Page 2 of The Suitcase Swap

@Mambo#65: You’re brave, too, @MarlaBarla! Like Swanny says, if a big step is too much, a little step will do!

@GoldenGirl: You show those New Yorkers what a London Girl can do!

She let all those voices run through her head as she washed her hands and patted her face with a damp paper towel. She listened to them as she stared at herself in the mirror. Her skin was too pale. A few locks of her brown hair had come loose from her ponytail and were now sticking to her sweaty forehead and cheeks. The lighting certainly wasn’t doing the bags under her eyes or her crow’s feet any favours. She felt overwhelmed and afraid and wished, just for a second, that she had a hand to reach for. Someone to steady her as she wobbled. It was all simplytoo muchsometimes.

If a big step is too much, a little step will do.

Right. She could take her own advice. Sophie blew out a big breath. Placed the cold, damp paper towel against the back of her neck for a second and closed her eyes, ignoring the hubbub of the airport toilets. Then she opened her eyes, got a fresh paper towel and dried her face. She redid her ponytail. She straightened her shoulders and looked herself in the eye.

You can manage one step, Sophie Swann. That’s all you have to think about. Putting one foot in front of the other until you’re on that plane. You will not let Tom and Marisa down.

Another deep breath in, then out.

‘You okay, duck?’ The old woman at the sink next to her squinted at her through a pair of rhinestone-framed glasses. ‘Because those shoes look new, and it would be a shame to get sick all over them.’

‘Thank you,’ Sophie said, her voice breathier than she would have liked. ‘I think I’m okay.’

The woman seemed dubious but nodded at her anyway.

Sophie gave her a wan smile, dried her hands, and marched out of the toilets with her head held high. She would persevere.

Michael Tremblay, or Mike to anyone he was even slightly friendly with, which admittedly wasn’t a large number of people, stowed his overhead suitcase with practised ease. He settled into his aisle seat, mentally preparing himself to be jostled every time a person walked past or the cart went by. Even with his upgrade to a seat that claimed to have more leg room, his long legs felt cramped. Walking past first class had felt like a taunt, those people seeming annoyingly comfortable in their luxury. Despite what people thought, most architects didn’t make first-class kind of money.

The young woman behind him chattered away, using the last few minutes to call her boyfriend to let him know she was safely on the plane and when to pick her up. Mike felt an unexpected pang of jealousy, not unlike the one he’d felt in first class –here’s something that’s really lovely, but it’s not for you.

Unlike not being able to afford first class, this hadn’t always been the case.

Once upon a time, he would have been making the same phone call, but Mike hadn’t had someone to notify about his whereabouts for years. His children sometimes had a general idea of where he was, but he often forgot to give them exact information. Both were busy, Amaya with her studies and Rahul with his family.

And his Tara, well, she’d been beyond hearing for ten long years.

Knowing that fact certainly hadn’t kept him from trying to reach out.

He still sometimes found himself stretching a hand out for her late at night. Not all the time any more, just every once in awhile. It had become an occasional emotional love-tap instead of a constant pummelling. Sometimes he’d read a funny line in a book or see a mangy dog on the street and he’d be reaching for his phone before he remembered she was no longer around to receive his texts. He could still imagine taking a picture of an awkwardly put-together dog, all spiky fur and overbite, and sending it to her with the text:A face only a mother could love.

Just like he could imagine her response:Who wouldn’t love that face? That is a dog withcharacter.

Those imagined interactions didn’t catapult him into heavy grief any more, at least. It was more bittersweet now, the sadness overtaken by the simple joy of having known Tara. For being gifted so much of her life.

At times like this, sitting in the plane, listening to the young woman coo at her boyfriend, it brought home the fact that he’d known what it was like to be a necessary part of something, a necessary person to someone else, and now . . . he mostly had his work. He sometimes felt a little extraneous, like an old power cable that you didn’t need any more but kept just in case.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his children or didn’t feel loved by them. He was extremely grateful for Amaya and Rahul. They just didn’t need him on a daily – or even weekly – basis any more. He could probably be out of the country for a month before they’d notice.

Mike took out his phone, planning to switch it to airplane mode, when he saw a text had appeared in the family group chat. He grimaced. Amaya had sent him a link to an article about dating apps for people over fifty. The idea of dating didn’t appeal to him; the idea of using an app to do so actively repulsed him. He took a second to tap out a reply.Thank you, love, but I’d rather not.

Dots appeared instantly as Amaya responded.Don’t be the kind of man who only dates women in their twenties, Dad. Don’t be ageist against your own generation.

Mike very much thought ‘to each their own’ when it came to dating, but the idea of dating anyone close in age to his own daughter made him shudder.It was a blanket ‘I’d rather not’ and not anything about people my own age. I can promise you, if I ever date again, she won’t be that young. What would we even talk about?

It was Rahul who responded.This is why I love you, Dad. Most single hetero men wouldn’t be concerned about conversation. They’d only be thinking about hot sex with nubile women.

Amaya’s response was instant.Ew. Please never use any of those words together again.

Mike rubbed at the space between his brows with his thumb. He wasn’t going to get into a discussion of his sex life with his children. He’d had sex since he’d lost his wife, but it had been fleeting. Like candy floss on the tongue, here and then vanished, leaving a faint hint of sweetness behind.

What he really missed was that connection he’d shared with his wife. To have someone touch him and have it feel familiar, almost a relief. As if their hand on his skin was like aloe vera on particularly bad sunburn. He missed having his morning tea while sitting across from Tara’s scowling face (she hadn’t been a morning person). He missed date nights where they talked for hours. He even missed arguing with her.

Mike wanted sex, to be sure, but he wanted the kind of sex that felt as essential to his life as breathing.

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