Just Haven't Met You Yet(10)

My hotel room is exactly what I need: clean and comfortingly neutral. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in a hotel alone before—only ever with a friend or boyfriend. Do I wish David were here? No, he’d only be calling the front desk to inquire about the duvet tog rating or checking if the TV has Sky Sports. I shall relish the luxury of having a king-size bed, a giant bathtub, and all this space just for me. I start running a bath and take a small tub of Pringles from the minibar. I know these things are a rip-off, but since my outburst in the cab, my hands won’t stop shaking. I need to give them something to do.

Who was that person who exploded at that poor man? That wasn’t me; I don’t get angry like that. I didn’t even know I was worried about any of that stuff. I know I’ve been a little all over the place since losing Mum, but deep down, I’ve always felt like an optimist. Maybe what Dee said in the car got under my skin, about needing to be realistic when it comes to love. Maybe I just need to accept I’ll never be the happy-go-lucky person I was before Mum died.

I pour myself a strong gin and tonic and open the balcony window to look out at the cobbled square and the harbor full of boats beyond. The sound of people enjoying themselves in the bar below rises up to meet me. Walking back to the bathroom, I turn off the bath tap and splash my face with water. Don’t waste this weekend being melancholy, Laura—this should be a happy weekend, a celebration of what your parents had, an adventure discovering your Jersey heritage.

Pulling my bag onto the bed to unpack, I notice it feels lighter than it should. Then I see the zip color is wrong; it’s dark gray, rather than black. I frown as I open the case; on top is a man’s white work shirt, a travel-size stick of men’s deodorant . . .

For a moment, I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. These are not my things; this isn’t my bag. As it dawns on me that I have picked up the wrong case, I close my eyes for a moment. This is all I need; now I’ll have to go all the way back to the airport to retrieve mine.

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.