Page 2 of The Wrong Suitcase

‘What’s that smell?’

My brother Charlie looks around the minivan with his face crinkled up in disgust, his gaze landing on me and the faint white stain across the bottom of my crumpled shirt.

‘Your youngest son,’ I say, through gritted teeth, ‘spilt his lunch milk on me.’

‘Smells like vomit,’ he replies, taking his seat, ever the Captain Obvious. Everyone knows that when milk dries, it stinks to high heaven. And anyone with nostrils who didn’t know that certainly does now. My temples pulse and the space behind my eyes throbs in pain. I should drink some water. I’m probably dehydrated in this heat.

‘They stowed my case under the bus before I could change,’ I explain, trying once more to open the window I’m pressed up against. I still can’t do it. ‘Hey,’ I say to anyone within earshot. ‘Anyone got some water I can have?’ My whole family ignores me. Of course they do. I’m just grumpy Uncle Sam, the one who has already spoiled the mood by yelling at the flight attendant and making my sister cry.

‘Darling,’ my mother says, moving the book and phone that I’d purposefully placed to mark out the spot beside me as off-limits. ‘Just tell me one more time. I don’t understand why Ella wouldn’t show up today. What did youdo?’

She’s talking about my date for the wedding. The date who stood me up this morning. When I called, she said she’d met somebody else and couldn’t in good conscience fly with me and the whole Birch family to a wedding when she knew when we got back she’d only dump me anyway. Is it worse to tell Mum I can’t keep a woman interested in me, or more embarrassing to make her think it was my fault? I romanced Ella – wined and dined her like a princess, called when I said I would, and always planned the next date well in advance. It’s time for me to settle down – I don’t need my bloody mother to remind me of that – and so I was careful with her. Deliberate. Really tried my best. It’s remarkable that I spent all of my twenties avoiding any kind of commitment, probably breaking a few more hearts than I’d like to admit, and then the one time I actually really like someone, and tell her so, I get finished with. There’s one small consolation, and that’s the fact that I don’t have to introduce my family to a woman who thinks that kind of behaviour is acceptable. I wish I could distinguish between my heart and my ego – which one is more upset? I honestly can’t tell.

‘I can’t get this window open,’ I say to the jammed lock, making it clear I won’t engage with any talk of Ella. ‘Why can’t I get this window open?’

I wiggle it back and forth again, for longer than is strictly necessary, and when I turn back, she’s slinked off and my step-dad is in her place.

‘Here you go, lad,’ he says, offering me a cold bottle of mineral water. I like my step-dad. He doesn’t say much, but since I was ten, I’ve always known he’s there for me in his own way. I accept the water with a smile that ends up more like a grimace and feel thankful that if he’s my seat-buddy, I won’t need to make small talk. All I want is to get to this wedding with enough time for a cold beer and a dip in the pool before the ceremony so I can wash off this whole horrible day and start again. That’s it. I know I’ve been unreasonable and lashed out at the people who love me, and if I could just hit the reset button, I’ll be able to enjoy myself. I need half an hour alone to wallow and then I’ll bounce back. Just half an hour alone. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

Half an hour, I repeat to myself as a mantra. Get thirty minutes alone and you’ll be fine.

‘Well, would you look at that,’ my sister Esme says as we wind further and further through the hills and turn off towards the castle. She’s right to sound awestruck. It’s not as though I haven’t been to Italy before, but up in this part of Tuscany it’s like another world. Even my nephews go quiet as we drink in the majestic sight of a proper Italian citadel. A hush descends across everyone as the van slows, and I sense my chance. I leap up and launch myself towards the front of the taxi before we’ve even fully stopped.

‘Is that really necessary, Sam?’ I hear Mum tut as I scramble down the steps and make a break for it. I assume somebody related to me will put my suitcase where it needs to be, and hastily follow the sign for reception,where they tell me I can change and get a towel down by the pool. As I stride through the building and get closer to the water, already I start to breathe deeper.

Half an hour. I just need half an hour.

I suppose most guests are already taking a siesta before the festivities because only a handful of people are by the pool – which is a relief. It glistens like it’s laced with stars, tempting me. Luring me in. I’ve got my swimmers and goggles in my rucksack, but can’t see where I’m supposed to get changed. I don’t want to talk to anyone to ask. I look around anxiously, trying to decide what to do.

I decide nobody is really paying attention to me anyway, so pull down my shorts, step out of them as quickly as I can, and pull up my swimmers over my boxers, all in one swift movement.

I think I’ve got away with it, but at the opposite end of the pool a group of three women have clocked me from behind their sunnies and are raising their glasses in my direction, shouting, ‘Way-hey!’ like a group of lads on tour. I think they’re drunk already. Nice.

‘Thanks for the show!’ the blonde one yells, like there’s any difference between seeing a man in his boxers and his swimming stuff anyway. They could be sunbathing in bras instead of bikinis and I wouldn’t know the difference. I don’t know what comes over me, but as I finish tying the bow to tighten my shorts, I jut my chin out and give them the finger.

It causes the three women to shriek in shock and then laugh even harder, but when I fix my goggles and dive into the deep end of the pool, their ruckus drowns out like hitting the mute button on a Zoom call. Nothing else exists but the water. As I inhale and exhale with my strokes, I realise I’m breathing properly for the first time all day.

3

Izzy

I stand, flummoxed, encased in the fluffiest hotel robe this side of a bichon frise, realising that I’ve been given the wrong suitcase.

From the outside, it looks like the one I’d borrowed from my sister-in-law. A navy-blue hard-shelled Away case, with a matching navy-blue tag. I opened it with the four digits of her birthday, like she taught me. 1-3-0-2. But my party dress isn’t in there. Neither is my make-up bag or the beautiful 1930s silk nightdress I found at my favourite vintage shop in Islington. This is clearly a man’s case. It’s full of checks and blues and a pair of shiny tan leather brogues. They’re enormous, taking up most of the length of the luggage. I eye them approvingly. You know what they say about big shoes.

I pick up the phone and call reception.

‘I’ve been given the wrong bag,’ I explain, when a very patient woman switches from Italian to English and asks me how she can help. ‘There’s been a mix-up. A … confusion. Somebody else must havemysuitcase. Has anybody called?’

‘You have the wrong bag?’ she clarifies, and when I say yes,she mutters, ‘Ma che cazzo, Eleanora,’darkly, as if this isn’t the first time it’s happened.‘One moment, yes?Arriviamo.’

I guess that must mean they’re coming.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Grazie.Thank you.’

I hang up and sit on the edge of the bed. I’ve already had my bath and drunk my champagne. But what am I supposed to do now? I hope somebody is here quickly – I’m on a schedule, and I hate rushing to get ready. I don’t want to get to the terrace without my make-up having set or sweating because I’ve had to leg it at the last minute. I’m mad at myself for not opening my case before my bath, half an hour ago. I was excited by the fancy oils and bubbles by the sink, so I didn’t need my own. If I had, I’d have figured out earlier that there’d been a mistake. I pick up the phone again.

‘Ten bucks says this is Izzy,’ Anastasia says down the line.

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