable time to get ready for work. Usually he would hit the snooze button a few times and not get out of bed until at least 6:45am. Even then, it was a long and laborious process. Tim was by no means a morning person and made no attempt to be. Prior to his first coffee, he was operating on a very grumpy, occasionally profanity-ridden auto-pilot. He had perfected his knowledge of his apartment so that he could operate almost entirely by touch and sound, allowing him to keep his eyes at least half closed until he got out the door. The shower was his priority; breakfast an afterthought if he somehow managed to get ready with time to spare.
This particular morning Tim was not intending to go into work, however, he was so set in his routine that he was on his way out the door before he remembered. Slowly, he turned around and went over to his computer, which was already on, as usual. He put a search into Google for “Vancouver law firms lottery”. The page came up with several names: Henderson, Abrams and Associates, Wilson & Wilson LLP, James Conroy, Attorney; stretching on to the bottom of the page and beyond. The search also returned less useful results on various lotteries of dubious repute. Unfortunately, none of the firms made it terribly clear whether they actually had any background in lottery winners or not. Tim wrote down the phone numbers for the five most credible sounding firms, which is mostly to say those that had a budget to make their websites look like they hadn’t been designed by a 15 year old in his parents’ basement.
He tried Henderson, Abrams and Associates and a very chipper female voice answered the phone.
“Good morning! Henderson, Abrams and Associates, how can I be of assistance?”
“I have some legal questions regarding the lottery and was wondering what kind of experience your firm had in that area,” Tim replied.
There was a pause at the other end of the line, as if the voice was processing this information.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know that sir, but if you would like to book an appointment, Mr. Stirling could see you on the 27th.”
Tim was a little disappointed, “I was actually looking for something a little sooner than that. Thanks for your time,” he said, hanging up the phone.
He went down the list and tried The Feinstein Group; Sapperton, Ramirez and Chang; Adrian Grant Law Practice; and finally, James Conroy, Attorney. The conversations went much the same: everyone was very busy, but would be happy to schedule an appointment next month. Adrian Grant Law Practice apparently only dealt with criminal litigation, but would be happy to refer him to a list of other practices that might be able to help. As it turned out the list seemed to just be a recap of what Tim had already looked at.
Finally, after a substantial amount of time and energy, Tim was able to reach James Conroy, who must have been fairly new to the business as he was answering his own phone.
“James Conroy speaking,” a tired sounding voice answered.
“Hello Mr. Conroy, my name is Tim Harding and I have some legal questions regarding the Canadian lottery system, is that something you have experience with?”
“Well, I have worked with a few lottery winners in estate and trust planning. I had a cancellation for 11am today if you want to come in and see me,” James replied.
Tim considered this for a moment. Never having dealt with a lawyer before, he didn’t really know how to judge competence in the field, but this one had the advantage of actually answering his phone and being willing to meet, which put him miles ahead of the other firms. He decided it was better than his alternative, which was not to consult a lawyer at all.
“That would be great, thanks. You are at 455 Georgia?” Tim enquired.
“Yes, Suite 2700. See you at 11 Mr. Harding.”
Click. Tim was happy to have set up an appointment, even if he didn’t know precisely what to expect. He hadn’t entirely decided what he was going to tell his work for the long term, but for the moment he decided to take the end of the week off. He made a quick phone call into work to advise them he wouldn’t be in the next two days and then proceeded to go through his appointment calendar to cancel the few appointments he had booked. That done, he decided to go out and get some breakfast and maybe stop by the gym before his appointment.
Having not yet eaten, Tim was feeling quite hungry and it was getting close to ten o’clock. He decided to walk up to the Tim Hortons a few blocks away and grab a coffee and bagel. The walk over was pleasant and reminded Tim of what everyone saw in Vancouver. When it was sunny and warm, it really was one of the most beautiful cities in the world. As he strolled over, he passed by several joggers and dog walkers.
The line up was quite reas as it was now mid-morning. Most Vancouverites had already had their first, if not second coffees hours ago and so it was only the late breakfast crowd waiting. He ordered an extra large Double-Double and a blueberry bagel, toasted with cream cheese and sat down at a free table. As he enjoyed his morning meal he contemplated the gym.
Tim was not exactly a gym aficionado. He invariably made resolutions to go and then promptly forgot, for the most part. A few months ago in an atypical rush of motivation, he had even bought an annual pass and so far, used it exactly 4 times. It wasn’t that he was unmotivated, he just really, really didn’t want to go. After considering the matter, he decided he would go after his appointment. After all, he didn’t want to arrive sweaty to the law firm and there wasn’t really enough time for a proper workout now anyway. Pleased with himself for having resolved the issue, he finished his bagel and took his coffee with him and walked back home.
Once he got home, Tim double checked the address and cross street and changed into a nice suit. He made looked in the mirror to make sure he was looking reasonably presentable and headed out the door. As the appointment was downtown he decided to catch a bus rather than drive so he wouldn’t have to deal with the frustrations of downtown traffic and downtown parking.
Remarkably, the bus arrived promptly and was relatively empty, allowing Tim to find a seat near the back and look out the window. He enjoyed watching the morning routine of the city change as the bus passed through different neighbourhoods. As it turned down fourth avenue and entered Kits, he watched the many Yoga devotes, decked out in the latest stretchy pants and yoga mats, headphones in ear, in some cases with designer baby strollers and equally fashionable offspring. Turning onto the Granville bridge, he was allowed a spectacular view of false creek and the downtown core. Many people had taken advantage of the weather and were out on the water in an assortment of sailboats, canoes, kayaks, and yachts, and one of the Alaska cruise ships was docked in the harbour. Entering downtown the scene changed to people walking purposefully in suits, drinking their Starbucks and typing on their Blackberry, or iPhone, or in one particularly impressive case, both.
As the bus approached Georgia street, Tim got up from his seat and waited at the door as the bus came to a stop. He got off and walked the block and a half to his destination. It was a tall, non-descript office tower, filled with lawyers, accountants, and other business professionals of various kinds. He took the elevator up to the 27th floor and knocked on the door of James Conroy, Attorney.
James answered the door and offered Tim a seat. He was a tall, blond haired man in his mid to late thirties. He wore a dark blue suit with a white shirt and a pale blue tie. His office was full, but not disorganized. In addition to the usual plaques on the wall, filing cabinets and book shelves, James had a large map pinned up in one corner with about 30 pushpins placed mostly in North and South America with a smattering in Western Europe. Tim sat down and began speaking.
“First of all, I need to make sure that anything I say to you is entirely confidential, otherwise this won't work,” Tim began.
“Well, generally yes. Our conversation would be protected under Attorney-Client Privilege, unless what you tell me constitutes a crime, would endanger the public, or be essential in proving someone’s innocence,” James responded.
Tim felt comforted, at least he wasn’t risking his privacy in this conversation. He tried to collect his thoughts for a moment.
“Let’s say that someone won the 649, but didn’t want their name in the paper. Is there a legal way of avoiding all that publicity?”
James responded in a confident manner, “Well, yes and no. Legally speaking, part of the contract of winning the grand prize in the 649 is that the lottery corporation has the right to publish your name, city of residence, and a recent photograph. But let me ask you a question. Has this person who won the 649 signed their ticket?”
Tim realized that in all his other considerations, he had not even considered signing his ticket. He was slightly hesitant to admit this, but did so he could hear his legal options.
“Well then,” James responded, “technically speaking, that person could sell the ticket in exchange for an interest in the prize money. As an example, let’s say this person won $10 million, he could offer to sell the ticket for $9.5 million, essentially paying whoever bought it half a million dollars in exchange for having their name rather than the original owner’s in the paper.”
This sounded to Tim like a very reasonable sacrifice to make in order to protect his privacy, “So, how would this person go about finding such a person to sell the ticket to?”
“As it happens, I have some experience in these matters, and judging by your questions I am going to make the assumption that this person that we are talking about is you. In exchange for one percent of the prize money, I would facilitate the transaction, ensure the legitimacy of the contract, and secure a willing buyer. Is this something you would be interested in?”
And so, Tim had agreed to the conditions and produced the ticket, after getting the contract signed. James advised that to ensure a total lack of publicity for himself, it would be best for him not to be in the country when the claimant came forward.
So Tim went home, packed his bags, and headed to the airport, buying a standby ticket to Paris. James would conduct the transaction and facilitate wiring Tim the money into a bank account in Hong Kong, from which he would have full access.
As Tim considered all of this, still sitting in the church in Paris, his phone began to vibrate. He quickly went outside to take the call.
“Tim? It is done. The money has been wired, you can come back home.”
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