Luck

She held his hand with what seemed like unnecessary force, giving it an occasional squeeze. “And this line is your heart line.”

“Of course,” he said, unsure what that meant.

She took her right index finger and traced it, languidly drawing a path from one side of his palm to another before swiftly crossing it through in a kiss. She paused and looked up, meeting his eye, then tickling the centre of his hand with the tip of her finger three times. It was a strange sensation. Both irritating and intimate at once.

“Very interesting.” Her voice was deep and breathy, hard to hear over the din of the party around them.

He chuckled. “You’ll have to enlighten me.”

The woman smiled in return, full lips closed and one eyebrow arched high. “I think you’re about to meet the love of your life… and I think you’re a very lucky man indeed.”

Tom felt the urge to yank his hand away at that. That was exactly the issue. He wasn’t lucky at all. “Oh no,” he countered, “Like I was saying, I don’t seem to ever have good fortune.”

That was how he’d ended up in this situation in the first place. One minute, he was telling this – arguably quite beautiful – stranger how he seemed to be the unluckiest man alive, and the next there she was, reading his palm, leaning in close, like Mystic Meg after one too many Pinots.

“Oh, but you are.” She wrapped her long, soft fingers around the back of his hand, grasping it in a series of little pumps. “I think you just need to keep an open mind. Spot your opportunities. Love might land right in your lap. It could be right… under… your very… nose.”

She strung the last few words out, her manicured nails nipping the edge of his palm like a playful puppy. Her voice was now so low that he had to lean right in, their foreheads almost touching as he struggled to hear her over the dreadful 90s soundtrack their party hosts seemed to favour.

Why couldn’t she speak up?

“Hmmm. I think life has it in for me a bit on that front,” Tom replied, beginning to feel irritated. “But I have accepted my lot.”

This was clearly complete hokum. Some sort of party trick. He’d only started talking to this woman – whatever her name was – because her long dark hair had caught his eye. Briefly, all too briefly, he’d wondered if she might be someone who was worth pursuing. But no. All she was interested in was fortune-telling. He wasn’t going to find good conversation or romance here.

“Anyway…” He snatched his hand away. “I’d best be off to top up my drink.” He wiggled the empty glass in his left hand by its thin stem.

Her eyes dropped down to the side table nearby. “Oh yes, mine could do with a top-up, too.” She cocked her head and looked back at him, still smiling.

“Good timing, then. Well, nice meeting you.”

Her smile dissolved. He was about to turn on his heel and release himself from the tedium when she tapped his arm.

“One more thing… Tom, wasn’t it?” He nodded. “Tom. A little warning, if you will. And this one is purely observational. I think you need to keep an open mind. Luck – if such a thing exists – will only find you if you’re open to it.” She was staring intently at him, expression hard to read. “The future's a boring place for those who stay closed off.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. “Right. Well. Message received.”

Tom turned away and wandered off to find more red wine, bobbing between other guests in a skilful slalom, determined not to make eye contact. He made it through and found it was surprisingly quiet in the kitchen, save for a couple of people leaning against the countertop, both smiling but silent. He felt his shoulders drop. They looked pretty normal. Now, where was the Merlot?

He found a bottle that was still half full and topped up the glass before taking a deep swig and then refilling it. Chugging down, he hadn’t realised he’d closed his eyes to savour the sharp, fruity taste until he opened them once more, where Tom saw one of the other guests staring at him, grinning. They were apparently now alone.

“I see you were talking to Saffie,” the man called over, jovially.

“Saffie?” Was that her name?

His smile grew wider still. “Saffie Smith. Quite an impressive woman.” He held up his bottle of beer as if to say ‘cheers’. Tom lifted his in return on a reflex, though he wasn’t sure exactly what they were toasting to. Hogwash? Superstition?

Mediocrity?

“Hmm... She read my palm. Told me the love of my life was probably right under my nose, or just around the corner.” Or about to fall in his lap? Something like that. He rolled his eyes.

Unexpectedly, the man threw his head back in peals of laughter, a top row of shockingly white teeth glinting in the dull light like a half-moon. Tom marvelled at his square jaw and his neck, a touch too wide and yet somehow not too wide at all.

“Really?” The word came out throaty and breathless, before the man guffawed once more. He held his beer languidly in one large hand, tanned fingers wrapped low towards the base, while the neck of the bottle rolled and tilted in loose circles as he laughed. His uninhibited joy was infectious, and a grin caught Tom unawares as he watched him, aware he was staring and yet somehow not keen to look away.

Eventually, the man stopped, settling into a few deep breaths as he composed himself. He placed his drink down on the countertop beside him and wiped his hands together briskly as if to pull himself together.

“Something funny?” Tom ventured, good-humouredly, for want of something to say.

The man smiled, briefly. “Not so keen on astrologers, I take it?”

“You could say that. Not exactly my type.”

“Oh, no?” He tilted his head and looked Tom up and down, as if taking him in properly for the first time. Then he grinned once more: that broad, infectious grin. “So what is your type, exactly?” His voice was low and conspiratorial.

Tom wasn’t sure how to reply, not knowing the answer himself. Instead, he filled the gap with the first thing that came to mind. Those irritating words she'd ended with, now stuck in his thoughts. “She said I had to keep an open mind. That way, luck would find me.”

He took another swig of his wine, suddenly self-conscious, as the man wandered across the kitchen towards him, loose-limbed and confident.

“Sorry, I think I misheard you for a moment. Luck, was it?” He took soft, measured steps, like a solo Charleston. “That sounds like marvellous advice to me.” He came to a stop beside Tom and leaned casually against the kitchen cabinets before gently nudging him with his elbow. “I’m Sam, by the way.”

“Tom,” he answered, quickly. “But, I… Do you really think so?”

“What’s that?”

He could feel Sam leaning against him, his body warm, a gentle pressure resting comfortably from shoulder to mid-thigh. Usually, this would annoy him. An intrusion. A presumption. But it was surprisingly comfortable, so he didn’t move away.

“That I need to be open-minded? And open to luck?”

Sam gave another playful nudge. “Oh, yes.”

Tom turned towards him and discovered his face was just half a metre, maybe less, from Sam’s. He jumped slightly, startled as much by the deep blue of his eyes as his proximity. He could smell his cologne, a light mix of sea salt and cotton.

“Right. Huh.” Well, if that was the case, he’d best go off in search of new opportunities. No use chewing the fat with friendly strangers when he could be out there, open to new opportunities. Enticing love and luck in. “Cheers, Sam.” He raised his glass in a toast again. “It was great talking to you.”

Sam gave a double-take, and Tom wondered for a moment whether he had misremembered his name, as he often did, but then he took half a step back and held his hand out. “The pleasure was all mine.”

Tom shook his hand in gratitude before meandering out of the kitchen, armed with a third of a bottle of Merlot and a new sense of purpose.

Back in the throng of the party, Tom realised that everyone around him was now deep in conversation, and he was unsure how to infiltrate. He was a single person in a sea of anecdotes and debates. The night was in full swing, and a few brave souls were even dancing, cramped and tipsy, shuffling like tangled marionettes with movements a mess of limbs and drinks. Huh. But no, he would be open-minded. They were just having fun. No need to judge.

He headed in the direction of the dancers, briefly considering that he might join in, before spotting a gap on the end of the sofa that seemed much more appealing. He’d just take a seat there for a while and get his bearings. A vantage point for scouting opportunities. Looking for luck. Besides, two not unattractive women were also sitting there, chatting warmly.

This could be his chance. He just had to keep an open mind.

Tom placed the wine bottle and his glass down on the small table beside the sofa. If he was going to be successful, he needed to keep his wits about him. Time to slow down. After all, he’d already had three, perhaps four glasses of wine, and it wasn’t even 9.30. He tried to shuffle into the corner of the sofa to angle himself into a position that looked open and welcoming. What was it that the body language experts said? No crossed arms or legs. Mirror those about you. Don’t touch your face or cover your mouth. Open body language, open mind. He could do this.

He was still squirming about, considering how he might insert himself into the conversation of the women now beside him, when an older man, somewhat worse for wear, slipped as he attempted some sort of jive with his partner in the small square the guests had arbitrarily named the dance floor. This caused a strange chain reaction: the woman he was dancing with leaning back out of the way, and crashing into her friend, who herself then hurtled sideways into the path of the unsuspecting young woman who was walking by. This caused her to shuffle on the spot, desperately trying to keep her balance, before flopping backwards – skirts ballooning wide as she did – falling in slow motion like an open book from a shelf.

She landed across his knees.

There was a momentary kerfuffle while everyone around them jumped forwards or rearranged themselves, depending on how much they had seen and whether or not they felt culpable, he imagined. Tom looked at the woman now lying across him and found she was wincing, eyes closed, teeth together. This seemed perhaps an overreaction. The fall had been all of a metre.

“Goodness, are you OK?” The woman closest to him on the sofa had turned around, face a picture of concern. He noted how the auburn in her hair glinted in the candlelight of the living room.

The younger woman bounced on his knee and nodded fiercely, though her eyes remained screwed shut. No one had yet asked him how he was, he noted, but he would remain gallant.

“Are you sure?” Tom asked. “You don’t look OK.” Should he have said so out loud? Perhaps not, but in spite of how small her fall had been, it was true. A series of pink splodges was rapidly rising from her chest up her neck, towards her face.

“It’s… It’s my ankle,” she finally said. Ah. Her ankle. That did make sense.

“OK. Don’t worry. We’ll get you sorted. What’s your name? I’m Jessica.” She stood, simultaneously managing to slide the younger woman off his lap and onto the newly formed gap on the sofa. Where this Jessica, whom he had intended to chat with, had been sitting just moments earlier. A familiar flicker of disappointment stirred within him. This was exactly the sort of thing that happened all the time.

“Jane,” she said, sucking her teeth as she did so. “I’m Jane. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

Jessica was now kneeling on the floor, gingerly raising Jane’s left leg. “This one, I take it?” It seemed his chance to make conversation with her had disappeared altogether. She didn’t even acknowledge him.

“Ow!” Jane stretched forward briefly, then spotted someone over Jessica’s shoulder. “Hey!” she called, waving furiously before turning back to Jessica. “It’s my brother… Come here!” She gave a stage yell and gestured energetically, suddenly animated, with the soft tinkle of a laugh to her voice.

“Oh, good. You’re going to need someone to help get you to A and E.”

“A and E? You don’t think it’s that bad?” Her voice dropped again.

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” Tom said. He had intended to sound casual, but the look Jessica shot him, fleetingly, made him wonder if perhaps he’d come off as flippant instead.

She frowned. “Well, you should, just to be sure. But… Oh, wait, my friend is here somewhere. A GP.”

“Great,” Tom said, enthusiastically. Neither of them acknowledged him, both huddling forward while they tried to ease off her wedge heels.

A small huddle of people had crowded around them. A brother? And now a GP? Tom had nothing much to offer in comparison. He didn’t much like the sound of standing around feeling useless while some dashing Doctor examined this woman’s leg. He wouldn’t have known where to start, and he still wasn’t entirely convinced that all the fuss was necessary. And there was no chance of chatting to Jessica now – not that she seemed all too friendly, anyway.

He spoke again, almost to himself. “It sounds like you all have it in hand. I’ll… I’ll just get out of your way then.” He wriggled himself to the edge of the sofa and then pushed up, using the arm of the chair. No one answered him or seemed to acknowledge his movement, and the moment he was upright, Jessica sat in his spot and continued her excessive show of concern. He sighed. Time to go.

Tom took a few, surprisingly unsteady steps forward into the crowd. As he did so, he failed to notice Sam rushing by, towards the sofa; strong jaw clenched, blue eyes serious, face a picture of determination. On his way to his injured sibling.

And, of course, Tom didn’t see the doctor as she pushed between the dancers, called across the room to help the injured party by her close friend.

In his rush, he didn’t hear Jennifer’s words, as she marvelled aloud how unlikely it was that everyone was here tonight. A brother. A Doctor. Sympathetic friends and strangers. What good fortune that they were all there together. Perhaps it was a sign.

So, naturally, he was already out the door as tenderly, sympathetically, Dr Saffie Smith rested Jane’s ankle across her knees to examine it, and the newly formed rescue party stood close by on either side.

They watched as Saffie lifted the foot high and took her right index finger, tracing it languidly from one end of the sole to the other before swiftly crossing it through in a kiss. She paused and looked up, meeting Jane’s eye with a reassuring smile, and then tapping the centre of it with the tip of her finger three times.

The foot of the woman who had, quite literally, just fallen into Tom’s lap.

“Well," she said, confidently. "I think you’ve had a very lucky escape."