Love J
PS your real present is in the garden. I shall expect honey for Christmas.
Oh my, he sounds adorable. He bought his mother a beehive, I want a beehive! I feel bad for reading the card now, but also relieved it wasn’t for a wife. Oh, and his handwriting – there’s something so appealing about good handwriting; it’s so neat, but with these long, upright letters. He’s a J … James? John? Jack? Jim? There are so many great J names. In fact, I can’t think of a single J name that’s not super hot – except maybe Jenson, but that’s literally the only one I can think of.
I’m getting carried away, I know, but I can’t help myself. This is too spooky, especially factoring in Vanya’s intuition about this weekend. The final object of interest I find is a bunch of keys, hidden in a side pocket. They are tied to a piece of old sailing rope, and have a tag made from wood, with the words ‘THE CABIN’ etched on. He has a cabin, wasn’t I just daydreaming about cabins? His suitability is indisputable now.
I pick up the jumper and breathe it in. Amazing – like log fires and baked scones and the sweat from vigorously cutting wood.
Am I thinking like a crazy person? Probably. But there’s something about this that feels so real. Everything about this man in this case, it all fits with my story. It is too perfect not to mean something, for it not to be a sign. This must be him, my Great Love, delivered to me in a black carry-on suitcase.
Tiger Woman on Destiny
Do tigers believe in destiny? They do not. Tigers think only of survival: hunt to kill, eat to live, sleep to recharge for the task ahead, which is always the same, survival. So stop looking at the stars for answers; press your paws to the dirt, and know there is only one guiding light in your life: you.
Chapter 5
Once I have caught my breath from the excitement of finding the man I am probably going to spend the rest of my life with, I start to worry about the whereabouts of my own suitcase. I don’t have any clothes and some of the research for my article is in my notebook. All I have with me is my laptop, the clothes I am wearing, my mother’s photo album, Tiger Woman, and about one million tampons.
If I have Hot Suitcase Man’s case, that must mean he has mine. I could call the airport, get his number, and arrange a meeting to exchange bags – perhaps over dinner? Everything would fall into place. I imagine telling this story to my grandchildren – ‘Oh, how did I meet Grandpa? Well, it was a funny story – I picked up his bag by mistake and knew straight away: this was the man I was supposed to be with.’ OK, so maybe I need to dial it back, just a touch.
Pacing over to the window, I look out at the sea. I wonder if Jake/Jack/James has realised he has the wrong bag yet. Maybe he did the same thing as me, felt annoyed at first, then curious about the owner. I wonder what my possessions might say about me. I regret not packing my decent underwear now. With a jolt of anxiety, I realise that my diary is in that bag. The inner monologue of a grief-stricken twenty-nine-year-old woman might not be the best introduction to a potential soulmate. I shake my head. The book is clearly a diary; what kind of weirdo would go through someone else’s personal possessions? I look back at the bed, where I have unpacked and inspected the entire contents of this man’s case. Oh.
I find the number for Jersey Airport. The phone rings twice, then a recorded message tells me the airport is closed. What kind of airport closes at 8.15 on a Thursday night? I suppose a small island airport where the last plane lands at 7 p.m. I pace the room. This is a setback. It’s Thursday today, and I’m leaving on Sunday, so I don’t have long. I guess I can set up a meeting to exchange the cases tomorrow morning, but it would probably be better if the beginning-of-the-rest-of-my-life started tonight.
I do what I always do when I need advice; I call Dee.
‘Dee – you’ll never guess – something amazing has happened.’ I can hardly contain my excitement.
‘You found out you’re Jersey royalty? Queen Le Quesne of the Channel Islands? You get your own herd of cows and a lifetime’s supply of potatoes.’
I laugh, and then flop back onto the bed and tell her all about the bag. Dee cuts me off. ‘Wait, what? You’re telling me you lost your case and all your things, but you’re excited because – some random guy has it?’
‘Well, yes, it’s logistically annoying, but all these signs, Dee, it can’t be a coincidence, can it? How many bags in how many airports, in how many countries, would have my favourite book, my favourite music, and my mother’s perfume in them? Plus, my ideal man jumper and the—’
‘Laura,’ Dee says firmly, ‘your life is not a film. People do not meet future partners by accidentally spilling coffee over each other, or getting stuck in lifts, or sheltering beneath trees during freak lightning storms, or through some hilarious luggage-themed mix-up. People meet their partners at work, on dating sites, or through introductions by a mutual friend – I will send you the statistics.’
I know Dee means well, but I’m starting to think I should have called Vanya instead. Vanya would be all over this.
‘Well, the statistics can’t always be right, can they?’ I say defensively.
‘Yes, they can, they absolutely can. Maths never lies.’ Dee sounds exasperated.
‘OK, look, maths aside, how do I find this guy? The airport’s closed – he has my bag. Whether he’s my soulmate or not, I still need clean pants tomorrow.’
Dee sighs and I smile, imagining the torn expression on her face.
‘Beyond the J in the card, there’s no name or address tag on the luggage?’
‘No, Einstein,’ I say, inspecting the bag again in case I’ve missed something.
‘His name must be printed on the airline tag?’ says Dee.
Why hadn’t I thought of that? Vanya definitely wouldn’t have thought of that. This is why I call Dee. I look beneath the barcode on the printed ticket.
‘J. Le Maistre!’ I cry.
Le Maistre. I immediately toy with the name in my head – he’s a ‘Le’ too, just like me, another thing we have in common. Ooh, if we got married, I could keep part of my name by double-barrelling the ‘Le’s and be Laura Le Le Maistre. It sounds so French and chic, like someone who owns a patisserie and maybe a boulangerie, too.
‘I’m googling him now,’ says Dee, sounding excited despite herself, ‘John, James … John again … hmmm, seems like Le Maistre is a common name in Jersey, there are hundreds of them. Does it look like a tree surgeon’s bag? Or a financial analyst’s bag?’
‘What would I be looking for? Bags of sawdust? A catalogue of calculators?’
‘Are there definitely no more clues – no membership cards, receipts?’
I lay everything out on the bed, looking for something I might have missed. ‘Dee, you’ll be pleased to know this guy keeps his dirty clothes and running gear in a separate plastic bag away from the rest of his things.’
‘Marry him,’ Dee deadpans, and I laugh.
‘Could we research beehive sales? Find out who’s bought a beehive lately?’
‘Oh yes, I’ll just look up all the recent delivery addresses at Beehives.com,’ says Dee, and I can hear the eye roll. Oh wow, even his jeans are perfect. Worn, but not too worn, stylish, but not overly so … ‘Laura, online it says the airport doesn’t close until nine?’ Dee says, interrupting my thoughts about jeans.
‘The answerphone said they were closed.’
‘Try again, or maybe go back there if it’s not far. Just because you picked up this guy’s case, doesn’t mean he necessarily picked up yours. Yours could still be sitting there.’
‘OK, I’m on it, I’m going,’ I say, flinging Hot Suitcase Man’s possessions back into the case.
‘And Laura,’ says Dee, ‘don’t be nuts about this. It’s just a suitcase, you don’t know anything about this person.’
‘Yeah, I know. Thanks, Dee.’
Ha! Don’t know anything about this person? I know everything about this person. I know he’s reading my favourite book, and that he’s learning
to play music by my favourite musician. I know he has the perfect-colour jeans, a sexy-smelling jumper, and a quaint little holiday cabin in the woods somewhere. Plus, he buys lovely thoughtful gifts for his mother. What else do I need to know?
I try the airport number again but get the same message. I’ll have to go back. It’s only a twenty-minute drive – worth a shot.
Outside, the sun has gone down, but there is a faint dusky light in the sky. There’s a cab rank right next to the cobbled square. As I slip into the back seat of a car, I notice the driver giving me a strange look in the rear-view mirror. Oh no, it’s the same driver I had before: Beardy McCastaway.
‘Oh, hi again,’ I say, with a forced smile. ‘Is there only one cab driver in Jersey, then?’
‘No,’ he says flatly, ‘I had a break, came back to the rank, and now here you are. Again.’
‘Right, yeah, no, I didn’t mean …’ The man’s tone has wrong-footed me. ‘I need to go back to the airport, if that’s OK.’
‘Seen enough of Jersey already?’ he asks.
‘Ha ha, no. Just a bag issue.’ I shuffle forward in the seat as the car pulls away from the kerb. ‘Listen, I’m sorry again that I shouted at you earlier, that was entirely uncalled for. I um, I had a bad flight and, well, there’s no excuse. I don’t want you to think I’m some horrible person – especially if you are the only cab driver on the island.’
‘That’s OK,’ he says with a nod. Then after a pause, ‘you do know I’m not the only cab driver, right?’
He says it as though I’m a small child with limited capacity for understanding.
‘Yeah, sure – I was joking.’
I sit back in my seat and pull out my phone. This is so awkward; I definitely prefer London-style cab apps where you‘ll never see your driver again.
‘I picked up the wrong suitcase,’ I explain.
‘Easily done,’ he says. ‘Everyone has the same bag.’
OK, perhaps he doesn’t hate me. He’s just the quiet, unexpansive sort. Tom Hanks probably didn’t have great chat either, after being marooned on an island for years. I decide to text Vanya, to get her view on the suitcase situation, but halfway through typing, my gran calls. Gran has become a bigger part of my life since Mum died, and we check in with each other at least once a week.
‘Hi, Gran. Hey, you’ll never guess where I am?’
‘Timbuktu?’ she says. ‘The Science Museum?’ then after a pause, ‘Your flat?’
She’s genuinely trying to guess; this could take a while.
‘No, I’m in Jersey!’
I hear a familiar scrunching sound, and instantly picture Gran standing by her phone, sharpening her Sudoku pencils, which she keeps in an old Branston Pickle jar on the hall table.
‘I’m here to write about Mum and Dad’s love story for the website. I think I’m going to use Mum’s photo album to illustrate the piece – go to all the places they went that summer they fell in love and take photos of myself in the same locations, a sort of “Jersey Then and Now”. If I could track down some pictures of my great-grandparents, I could show the journey of the coin passing through three generations.’
The idea sounds even better now than when I first pitched it.
Gran makes a disapproving ‘tskkk’ sound.
‘I wouldn’t go digging up the past, Laura. You shouldn’t get nostalgic for someone else’s memories.’
‘I want to find out about my Jersey family too,’ I say, ignoring her reservations. ‘I sent Great-Aunt Monica a postcard, to ask if she’d meet me while I’m here.’
My dad’s ‘Mad Aunt Monica’ is one of the few living relatives I’m aware of. I’m not in touch with anyone else in Dad’s family, but Monica sends an illegible Christmas card every year. If she responds to my card in time, I’m hoping I can meet her. She might remember stories I haven’t heard or have photos she could share.
‘I should have come before,’ I tell Gran, ‘but you know how funny Mum always was about Dad’s family.’
‘Your great-aunt Monica is mad as a bandicoot, I wouldn’t rely on her to remember anything accurately,’ Gran says, clearing her throat.
‘What about Bad Granny, do we even know if she’s still alive?’ I ask, smiling at the nickname Mum had for her mother-in-law. Apparently, they had some ‘Big Falling-out’ after Dad’s funeral, and Dad’s mum, Sue, cut off all contact.
‘You shouldn’t call her that,’ Gran says sternly. ‘She and your mother might not have seen eye-to-eye, but she buried her son and her mother within a few months of each other. That would take its toll on anyone.’ Gran goes quiet on the line. Then in a small, worried voice she says, ‘I wish you’d told me you were planning on going there, Laura. It was complicated, your mother’s relationship with your father’s family. Grief can make people behave in peculiar ways.’
Gran’s tone takes me by surprise. I thought she’d be excited to hear about my Jersey adventure, that she would be pleased I’m doing something positive.
‘I didn’t know I was coming myself until two days ago,’ I say defensively. ‘And I doubt I’ll even get a chance to see Aunt Monica. I’m flying back on Sunday night. She might not get my postcard in time, and I couldn’t find a phone number or an email address for her. You don’t have her contact details do you, besides her address?’
‘I’m afraid not. Well, just try to enjoy having a change of scene,’ Gran says, her voice back to its normal volume. ‘Did you take David with you?’
‘Oh. No.’ I should never have introduced David to Gran, we were only together for a total of four months, it was too soon. ‘David and I broke up.’ I’ve been avoiding telling her this for three weeks.
‘Oh Laura, no! Why? I liked David. He had such lovely clean nails.’
Trust Gran to notice these things.
‘Um. Yes, I liked him too.’ I glance at the driver, to see if he seems to be listening to my conversation; he doesn’t. ‘It didn’t feel like what Mum and Dad had; we didn’t have enough in common. I don’t think he was my person, Gran.’
‘Laura! This yardstick you’re using …’ she trails off. ‘I think your mother painted you a rather rosy picture of life with your father, but it was not perfect by any means. You shouldn’t use her relationship as a benchmark for potential suitors.’
I smile at Gran’s old-fashioned idea of ‘suitors’, as though there’s a line of men wearing Regency fashion, waiting to mark my dance card.
‘Maybe she ruined my chance of happiness by setting the bar so high.’ I’m teasing her now, but Gran doesn’t laugh.
‘Look, I want to talk about all this properly, Laura, but Pam’s just arrived with more wood glue so I’m going to have to call you back.’
Gran and her friend Pam make miniature architectural models out of matchsticks. They spend months on each creation and, despite my concerns about them being a fire hazard, her bungalow is stuffed full of them.
‘OK, happy gluing – love to Pam,’ I say, hanging up the call.
Gran has always kept herself busy, as though perpetual motion might help her elude feeling sad. We do talk about Mum, but Gran’s of a generation who see grief as a wound to be licked in private. One weekend when I wouldn’t get out of bed, she accused me of being a ‘Wallowing Wendy’. I called her a ‘Forget-About-It Fiona’ and a ‘Move-Along Mandy’, and then we both started laughing and crying at the same time. I got up and that was the end of the conversation. That’s how it goes with Gran sometimes. Her own husband, a grandad I never met, walked out when Mum was five, so I think Gran got used to taking care of herself.
My gaze drifts out of the window. Though it’s getting dark, I can still see some kind of castle or fortress in the sea to my left. I glance back at the cab driver, whose eyes are still firmly on the road. What a strange job being a cabbie must be, listening to hundreds of one-sided phone conversations, being privy to snapshots of people’s unfiltered lives.
The airport is quiet, hardly any cars around and no planes in the sky.<
br />
‘If you’re just going in to swap your bag, do you want me to wait?’ asks the driver. ‘There won’t be any cabs on the rank now, so you’d need to call for one.’
‘Oh, if you don’t mind waiting, that would be great. Thank you,’ I say, surprised at his thoughtfulness. Though perhaps it’s less a case of him being thoughtful, and more of wanting to monetise his journey back into town. Either way, I’ll take it. I grab the suitcase from the boot and hurry through to Departures.
The terminal is deserted, except for a woman behind one of the airline desks. She has short bobbed black hair and fifties-style red-rimmed glasses.
‘Hi.’ I beam at her. ‘I wonder if you can help me? Arrivals is closed, but I picked up the wrong bag when I came in from London earlier. Whoever’s bag I have, I think they must have mine.’
‘Sure, you can leave it here with me,’ says the woman, holding out her hand.
‘But what about mine?’ I ask, making no move to give her the case. ‘Has it been handed in? If someone called, I’m happy to go and make the swap in person.’
The woman wearily checks her watch then picks up a telephone on her desk. She punches a few numbers into the keypad and gazes at me as she lets it ring.
‘No one left anything in the baggage hall, and nothing’s been reported to me,’ she says, hanging up the phone and shaking her head. ‘Best leave it here and call about your bag in the morning. Don’t worry, it will turn up, they always do.’
I grip the handle of the suitcase firmly.
‘No, I’d rather swap the bags in person. Can’t you look on the passenger list to see who owns this one? His name is here, J. Le Maistre – we could call him? He might not have realised the mistake yet.’
‘I don’t have access to that information, madam.’ The woman holds out her hand for the bag again. ‘Just call in the morning when the lost luggage desk will be staffed, they can take all your details.’
I hug both arms around the case.
‘I’m not giving this bag back until I get mine.’
Just Haven't Met You Yet Page 4
