As I stare down at the contents of the case, willing them to be different, I notice the paperback lying next to the pile of clothes: To Kill a Mockingbird, my lifelong favorite book, one of Dad’s favorites too. I pick up the well-thumbed copy, an old edition just like the one Dad left me. Placing it on the bed, I find myself looking through the contents of the case. A strange sensation, like a cluster of clouds moving aside, comes over me, my irritation at having the wrong bag morphing into something new, something unexpected.
Beneath the book is one of those thick knit cream fisherman’s jumpers. I love these sorts of jumpers on a man—the kind Chris Evans wears in Knives Out, or that Ryan Gosling might wear on a weekend away to a log cabin, where he’d chop wood and make gin martinis before asking if you’re up for a game of Scrabble by the fire. Beneath the jumper is a book of piano music. I love men who can play the piano, it has to be one of the sexiest skills. I briefly dated a pianist when I worked at the music magazine, and his playing alone was almost enough to made me overlook the fact that he was a complete pig . . . and then I read the words on the book of music and slap a hand across my mouth—Phil Collins’ Greatest Hits. OMG, what is this? This can’t be a coincidence. I take everything out of the case in a frenzy, as though the man who owns this bag might be hidden at the bottom.
There are blue running trainers and a neatly tied clear plastic bag full of worn clothes and running gear （I draw the line at rummaging through that）。 At the bottom of the case, in a sealed duty-free plastic bag, is a perfume bottle—Yardley English Lavender, my mother’s perfume. Seeing it sends goose bumps down my arm. I don’t know anyone else who wears this scent. No doubt it is a present for someone, but it feels as though it is for me—a sign from Mum. I blink away the itch behind my eye. Get it together, Laura—it’s probably a gift for the guy’s wife. Then, tucked against the side, I find an unsealed card in a blank envelope. Would it be terrible if I looked to see if it has been written in? Best not to ask yourself these questions.
Dearest Mum,
I know you wanted a beehive for your birthday—but I thought if you smelled of lavender, you’d have swarms of admirers . . .
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 relived 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 superhot—except maybe Jensen, 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 Guy’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 straightaway: This was the man I was supposed to be with.” OK, so maybe I need to dial it back, just a touch.