Tim Forrest wandered along the seafront at Weston-Super-Mare for what must have been at least the tenth time that week, vaguely wondering what he could do to pass the time that morning, when he happened to catch sight of an old fashioned fortune teller's shop on the pier.
Tim was married to a lady novelist, whose speciality was crime stories and as Tim had been made redundant recently, his wife, Sylvia, suggested that while she finished writing her current book, he should go to Weston to research the atmosphere for her new novel, to be set in a seaside hotel. When he protested that he was the last person to undertake research for a crime novel, Sylvia replied that she didn't want him moping about the house for three weeks, as she put it.
That was why he was entering the fortune teller's shop on a cold, off-season morning in Weston-Super-Mare. Ten minutes later he re-emerged, feeling that what he had learned of his future life could apply to thousands of men of his age. The only significant thing that stood out was the prediction that first bad fortune and then very good fortune were to come his way in the near future. Anyway, Tim had dismissed the predictions from his mind by the time he had finished his evening meal in the small B & B where he was staying. Other guests came and went, mostly at the weekend, but he was the only one to soldier on the whole week.
The problem was what was he going to do this evening? All the seasonal theatres were now closed and there was nothing much on at the cinema. He glanced over at the gaudy posters and handbills pinned up on the message board on the opposite wall. One particularly took his eye. It was promoting the charms of the Weston Casino and judging by the photographs, it was quite an opulent affair for such a small seaside town.
So it was that Tim found himself walking the plush carpets of the Weston Casino and wondering which of the gaming rooms he would honour with his presence. The problem with Blackjack or Chemin de Fer was that you didn't really want to display your ignorance of the game in front of the croupiers and well heeled, seasoned gamblers. On the other hand, with Roulette, provided you just bet on red or black or a particular number, you couldn't really make too much of an ass of yourself, could you?
Tim purchased chips for the Roulette wheel to the value of £100. His redundancy payout hadn't been that magnificent and he still had nearly two weeks to go before the end of his stay, so he had to be fairly circumspect.
The chips were worth £5 each and Tim lost one after another on various numbers, until he was down to his last chip. All his need for frugality had been forgotten. He decided to change his bet to black; the winnings obviously wouldn't be as high as on an individual number, but the risk of loss would be correspondingly reduced.
He staked his last chip and thought to himself, 'Surely even I can't be that unlucky?'
The wheel spun and the ball rested on zero. He watched commiseratingly as a little ex-colonial type saw his stack of chips swept away by the croupier. Tim's single chip was also swept away.
He hardly had time to contemplate his ill luck when he felt a hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear shouted, 'Darling, there you are!'
Tim almost hit the ceiling with the shock. There stood his wife who had evidently turned up in Weston herself a week and a half before he was supposed to return home with a dossier full of sights, sounds and other impressions. Needless to say so far the file was empty.
'Good Lord,' he said, 'didn't expect to see you here,' he truthfully added.
'Well, I decided to unmask the murderer a bit earlier than I'd originally intended, got the manuscript off to the publisher, we'', e-mailed actually – and here I am! The B & B told me you'd be here. I thought I'd surprise you.'
'Yes, you did that alright,' admitted Tim.
'I see you're soaking up the atmosphere of the local casino. Very good idea. I say,' Sylvia suddenly enquired, 'You're not actually gambling yourself, are you?'
Tim knew that Sylvia's uncle had been an absolute gambling addict and she had therefore more or less extracted a promise from him that he would never gamble.
'Oh, no, perish the thought,' he replied, 'Just as you say, soaking up the atmosphere.'
Thank heavens she had not seen him putting his stakes on the table, he thought. Just then he glanced at the black and saw that there was now a large number of chips there. The croupier saw his puzzled glance and smiled at him.
What was the fellow smirking at him for, he thought; he must know they couldn't be his winnings. Then he remembered; he'd seen it in a film or something. If you backed a number or a column and the wheel rested on zero, then you automatically lost it. But if you backed black or red, then your stake would be held in 'prison' until the next spin of the wheel, which is what must have happened to Tim's, then on the next spin, black must have come up.
Tim imperceptibly raised his eyebrows and tried to signal facially to the croupier to remove his winnings, but the buffoon didn't seem to understand Tim's meaning and just gave him a look of admiration and left the bet on black.
'Look, darling, I must simply find the powder room,' suddenly exclaimed Sylvia, 'I'll meet you at the entrance and we can find a seafront pub or something.'
'Ok,' said Tim with half an eye on the roulette wheel, silently praying black would come up again.
Once he had ensured Sylvia had departed the roulette room, he was able to give his attention again fully to the wheel. Miraculously, black had come up again! Before his stake could be recklessly gambled again, Tim grabbed his chips and cashed up.
So it was that ten minutes later he rejoined his wife, £12,000 richer, with her none the wiser. The fortune teller's prediction had come true after all.
The last word belongs to Sylvia. 'You know, Tim, I don't think this sea air agrees with you. You look as if you've seen a ghost,' she said.