Just Haven't Met You Yet(12)

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 phone went to answering machine.”

“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 Guy’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 favorite book, and that he’s learning to play music by my favorite musician. I know he has the perfect-color 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 backseat of a car, I notice the driver giving me a strange look in the rearview 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 cabdriver 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 curb. “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 cabdriver on the island.”

“That’s OK,” he says with a nod. Then after a pause, “You do know I’m not the only cabdriver, 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 know 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 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 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.