Just Haven't Met You Yet(14)

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 realized 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.”

I’m fully aware I might be coming across as a little persistent right now, but if I give up the bag, I might never find Hot Suitcase Guy, and I’m not sure how many chances the universe gives you in situations like this.

“You can’t just take someone else’s bag home.” The woman shakes her head in bemusement.

“Surely you can find his phone number or his address? What if it was a matter of life and death?” I give the woman my best serious face, like maybe I’ve been injected with some kind of deadly serum, and the antidote is in my bag, but I can’t tell her about it because there’s a hit man watching my every move.

“Is it a matter of life and death?” the woman asks, narrowing her eyes. Clearly my “deadly serum” face is not being conveyed effectively.

I shift my eyes to the ceiling, trying to think of something more feasible.

“Look, if I was an undercover cop”—I give the woman a deliberate wink—“and my lost suitcase had important, urgent evidence in it, how would you go about getting it back? Who would you call? There must be someone who knows who J. Le Maistre is, and how I can track him down?” OK, that definitely sounded more stalkery than I’d planned.

The woman crosses her arms in front of her chest, peering at me over the top of her glasses.

“Are you an undercover police officer?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t be able to tell you because of the sensitive nature of the case, so let’s just say that I am not,” I say, slowly nodding my head.

“Madam, if that is not your bag, I cannot let you take it.” She stands up and holds out her hand for the bag. “Airline policy.”

“OK. OK, fine—” I make as though to hand it over, then just as she’s reaching for it, I hug the bag back to my chest, turn, and run.

“Madam, you can’t take that bag! MADAM!” she calls after me.

Outside the terminal, I look left and right for my cab. For a moment, I panic that the driver’s gone and Red Glasses is going to come out here and wrestle the bag away from me. Luckily, he’s just pulled forward a bit. I run toward the car and jump into the backseat, the suitcase still clasped in my arms.

“Go, go, go!” I shout at the driver.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I stole this suitcase.” I laugh, breathless. “Quick, you’re my getaway driver. Floor it!”

Beardy McCastaway pulls the car away at a normal pace, making no effort to speed away from the crime scene with any kind of dramatic tire screech. Seriously, do Jersey people not watch Law and Order? Do they not have crime dramas? This definitely felt like it called for a tire-screech moment.

“That’s not your bag then?” the driver asks, squinting at me in the mirror.

“No. They didn’t have it, and I don’t want to give this one back until I get mine.”

The driver shakes his head.

“What are you going to do, wear this person’s clothes until yours turn up?”

“It’s a complicated situation,” I say huffily, feeling deflated by my lackluster getaway.

The two of us travel in silence, out of the empty airport, left past the rugby club and the brightly lit showroom full of expensive, shiny cars. Little I’ve seen of Jersey so far makes me think of the idyllic island paradise my mum described. It feels modern and built-up, rather than rural and full of history. Perhaps a lot has changed in thirty years. I pull out my phone to check my work emails, shooting off a few quick responses as I scroll, hoping to see a message from Aunt Monica. I’m keen to plan out the next few days, but her phone number is ex-directory, and I’m not sure I want to turn up unannounced on the doorstep of someone Mum nicknamed Mad Aunt Monica.

“I wanted to, um, apologize about the comment I made earlier,” says the cabdriver suddenly. He clears his throat and adjusts his flatcap.

“Which comment?” I ask.

“When I said, ‘Cheer up, love.’?” His eyes glance up at me in the mirror and then dart back to the road. “I don’t know why I said that. I hate that expression.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “I thought it was the kind of thing a cabdriver might say, I was trying it out. Which sounds ridiculous, sorry.”

His voice is calm and deep, like the steady bass line in a song. I peer at the driver in the darkness of the car. I haven’t properly registered much about his appearance beyond the beard and the flatcap. Looking at him now, I realize his dark brown eyes and thick lashes are probably those of a man in his forties rather than fifties.