The Fortune
“Stop sulking, will you? You’ll love it there, just wait and see. The sea, the beach, the sunshine—” Emma said, anxiously trying to catch her daughter’s eye.
But Lily stubbornly turned back to the window, where endless fields and low vineyards stretched beyond the train tracks. The motorway ran parallel, dotted with toy-like cars speeding past in the morning haze.
In the distance, the silhouettes of hills flickered in and out of view, blurred by the shimmering heat. The sun was so bright it made her eyes ache. Lily checked her phone for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, then tossed it aside with a huff.
*Teenage heartache, that’s all it is,* Emma thought with a sigh, but out loud, she said, “Probably no signal here. We’ll get coverage soon.”
“Mum, enough,” Lily muttered, turning back to the window.
“Martha’s house is on a hill—you can see the sea from every window. Sometimes you can even hear it. And the garden! The air there is just—” Emma prattled on. “You’ll see for yourself in a few hours.”
“Please don’t tell me she’s got a son,” Lily snapped, shooting her mother a sharp look.
“She does. But not biologically. Martha couldn’t have children of her own, so she raised someone else’s. He’s at uni in another town—exams right now, so you probably won’t meet him.”
“You said she’s your oldest friend. How’d you even meet if she lives down south and you’re from Surrey?” Lily asked.
“Oh, that’s a story. Want to hear it?”
Lily shrugged slightly, eyes still fixed on the monotonous landscape rushing past.
***
Martha and I grew up on neighbouring streets, went to the same school. She wasn’t exactly a beauty, but her hair was something else—pale blonde, curly, gleaming gold in the sun.
Everyone noticed her. And I liked that some of that attention spilled my way. Before our A-levels, our class went on a boat trip along the Thames, then wandered Hyde Park. That’s where she met this bloke and fell head over heels. We saw less of each other after that—I didn’t want to intrude. Whenever we *did* meet, all she talked about was him.
She’d dreamt of being an actress, wanted to audition for RADA. But love won out—she enrolled at Imperial, where he was studying, just to stay close. I went to King’s College.
When we *did* meet, we’d talk for hours. A year later, just before finals, he proposed. I’d never seen her so happy.
We went dress shopping with her mum—tried on every style in every shop. Martha looked flawless in all of them. Picked out a veil, too. She insisted I have a pale blue dress as her maid of honour. By the end, we were knackered—completely overwhelmed. Sent her mum home in a cab with the bags, then decided to stroll along the South Bank. Late May, warm as summer.
People kept turning to look at her. She was radiant. But she barely noticed, too busy licking her ice cream and giggling about wedding plans.
Then these two Romani women approached—had been harassing passers-by all evening. A heavyset one blocked our path, smiling at Martha.
“Ah, pretty thing, let me tell your fortune. The whole truth, love,” she crooned.
The other stood back—scrawny, sharp-faced, mouth half-open like a horse. (Martha later admitted she’d thought the same.)
“I already *know* my future,” Martha laughed, swirling her ice cream.
We tried to step around her, but the woman grabbed Martha’s wrist, peered at her palm, then clicked her tongue.
“A wedding awaits you, golden girl.”
“Tell me something I *don’t* know,” Martha said, tugging her arm free.
“We’ve no money for this,” I cut in.
“Good news costs, but bad news comes free,” the woman muttered—gave me chills.
She stared hard at Martha, almost *hypnotising* her. The younger one smirked (or maybe that was just her teeth).
“Don’t listen, Martha, let’s go,” I urged, pulling her away.
“You’ll love deeply, but not for long. You’ll fall from a horse on your wedding day, be gravely ill. The sea will heal you. Never marry again. But you’ll find joy in a son.”
Then she just… walked off. The girl shot us a glare and scurried after her. We walked in silence, the earlier giddiness gone. Those words clung to my ears.
“Martha, you’re not *actually* buying this, are you? You’re not about to ride some knackered old nag in your wedding dress. We’ve got cars booked for the registry office. She barely *looked* at your palm!”
“You’re right. No horses for me,” Martha said, snapping out of it.
“She’s just bitter we didn’t pay,” I joked, and we laughed it off.
The wedding was set for right after exams. A seaside honeymoon followed—gifted by relatives. We forgot about the fortune-teller.
Then came the big day. Groom due any minute. We were in Martha’s room, adjusting her veil, when she suddenly said:
“My dad calls his Land Rover ‘The Stallion’. I’m not getting in that thing.”
“Fair. Take another car,” I agreed.
“No cars at all. The registry’s close—we’ll *walk*,” she announced, grinning at me in the mirror.
“Brilliant. How often do you see a bride strolling through London in full gear?” We giggled nervously.
Convincing Michael to walk took work. Parents objected, but Martha wouldn’t budge—either they walked, or no wedding.
Everything went fine. Under Mendelsohn’s march, they exchanged rings, kissed, became husband and wife. *Now* they could take the cars. But Martha dug her heels in again—insisted on photos in Regent’s Park first. And it *was* stunning: flowerbeds in riotous colour, arches tangled with vines.
“Hop on the merry-go-round—great shot!” the photographer said.
Brightly painted wooden horses spun past. Michael helped Martha onto a white one, mounted another himself. I arranged her dress and veil just so, then stepped back. The music started, the carousel whirled. They reached for each other, laughing. The photographer clicked away.
“Mummy, look! A bride on a white horse, like a fairy tale!” a little girl shrieked.
No one saw it happen. Later, Martha said the satin dress was slippery, the horse’s back too smooth. The girl’s shout startled her—she let go for a second, and that was enough. Her stiletto caught in the floorboards. She toppled off, hit the ground hard.
A scream. Then silence.
Instead of a reception, we took an ambulance to A&E. Badly fractured ankle. Surgery went wrong. She needed a cane after, then crutches. The pain never fully left. Six months later, they went to a specialist in Edinburgh—another op, more plaster, more crutches.
***
“Did she recover?” Lily asked, now hooked.
“Mostly. Still limped a little.”
“And Michael?”
“All those hospitals… Martha stopped going out, ashamed of the cane, then the crutches. Told him she didn’t love him anymore. They divorced. She was terrified he’d leave *her* first.”
“And he just… went?”
“Went. Married someone else within a year. First loves rarely last. Real love weathers storms.”
“Never getting my fortune told before a wedding,” Lily muttered.
“Good. Martha fixated on avoiding risk—made it worse. Had she taken the car, skipped the carousel…” Emma sighed. “But what’s done is done.”
“Did she remarry?”
“No. After the divorce, her parents took her to Cornwall. Off-season—hotels shut, just empty beaches. They rented a room from a widow in a clifftop house. That’s where we’re staying.”
“The widow’s daughter had run off with some tourist. Came back two years later with a baby, dumped him on her mum, then vanished again. The woman wanted to put him in care—too old for nappies. Martha talked her out of it. Her parents pleaded, but she refused to come home.
Years later, the widow died. Martha still lives there with the boy. The real mum tried taking the house back, but the old lady had signed it over. The boy wants nothing to do with her. So they’ve stayed—just the two of them. Like the fortune said: happiness with a son by the sea.”
“Why tell me all this?” Lily narrowed her eyes.
“To save questions later. Life rarely goes how we plan. What seems awful sometimes turns out right. Love’s measured in time and distance.”
The train slowed. Passengers stirred, gathering bags. Lily checked her phone one lastThe sea breeze carried the sound of laughter as Lily and Daniel walked ahead, their shadows merging with the fading evening light.
