**The Fortune**
“Why the long face? You’ll love it there, just wait. The sea, the beach, the sunshine…” said Evelyn, trying to catch her daughter’s eye.
But Lily stubbornly turned toward the window, where endless fields and low vineyards stretched out. Alongside the railway ran a motorway, dotted with toy-like cars speeding past in a blur of colour.
In the distance, the silhouettes of hills flickered in and out of view through the hazy morning light. The glare of the sun made her eyes ache. Lily checked her phone for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, then tossed it aside in irritation.
*The trials of a first love*, Evelyn thought with a sigh, though out loud she only said, “Probably no signal. It’ll be better once we’re there.”
“Mum, stop,” Lily muttered, turning back to the window.
“Martha’s house is on a hill—you can see the sea from the windows. Sometimes you can even hear it. And the garden! The air! You’ll see for yourself in a few hours.”
“Just don’t tell me she has a son,” Lily shot her mother a sharp look.
“She does. But not her own. Martha never had children. She raised someone else’s boy. He’s at university in another town. Exams are on, so you probably won’t see him.”
“You said she was your friend. How’d you meet her if she lives in Cornwall and you’re from Surrey?” Lily asked.
“Oh, now *that’s* a story. Want to hear it?”
Lily gave the slightest shrug, eyes still fixed on the monotonous landscape outside.
—
Martha and I grew up on neighbouring streets, went to school together. She wasn’t what you’d call a classic beauty, but she had this extraordinary hair—pale blonde, curly, shimmering gold in the sunlight.
Strangers always noticed her, turned their heads. I used to think some of that attention rubbed off on me too. Before our A-levels, my class went for a boat ride, then wandered through the city gardens. That’s where she met a boy and fell head over heels. We saw less of each other after that—I didn’t want to intrude. When we *did* meet, she’d talk about nothing but him.
She’d dreamed of being an actress, wanted to study at RADA in London. But love had other plans—she enrolled at the polytechnic where her Michael was studying, just to stay close. I went off to uni.
Whenever we met, we’d talk for hours. A year later, Michael proposed—right before exams. You’ve never seen anyone so radiant!
We went shopping for her dress with her mum. Tried on every last one. Martha could’ve worn a potato sack and looked stunning. Found the perfect veil, too. She insisted I needed a blue dress as her maid of honour. We were exhausted by the end—could barely think straight. Sent her mum home in a taxi with the bags while we strolled along the waterfront. Late May, warm as midsummer.
People kept glancing at Martha, though she barely noticed. We ate ice cream, giggled about the wedding, the future.
Then two Romani women approached. They’d been bothering passersby all evening. The larger one blocked our path and said to Martha,
“Oh, lovely girl, let me tell your fortune. The whole truth—what’s written for you,” she crooned.
The other woman hung back—a gaunt, hollow-cheeked thing with too-large teeth that left her mouth half-open. I remember thinking she looked like a horse. Later, Martha said she’d thought the same.
“I already know what’s waiting for me,” Martha laughed, licking her ice cream.
We tried to sidestep her, but the woman seized Martha’s wrist, studied her palm, then clicked her tongue.
“A wedding, golden one.”
“No surprise there,” Martha tried to pull free, but the woman held tight.
“We don’t want a reading. We’ve no money,” I cut in.
“Good news costs, but bad news comes free,” the woman said, sending chills down my spine.
Her eyes bored into Martha, unnervingly steady. The younger woman smirked—or maybe it was just her teeth.
“Ignore her, Martha, let’s go,” I tugged her other arm.
“Love deep, but joy short. You’ll fall from a horse at the wedding, suffer for years. The sea will heal you. Never marry again, but find happiness in a son,” the woman recited, unblinking.
Then she released Martha’s wrist and walked off. The younger one shot us a glare before scurrying after her. We were quiet for a while, the earlier gaiety gone. Those words echoed in my ears.
“You’re not *actually* taking her seriously, are you? You won’t be riding some nag in your wedding dress—we’re taking cars to the registry office. She barely glanced at your palm!” I tried to shake the mood off.
“True. No horses for me,” Martha said, snapping out of it.
“She just made up nonsense because we didn’t pay,” I said lightly, and we laughed—too loud.
The wedding was set right after exams. A seaside honeymoon followed, a gift from relatives. We forgot about the fortune.
Then the day arrived. The groom would be here any minute. We stood in Martha’s room before the mirror. She adjusted her veil and suddenly said,
“My dad calls his Land Rover ‘the steed.’ I won’t ride in it.”
“Good. Take another car,” I agreed.
“No cars at all. The registry’s close—we’ll walk,” she said, smiling at me in the mirror.
“Why not? Brides don’t promenade through town every day.” We giggled nervously.
Convincing Michael to walk was a battle. The parents protested, but Martha stood firm—walk or no wedding.
Nothing went wrong. They exchanged rings to *Wedding March*, kissed, became husband and wife. Now they could take the car. But Martha dug her heels in again—insisted on photos in the park first. And it *was* beautiful: flowerbeds in riotous bloom, arches draped in ivy.
“Let’s get you two on the carousel,” the photographer suggested.
A bright old thing with painted wooden horses. Michael helped Martha onto a white one, mounted another himself. I draped her veil just so, stepped back. The music started, the carousel turned. They reached for each other, laughing. The shutter clicked nonstop.
“Mummy, look! A bride on a white horse, like in a fairy tale!” a little girl shrieked nearby.
No one saw it happen. Martha later said her dress was slippery, the horse’s back too smooth. The girl’s shout startled her—she let go for a second. That was enough. Her heel caught between the floorboards. She toppled off the carousel.
A scream, then silence. Instead of a reception, we rode an ambulance to hospital. A badly broken ankle. The surgery went wrong. She walked with a cane after, in constant pain. Six months later, she and Michael went to a London specialist. Another operation, plaster casts, crutches.
—
“Did she get better?” Lily asked, now engaged.
“Mostly. Still limped a little.”
“And Michael?”
“Hospitals wore them both down. Martha barely left the house—ashamed of the cane, then the crutches. Told Michael she didn’t love him. They divorced. She was terrified he’d leave her first. Wanted to beat him to it.”
“And he just… left?”
“He did. Married again soon after. Real love weathers storms. First love’s often just infatuation.”
“I’ll *never* let anyone tell my fortune before a wedding,” Lily declared.
“Good. Martha fixated on avoiding that ‘horse’ at all costs. Made it worse. If she’d just taken the car…” Evelyn sighed. “But what happened, happened.”
“Did she ever remarry?”
“No. After the divorce, her parents took her to the coast. Off-season, hotels closed. They rented a room in a house by the sea—where we’re staying now.”
The owner’s daughter had run off with some tourist. Returned two years later with a baby boy, left him with her mother, and vanished again. The old woman planned to send him to foster care—too old to raise a child. Martha talked her out of it. Her parents were powerless. Martha refused to go back to the city.
Years later, the woman passed. Martha still lives there with the boy. The birth mother tried to reclaim the house, but the old lady had signed it over in time. The son wanted nothing to do with her. So they carry on—just as the fortune said. Martha found happiness with her son by the sea.
“Why tell me all this?” Lily squinted.
“So you wouldn’t ask questions later. Life seldom goes how we plan. Sometimes what seems like ruin is just a bend in the road. Love’s measured by time and distance.”
The train slowedAs the weeks passed and summer waned, Lily found herself lingering by the window each morning, watching the tides shift, no longer waiting for a message that never came, only the sound of footsteps on the gravel path and Daniel’s laugh carrying up from the garden.
