Just Haven't Met You Yet(11)
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.
Pacing over to the window, I look out at the sea. I wonder if Jake/Jack/James has realized 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 realize 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 eight fifteen on a Thursday night? I suppose a small island airport where the last plane lands at seven 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 suitcase. 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 favorite book, my favorite music, and my mother’s perfume in? 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 beneath trees while seeking shelter from freak lightning storms, or through some hilarious luggage-themed mix-up. People meet their partners at work, on dating sites, or through introductions from 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. Math never lies.” Dee sounds exasperated.
“OK, look, math 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 knickers 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 but double-barrel 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 catalog of calculators?”
“Are there definitely no more clues—no membership cards, receipts?”