**The Fortune**
“Oh, stop sulking! You’ll love it—sea, beach, sunshine…” said Emily, trying to catch her daughter’s eye.
But Poppy stubbornly turned to the window, where endless fields and low vineyards stretched out. Alongside the railway, a motorway hummed with colourful cars that looked like toys from the train. In the distance, silhouettes of hills flickered in the morning haze. The sun glared so sharply it made her eyes ache. Poppy checked her phone for the hundredth time that morning and tossed it aside in frustration.
“Ah, young love,” Emily sighed inwardly. Out loud, she said, “Probably no signal. We’ll be there soon—”
“Mum, enough,” Poppy muttered, turning back to the window.
“Agnes’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!” Emily babbled on. “You’ll see for yourself in a few hours.”
“Just don’t tell me she’s got a son,” Poppy shot her a glare.
“She has. But not hers by blood. Agnes never had children of her own—she raised someone else’s boy. He’s at university in another city. Exams are on, so you probably won’t see him.”
“You said she was your friend. How’d you meet if she lives down south and you’re from Surrey?” Poppy asked.
“Oh, that’s a story. Want to hear it?”
Poppy gave a half-shrug, eyes still glued to the monotonous scenery.
***
Agnes and I grew up on neighbouring streets, went to school together. Not that she was a stunner, but her hair was unusual—blonde, curly, almost golden in the sun.
People always noticed her, turned their heads. I liked to think some of that attention rubbed off on me. Before our A-levels, our class went on a boat ride, then strolled through the park. That’s where she met this bloke and fell head over heels. We saw less of each other—didn’t want to intrude. When we did meet, it was always *him* this, *him* that.
She’d dreamed of acting, wanted to go to drama school in London. But love won—she enrolled at the same polytechnic as her Michael so they wouldn’t be apart. I went to uni.
When we did meet, we’d talk for hours. A year later, Michael proposed right before exams. I’d never seen her so happy!
We went dress shopping with her mum—tried on every one. Everything looked perfect on Agnes, like it was made for her. She insisted on buying me a blue bridesmaid dress too. Exhausting day. Sent her mum home in a cab with the bags, and we decided to walk along the promenade. Late May, warm as summer.
People kept staring at Agnes—she was radiant. Oblivious, of course. We ate ice cream, giggled about wedding plans.
Then two Romani women approached, pestering passersby. The plumper one blocked our path, cooing at Agnes:
“Pretty girl, let me tell your fortune. The whole truth—what’s waiting for you.”
The other lurked behind—scrawny, horse-faced, glowering.
“I already know my future,” Agnes laughed, licking her ice cream.
We tried to sidestep her, but the woman snatched Agnes’s wrist, peered at her palm, and tutted.
“A wedding, my golden one.”
“Tell me something I *don’t* know,” Agnes tried tugging free, but the grip was iron.
“We don’t need fortunes. And we’ve no money,” I cut in.
“Good news costs, but bad news comes free,” she said, sending chills down my spine.
Her eyes locked onto Agnes, almost hypnotic. The younger one grinned—or maybe that was just her teeth.
“Don’t listen, let’s go,” I urged, pulling Agnes away.
“You love deeply, but not for long. You’ll fall from a horse at your wedding, suffer greatly. The sea will heal you. Never marry again. Your joy will come from a son,” the woman droned, unblinking.
Then she let go and shuffled off. The younger one shot us a dirty look before scurrying after. We walked in silence, the joy sucked right out of us. That fortune clung like a bad smell.
“Agnes, you’re not *actually* considering riding some knackered old nag in your wedding dress, are you? We’re taking cars to the registry office! She looked at your palm for two seconds—she saw *nothing*,” I said, forcing cheer.
“True. No horses for me,” Agnes said, like snapping out of a trance.
“She spouted nonsense because we didn’t pay,” I teased, and we laughed, shaky but relieved.
After exams, the wedding was set. Honeymoon by the sea—a relative’s gift. We forgot the fortune.
Wedding day. Groom due any minute. Agnes adjusted her veil in the mirror and said,
“My dad calls his Land Rover his ‘steed’. I’m not riding in it.”
“Good. Take another car,” I agreed.
“No cars. Registry’s close—we’re walking,” she beamed at my reflection.
“Brilliant. How often do you see a bride parading through town?” We giggled nervously.
Convincing Michael to walk took work. Parents objected, but Agnes dug her heels in. Walk or no wedding.
Nothing went wrong. Under Mendelsohn’s march, they exchanged rings, kissed, became husband and wife. Now they could take a car. But Agnes insisted on photos in the park—flowerbeds, vine-covered arches.
“Let’s get you on the carousel,” the photographer said.
Brightly painted wooden horses. Michael helped Agnes onto a white one, took the next. I fluffed her dress and veil, stepped back. Music started, the carousel spun. They reached for each other, grinning. Camera clicked away.
“Mummy, look! A bride on a white horse, like a fairy tale!” a little girl squealed.
No one saw it happen. Later, Agnes said her dress was slippery, the horse’s back too smooth. The girl’s shout made her jerk—her heel caught in the floorboards. She toppled off, screamed, and blacked out.
Instead of a reception, an ambulance. Badly sprained ankle. Botched operation. She walked with a cane, endured months of pain. Another surgery in Edinburgh. Crutches, plaster.
***
“Did she recover?” Poppy asked, leaning in.
“Mostly. Still limped a little.”
“And Michael?”
“Hospitals wore them down. Agnes barely left the house, ashamed of the cane, then crutches. Told Michael she didn’t love him. They divorced. She was scared he’d leave her first one day, so she beat him to it.”
“And he just… left?”
“Left. Married again soon after. First love’s rarely the real thing.”
“Never getting my fortune told before a wedding,” Poppy declared.
“Wise. Agnes fixated on avoiding risk and made it worse. Taken a car, skipped the carousel, no fall.” Emily sighed. “But it is what it is.”
“Did she remarry?”
“No. After the divorce, her parents took her to the coast. Off-season, hotels closed. They rented a room from a widow in a seaside 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 boy, dumped him on Mum, and vanished again. The widow wanted to put him in care—too old for nappies and tantrums. Agnes talked her out of it. Parents protested, but Agnes refused to go home.”
“The widow died years later. Agnes still lives there with the boy. The real mum tried reclaiming the house, but the widow left it to Agnes. The boy wanted nothing to do with her. So there they are. Just like the fortune said—Agnes found happiness with a son by the sea.”
“Why’d you tell me all this?” Poppy squinted.
“To spare you questions later. Life rarely goes to plan. What seems awful sometimes turns out right. Love’s tested by time and distance.”
The train slowed. Passengers stirred, gathering bags. Poppy checked her phone one last time, shoved it in her bag. Outside, greeters peered into windows. The carriage jerked to a stop.
“We’re here!” Emily hauled their luggage out.
On the platform, a tall, handsome lad approached.
“You’re Emily? I’m Daniel. Mum asked me to fetch you.” He scooped up their bags effortlessly, weaving through the crowd. “Recognised you from her photos. She’s got your room ready, cooked up a feast.”
In the taxi, he chatted with Emily, pointed out landmarks. Said he’d just popped home to meet them—heading back to uni tomorrow for exams.
They climbed the hill to a neat little house behind a low fence. Agnes, limping slightly, came out and hugged Emily tightly. Poppy expected the goldenAs the summer stretched on, Poppy stopped checking her phone altogether, too busy laughing with Daniel under the endless blue sky by the sea.
