Page 11 of The Wrong Suitcase

She tugs on my elbow across Anastasia’s chest, practically dragging me over her and out to the aisle. And then I see what she means. As this gorgeous, thoughtful, romantic god of a man makes his way back to his seat, it’s clear that despite everything he has going for him, fashion sense isn’t included.

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘And he was so close to perfect.’

‘Don’t you get it?’ Kat says to me, and I shake my head blankly. ‘That looks like a man whose suitcase has gone missing.’

Oh my goodness – she’s right. The hottie with the sense of humour who gave a reading that brought the house down is blatantly missing a wedding suit, and most likely because somebody has his suitcase.Ihave his suitcase!

10

Birchy

Now the ceremony is over, I finally feel like I’m in the party mood. There are waiters floating around with bits of bruschetta and prosciutto and olives, and everyone keeps telling me how much they enjoyed my reading – even Mum has forgiven me for the sartorial faux pas and nobody else has even asked about it. It seems that when you’re the guy who has made everyone cry, nobody cares what you’re wearing. And because nobody else cares, I don’t care either. This is the most relaxed I’ve felt all day.

And then I see her.

She’s gorgeous. Actually, properly, genuinely gorgeous. All wavy blonde hair and even though her dress covers everything from her shoulders to her ankles, it clings in all the right places. She’s busty and smiley and hot, hot, hot, and she’s looking directly at me as she walks right up and stands half an inch too close (or half an inch just close enough, I suppose) and grins.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ I say back. Her eyes twinkle brightly, as if she knows the punchline and can’t wait to get me in on the joke. Her lips are full and glossy, and she takes a moment to push the hair off her face self-consciously, as if she has to remind herself that it’s okay to approach men out of the blue at wedding receptions. If she doesn’t speak soon, I’m going to tell her so. Unless that sounds presumptuous. Does that sound presumptuous? She literally made a beeline for me though. I’m not saying I’m Brad Pitt, but the walking, the eye contact, the smiling and nervousness – it’s making me feel a tiny bit like I might be.

‘I liked your reading,’ she says, finally. Another happy customer! I’d worried a bit, right before I walked up to the microphone, that I’d misjudged it – been too soppy and put in shit jokes. But I made Adriano and Sarah well up, and even Charlie said I’d nailed it. And now she’s here, this angel, telling me she liked it too. ‘It was very romantic,’ she adds, and it’s so uncool and weird of me, but I take her hand. And shake it. I take her hand and shake it, as if I’m the Prime Minister at a fundraiser and really must be going, just as soon as I’ve secured her donation.

‘Thank you,’ I say, and then I go one step weirder than a handshake by slipping a used cocktail stick into my shirt pocket so that I can place my free hand on top. If she puts hers on top of mine, we’ll practically be ready to shout ‘One, Two, Break!’ and then go win a high-school football game.

We stare at each other.

‘I don’t want to sound presumptuous …’ she says, lowering her voice, and I swear she’s hitting on me. She wants me. Maybe I’m high off my glory, but I wish I’d stolen one of those condoms from the not-mine suitcase earlier on, because she’s looking at me as if I might need one. She’s not being shy about it. It’s astonishing, really.

‘How could youpossiblybe anything other than disarminglyunpresumptuous?’ I say, and though we’re at a wedding reception with two hundred other people, it’s just her and me, now.

She flushes pink, and I know I’m laying it on thick, but the way she’s looking at me, I can tell she wants me to. She wants me to flirt with her. It emboldens me.

‘Well,’ she continues. ‘Wait for it. Do you think I can ask you …? Why are you dressed … You know … All business on the top and party on the bottom?’

She gestures to the shirt, and then the shorts.

‘My outfit?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ she says. She pulls a face, then, a sort of ‘uh-oh!’ cartoony motion, and I love that she’s not afraid to be silly. I like her, this woman. She’s not my normal type, but she’s oddly marvellous.

‘My suitcase has gone missing,’ I explain. ‘This is all I could cobble together.’

She nods in understanding. ‘Is it a navy-blue Away case?’ she asks.

I narrow my eyes. ‘Yes …’ I say, and my body senses what she’s going to say before my head does. All my head can think is,How does she know?The sight of her face is slowing down my synapses.

‘I have it,’ she says.

She has it?

‘I didn’t mean to have it,’ she continues, and she talks fast. I didn’t realise how fast she talks, at first, how animatedly, but now I’ve noticed it’s a challenge to keep up with her, like if you can, you’re in, and if you can’t, she’s not interested. I really want to be able to keep up. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should leave it at reception, or wait for you to come up to my room so we could switch. I told reception to let you know I’m in Room Twelve. I really was worried I had your whole wedding outfit.’

Those synapses are still firing slowly, thoughts wading through treacle. She’s stunning. She’s still stood so very close to me. And she has my suitcase?

Wait.

She’s in Room 12?

---