Just Haven't Met You Yet(22)

“I like that.” I stow the sea glass in a zipped pocket of my handbag. After biting my lip for a moment, I can’t help asking, “So, is that guy Danny an old friend of yours?”

Translation: Tell me about your dad and your “situation.”

“Everyone knows everyone else’s business in Jersey. It’s part of the reason I left.” He turns back to the road. “Ready to go?”

Like I said, I don’t have the patience or the sleight of hand to peel an apple slowly.





TIGER WOMAN ON SOCIAL MEDIA

Tigers do not seek “likes.” They do not need the validation of other tigers; their success is self-evident—they are alive. YOU are alive, you beat the odds to even exist, you have got yourself this far in life’s journey. Take a moment to “like” that.





Chapter 8




We drive in silence for ten minutes or so. I’m not offended. If Ted doesn’t want to tell me what that guy Danny was talking about, that’s fine. I’ve got other things on my mind—like, how am I going to track down Hot Suitcase Guy if he doesn’t get in touch with me soon?

My phone repeatedly pings with text messages, and Ted glances across at me.

Suki: Can you tie your article in with some photos of Lily James in that Potato Peel Pie film?

Seriously, is that film the only cultural reference anyone has for the Channel Islands? I tap out a reply.

Me: Great idea, Suki! That was Guernsey rather than Jersey though.

Suki: Any headway on Henry Cavill skinny-dipping photos?

I shake my head—Suki appears to have lost focus on the purpose of this trip.

Vanya has created a new WhatsApp group with Dee and me, called “Hot Suitcase Guy,” with a group icon of yet another naked man, holding a suitcase in front of his groin.

Vanya: I thought we needed a chat group so you can send us both updates. If you haven’t found him yet, do you want me to get someone I know to hack the airline database to get his deets? Vx

Dee: Vanya, do you know how illegal that is?! Fact: the place you are statistically least likely to meet your life partner—prison.



* * *




*

Gran: Please call me when you can, Laura. Not urgent, but there are a few things I’d like to discuss. Also, could you bring me back some black butter if it’s easy? Annie used to eat it on crackers—the taste makes me think of her.

Gran rarely volunteers memories of Mum like that, and I savor this tiny nugget of new information.

“You know you’re missing the view,” says Ted, distracting me from replying.

“I’m sure you think I’m glued to my phone, but I am here to work.”

“And find your soulmate,” he says, flashing me that teasing look again.

I tilt my head sideways at him.

“That will be a bonus. If I don’t do the work, I won’t have a job to go home to.”

As though reading my mind, another text from Suki pings through.

    I trust you will come up with something marvelous for the mini-break piece—I have every faith in you. #LoveLife4Ever



I am used to Suki’s oscillations. One minute she is cold and critical, the next she is praising you, claiming you as family. It’s effective, because just as you give up hope of ever pleasing her, she drops a breadcrumb, and you would do anything to keep the warmth of her approval shining in your direction. No one is immune, not even Vanya.

I thank Suki for her confidence in me, quickly respond to some work emails, and then call the airport, asking to be put through to the lost luggage desk.

“Hi, yes, my name is Laura, last name spelled L-E-Q-U-E-S-N-E. I picked up the wrong bag after a flight yesterday. I wanted to know if mine had been returned, or if the man who has it called?”

“Ah, Ms. Le Cane,” comes the nasal reply, “my colleague tells me you left with another passenger’s suitcase last night.”

Damn it, Zany Specs dobbed me in.

“Er, yes, that’s not exactly what happened. And it’s Ques-ne, rhymes with Chesney.” Ted clears his throat beside me. “I just thought it would be easier if I deliver the bag directly. If you could give me the man’s details, we could work it out ourselves. The airline doesn’t appear to be doing a great job of retrieving my luggage for me.”

Maybe I can scare this woman into giving me his number if I get all “customer complaintsy” on her.

“Miss Le Ques-ne,” she imitates the way I said my name. She doesn’t sound at all scared of me. “It isn’t airline policy to release customers’ private details. Be assured we are trying our best to get in touch with the passenger whose bag you have. Please could you give me the code on the baggage receipt for your missing luggage?”

With a sigh, I read out the number on the receipt stuck to the back of my wallet.

Then she says, “We will do our best to locate your missing item. Now, if you let us know where you are staying, we’ll send someone to pick up the bag you have taken”—she pauses—“in error.”

“Hang on . . . my reception is going,” I lie. “Just, er, call me if he calls! Bye!”

I hang up and then look in trepidation at the screen, as though the woman I was talking to might leap out of my phone. How crazy am I acting, on a scale of one to Amy Dunne in Gone Girl? Probably still only a three or a four, right? People do crazy things for love all the time.