The air in the small kitchen hung heavy as Emily pushed her spoon through the lukewarm soup, her gaze fixed on the bowl.
«Whats wrong, my love?» Margaret leaned across the table, her wrinkled hands clasped. «Not hungry? I could fry up some bangers and mash instead.»
«No, Nan. Just not feeling it.» Emily forced a weak smile before stirring the soup again, avoiding her grandmothers eyes.
«Somethings bothering you. Out with itdont bottle it up.»
Emily sighed and dropped the spoon with a clatter.
«All the girls at uni dress like theyve stepped out of a magazine. And me? I look like a charity shop reject. No one outright laughs, but I hear the whispers. The lads dont even glance my way.»
«Because of how you dress?» Margaret frowned.
«Thats part of it. Im dated. Plain.»
«Who put such nonsense in your head? Youre gorgeous. Theyre just jealous. As for clothestomorrows my pension day. Well go to Primark, get you something new.»
Emily shook her head. «No, Nan. I want proper jeans. Designer ones. Do you know how much they cost? Wed have nothing left for bills. I shouldve gone part-time, got a job»
«Dont be daft,» Margaret cut in. «Youll finish your degree proper. A part-time educations no education at all. And those laughing at you? Small-minded. Clothes dont make the person.»
«Who even cares about degrees anymore?» Emily muttered. «Maybe I should just find work»
«Not another word,» Margaret said sharply. «If you switch to part-time, theyll dock my pension. Every penny counts.»
Emilys shoulders slumped. Hopeless. Her nan didnt understand the humiliation of wearing her mums old skirt and refashioned blouse at nineteen. They were decent, but they werent *cool*.
«Eat up. Ive got an idea.» Margaret pushed back her chair and disappeared into the bedroom.
Emily heard drawers sliding, the creak of the wardrobe. When she peeked in, Margaret sat on the bed, staring out the window.
«Nan, Im sorry,» Emily whispered, sinking beside her.
«For what, love? Youre right. You need new thingsa coat, some boots.»
«Dont you dare borrow money. Wed never pay it back.»
«I wont.» Margaret patted her hand. «Ive got Grandads ring. Doubt youd wear it. Ill pawn it tomorrow. Now, why havent you eaten?»
«I will, promise. But firsttell my fortune.»
Margaret stiffened. «What? Im no fortune-teller!»
«You *are*,» Emily insisted. «Mum said you predicted Dad for her.»
«When did she tell you that?»
«She did.»
«You young ones always want to know whats coming. But fates writtenit doesnt like being cheated. And what if I see something bad? Youd dwell on it, make it real.»
«Then tell me something good,» Emily teased.
«I dont need cards to say youll be fine. Patience, love.»
«*Please*, Nan?» Emily pressed her cheek to Margarets shoulder, wide-eyed.
«Oh, you little fox. Fine.» Margaret heaved herself up, rummaged in the cupboard, and pulled out a fresh deck. «Sit at the table.»
She spread a lace tablecloth, shuffled the cards with practised ease. «Think of what you want most.»
Emily held her breath as Margaret laid the cards face down, flipped them one by one, pausing to study each. Finally, she smiled.
«See?» She tapped two cards. «Two sevens side by side. True loves comingand soon.» Her finger moved to another pair. «The King of Diamonds, young and close. So many pairsrare, that.» Then her brow furrowed.
«What? What is it?»
«Nothing dire. Just spadesworries ahead. But lifes full of worries. No joy without sorrow.» Margarets voice was steady, hypnotic.
Emily clung to every word.
«Nan, can I ask»
«Enough. Got your answer, didnt you? Loves coming. *Soon*.» Margaret swept the cards together. «Put the kettle on.»
Over tea, Emily probed about the king, the spades.
«He works in service, young. Thats all the cards say.»
«And the worriesits not you, is it?»
«Dont fret. Ive lived my life. Yours will be happy. Thats all you need to know.»
Next morning, Emily floated to uni. Let them sneer at her clothesshe knew the truth now. Love wasnt about labels.
After lectures, she dawdled home, savouring the sun. Then she saw the police car, the neighbours clustered at the door.
«Emily, love, theres been» Mrs. Thompson from flat one blocked her path, dabbing red-rimmed eyes with a hanky.
«Wheres Nan?» Emily shoved past, heart hammering as she took the stairs two at a time.
The flat door stood ajar. Inside, drawers hung open, clothes strewn. A uniformed man rose from the sofa.
«Emily Charlotte Hayes?»
«Yes. Wheres my nan?»
«Detective Sergeant Collins. Your grandmother, Margaret Hayes»
«Is she hurt? Whys everything*Nan!*» Her scream echoed. She already knew.
«A neighbour found her. Struck on the head, but lightly. It was her heart.»
Emily clamped a hand over her mouth.
«Sit.» He guided her down, fetched water. «She collected her pension in cash?»
«Y-yes. Hated cards.»
«Anything valuable missing?»
Emily scanned the room. «Her ring. Gold, with a yellow stone. Grandads. She was pawning it today.»
«Neither the ring nor her pension was on her. The thief likely followed her from the post office, saw the ring. Too many witnesses outside, so he followed her up.»
«So her pension killed her?» Tears splashed onto her shirt.
«Looks that way. But well find him.»
«Nan was kindeven to that drunk Mick downstairs.»
«Mick?»
«Flat 12. But he wouldnt» She broke down.
Later, Mrs. Thompson helped tidy up, took Emily in, but at night, Emily returned. Nan would worry if she wasnt home. Then she remembered.
Theyd been alone since her parents diedhit by a bus running a red light.
Next morning, she woke to the crushing truth. How would she survive without Nan? She found spectacles on the telly, tucked them away*always losing these*.
DS Collins returned at eleven.
«Neighbours chipped in for the funeral.» He laid an envelope on the table. «Come with me. Bring something to dress her in.»
Emily numbly picked a navy dress. Last year, Nan had refused to wear it to a party. *Save it for my funeral*, shed said. Emily had scolded her. Now she folded it carefully, aching.
They went to the mortuary, the registry. A blur. Even Nan in the casket felt unreal.
After the funeral, she went straight to uni, then the deans officeswitching to part-time. She got a job at Tesco, stacking shelves. The cashiers knew Nan, murmured condolences.
Collins visited often. One day, he came with news: theyd caught the thief. Confessed. But the ring was gone, sold off.
«Emily, I fancied you from the first. Maybe bad timing, butIm here. If you need anything.» He saved his number in her phone. «Whens your day off?»
«Friday.»
«Dinner? A film?»
She shrugged. Better than the empty flat. They went out. He talkedhis mum remarried, a baby sister, studying criminology.
She liked him. Felt safe. When he proposed, she said yes.
That night, gazing at Nans photo, she remembered the fortune. The spades. The king.
*You knew, didnt you? You said you couldnt tell fortunes.*
In the frame, Nan smiled back, tender, alive.
