Page 1 of The Wrong Suitcase

1

Izzy

From the back seat of my taxi I can confidently declare: this is going to be the wedding of the year. It’s something about the light that does it. It’s setting the perfect mood. As we speed through the hills of Tuscany, winding on a dusty road flanked by undulating vineyards on either side, the sun glows bright and yellow, making everything look like a film set based on the director’s wildestLa Dolce Vitadreams. Oh, and I do meanspeed, by the way. My driver, Pietro, apparently didn’t get the memo that everything is supposed to move more slowly in Italy.

‘Chianti is very …bella,’ I offer up to him, shouting over the din of the engine. He doesn’t take his foot off the accelerator as he looks at me in the rearview mirror.

‘Key-anti,’he says, using a hand to punctuate the air as he distinguishes between the syllables, correcting my pronunciation. I listened to some Michel Thomas lessons to try and pick up the basics on the plane over, but it’s really hard to practise a language without repeating words out loud, and I didn’t want to bethatgirl on the 10 a.m. from Luton. I take my opportunity now.

‘Key-anti,’I parrot back.

‘Brava,’ Pietro says, and I think that must mean ‘good’ because he says it with a satisfied nod.

I’ve saved up all year for this. When the invitation landed on the mat of my shared Putney flat last Christmas, I knew it would be worth it even then. The envelope was sealed with a dollop of ruby-red wax and stamped with the entwined initials ‘S’ and ‘A’, the invitation printed on card so thick I almost had to hold it in two hands. I met Sarah when I studied abroad in Toronto for a semester at university, and she met Adriano when she went on to teach English in Rome after graduation. Adriano is a Yorkshireman (with long-lost Sicilian great-grandparents, hence the elaborate name) and she’s Canadian, but they’d decided on Northern Italy for their destination wedding as a midway point for their two families, in the wine region of the bottle they’d shared on their first date …

I know. It’s enough to make you sick. But, as a primary schoolteacher in South London, my life is more than a little short on dreamy love affairs set against the backdrop of chichi trattorias and the Colosseum. I’ve lived vicariously through Sarah thanks to email and FaceTime, following her Instagram with an envy kept at bay only by how lovely she is. Sarah remembers birthdays and knows when to send flowers, even though she’s an ocean away. She’s a wonderful friend who just so happens to be unabashedly in love with a man who looks like a Ken doll and is romantic enough to have proposed with a flash mob by the Trevi Fountain.

‘Is only you?’ Pietro asks, as we turn off onto a driveway that seems to stretch up ahead for miles. The sun plays peek-a-boo through the uniform cypress trees, casting shadows through the car and mercifully cooling the air.

‘Is only me,’ I confirm, grinning wildly to prove just how okay I am with it. Because honestly, I am.

Up until the beginning of summer I thought Doug was coming with me, which you’d expect of a boyfriend, obviously. But my anxiety had grown and grown as I imagined trying to keep him upbeat and entertained on this trip – the last weekend before school starts and the climax of a summer break I’ve filled with extra tutoring work and babysitting for the cash. I’d thought Doug was droll and self-mocking, but it turns out Doug is, well … I don’t want to use the words ‘a miserable bastard’, but the shoe fits. He kept reminding me how hot it would still be in Italy at the end of August and asking if I really wanted to spend all this money on thirty-six hours away when I’m supposed to be saving for a house deposit. He just doesn’t get it, and the closer it got to flying off – my gorgeous 70-per-cent-off Rixo dress packed in a sleek carry-on suitcase I’d borrowed from my sister-in-law, hair newly highlighted from the fanciest place in town – the more I realised that Doug just doesn’t getme.I live for this stuff. You know the only thing better than going on holiday? Planning a holiday. I’m the friend who books a restaurant table two weeks in advance and spends the next fourteen days googling the menu and thinking about the drinks list. Anticipation is as much a part of the experience as the actual experience, if you ask me – not to mention poring over the photos and memories afterwards. So I gently suggested maybe we weren’t a match after all. He doesn’t get excited about things and thinks enthusiasm is a weakness. You’re supposed to feelmoreyourself when you fall in love, aren’t you? Not less. And with Doug, I’d started to shrink the passion I have for my own life to match the misanthropic woe he goes through his with. My point being: I’d rather be travelling alone than with the dead weight of somebody who thinks the pinnacle of living dangerously is ordering chipsandmash with his dinner.

‘Izzy!’

My heart swells twelve sizes with joy. I hear her, even though Pietro has started to babble zealously in rhythmic song with a hotel porter as we pull up. It’s Anastasia, the only other person from my uni who did the same semester abroad, so even though we’re from the same country I met her in Toronto, too. She loved it that much that she went straight back to Canada the first chance she got. That was six years ago, now.

As I climb out of the car, she envelops me in a tight hug, screeching animatedly in my ear as she holds my shoulders. ‘Can youbelievethis place? It’s like a cross between where Tom Cruise married Katie Holmes – RIP to them – and where the Volturi live. I literally gotlostthis morning.’

I’m vaguely aware of the porter taking my luggage through to reception, catching his eye to let him know I’ve clocked it. I’ve arrived at the castle. A Tuscan castle, with huge fortress-like walls giving way to an immaculate courtyard. The place is so medieval it’s surprising nobody is wearing chain mail and carrying a sword.

‘The website didnotdo this justice. This is the poshest place I’ve ever seen,’ I marvel theatrically.

‘Right?’ she says, linking her arm through mine. She lowers her voice to add, ‘I think her grandparents paid for it.’

I should hate that Anastasia is such a gossip, but it’s why I love her. She always knows the details of what’s happening behind the curtain. It’s always stuff you don’t think you care about knowing until she tells you, and inevitably then you want to know more.

‘Come on,’ she continues. ‘Let’s get a drink! I want you to meet Kat. I’ve told herallabout you, obvs. She’s down by the pool.’

I glance at my watch. We have four hours until the wedding begins, and three before the pre-ceremony drinks reception, so I’ve got at least an hour before I need to start getting ready. The room cost a fortune, and I upgraded from the double to the king in celebration of the break-up – Doug would be scandalised! – so I want at least one luxurious bubble bath whilst I’m here, enjoyed with a single glass of iced champagne and the ‘Going to the Chapel’ playlist I’ve curated especially to get me in the mood.

‘They take your stuff up to your room for you, so don’t worry about that,’ Anastasia adds.

‘Lead the way, then,’ I say, noting the line of sweat forming on my brow. It’s the hottest part of the day, coming in at over thirty degrees, even in the hills. ‘But maybe I should go and get my swimsuit. Unless you think anyone will notice if I sunbathe in my bra?’ I joke. ‘It’s black.’

Anastasia cackles with glee as she pretends to peek down my top.

‘I insist on it.’ She giggles. ‘I’ve already counted up at least three fellow guests who are exactly your type, so we may as well work on getting their attention now.’

I’m not saying I’m in the market for a fling, but it has certainly crossed my mind that I’d love to flirt with a handsome man if the chance arises. It’s all part of the fun when you’re single at a wedding, isn’t it? Not to mention single at a wedding in a Tuscan castle, fresh out of a relationship that should have ended months ago. I’m here forfun.I just want to feel like my carefree self again. I’m ready.

‘Oh?’ I laugh. ‘Well, that fits in with my objectives for this weekend perfectly!’

‘I thought it might,’ Anastasia shoots back, and we hoot delightedly once more, full-to-bursting at what’s in store.

2

Birchy

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