Just Haven't Met You Yet(15)

“Are you just playing the part of a cabdriver in some Truman Show experiment?” I ask.

He lets out a deep, staccato laugh, and his dark eyes glint back at me in the rearview mirror.

“Something like that,” he says.

“Well, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. The guy I sat next to on the plane said the same thing, and I’m afraid you were on the receiving end of the anger I was feeling toward him.”

“I will erase it from my cabdriver script notes,” he says, his eyes smiling at me now.

We settle into silence again.

Maybe it’s because he’s being nice or the calm resonance of his voice, maybe it’s because I can talk to him without making eye contact, but I find myself saying, “Do you want to know why I held on to this case? It’s a bit nuts.”

“Sure,” he says.

I lean forward to talk to him. “How much do you think you can tell about someone from what’s in their suitcase?”

“Hmmm.” He is quiet for a moment. “If the suitcase had a shovel, duct tape, a body bag, and some chloroform in it, I might not be inviting that person in for a nightcap.”

“Yeah, OK,” I say with a laugh. “But what about contents that make you think you’re going to click with that person, that they might be someone you’re supposed to be with?”

His eyes glint gold in the mirror, reflecting light from the headlamps of the car behind.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes. This bag I picked up, the wrong case—everything in it makes me think this is the guy I’m meant to meet. He’s got my favorite book—”

“What book?” the driver cuts in.

“To Kill a Mockingbird. It was one of my dad’s favorite books too—he left me the exact same edition that this man has in his bag.” Beardy McCastaway is frowning. “What? You don’t like it?”

“Loads of people like that book. It’s like saying your favorite band is the Rolling Stones.”

“Well, my favorite band is not the Rolling Stones, and that brings me on to the next clue. This guy plays the piano—I mean, properly plays, there’s some seriously difficult sheet music in here. I’ve always loved men who are musical, but not only that—the music is for Phil Collins’ Greatest Hits. Phil Collins is my favorite musician of all time. That’s pretty freaky, no?”

The driver starts to laugh.

“What?” I say, pushing the bag onto the seat next to me and hugging my arms across my chest.

“OK, a Phil Collins–playing pianist who reads Harper Lee.” His eyes in the rearview mirror flash with amusement. “What else?”

“He’s bought the perfume my mum used to wear as a present for his mother.”

Seeing his skeptical smile, I decide I don’t want to tell him about the sexy jumper, the bees, the cabin keys, or the perfect jeans now.

“Clearly you think I’m being ridiculous. Look, it’s a feeling more than any one specific object. I think fate brought me this bag so I could find the man it belongs to.”

My eyes drift down to the steering wheel, and I notice a gold wedding band on the cabdriver’s hand.

“How did you meet your partner? Didn’t you have a moment where you just knew?”

The man’s eyes dart back up to me in the mirror, clearly caught off guard. Then his eyes drop to the wheel and he twists the ring with his thumb.

“My wife,” he says, as though testing the word. “We met through work, then we were friends for a long time.”

“She’s a cabdriver too?” I ask, confused.

He makes a short humming noise, like a laugh caught in his throat. “No, I didn’t always drive a cab.”

“Oh right, you said. Sorry.” I lean forward between the seats until the belt clicks, stopping me from going any further. “So, it was more of a slow build than a kablammo moment?”

“What’s kablammo?”

“You know, KABLAMMO! Where you’re just floored by how much you like someone. It’s like a sucker punch to the heart—KABLAMMO!” I throw a punch into the space between the seats.

He lets out another deep, throaty laugh, and I feel surprisingly pleased. He doesn’t look like someone who laughs a great deal.

“I guess it was like that for me, maybe not for her, not at first.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “She has this magnetic quality that draws people’s attention wherever she goes.” He thrums his hand on the wheel. “You really think you can get that feeling from a suitcase?”

The poetic way he talks about his wife makes me pause, then I shrug. “I don’t make the rules. I guess you either believe in fate and serendipity or you don’t. Listen, how big is Jersey? Maybe you know this guy?”

He frowns.

“I know you think I’m the only driver on the island, but a hundred thousand people live on this nine-by-five-mile rock. It’s unlikely I’d know him.” He pauses. “Though, come to think of it, there is this man—I’ve seen him at the library, very handsome, always has To Kill a Mockingbird under one arm. He plays the piano at Age Concern most weekends.”

“Seriously!?” I say, before realizing he’s winding me up. Then slowly, “Oh, ha-ha.”