Page 5 of The Wrong Suitcase

He lifts a hand to wave at the couple who called his name – relatives of Sarah, judging by their accents – and tells me he’ll see me once I’m ready.

‘Addy?’ I say, as he walks off.

He turns back.

‘You’re lucky to have found each other. Bloody well done. I’m made up for you. This is amazing.’

He grins, and I swear there’s a tear glistening in his eye.

‘Mr Birch?’ Eleanora interrupts. I’d forgotten she was there.

‘Yes,’ I say, making eye contact with her. ‘Did she answer?’

‘The line was busy, sir. But that must mean she is there. I think now is a good time to go up.’

I sigh, and to be fair it’s a bit more dramatic than the situation necessitates. I just don’t understand why I can’t catch a break. Nothing is going my way. I want my case. The only underwear I’ve got access to right now is sopping wet because I swam in it, and I travelled in sneakers. I can’t stand in front of everyone in wet underwear and sneakers – not to mention no shirt because it’s already with housekeeping. I need my things! My dry, well-tailored, wedding-appropriate things!

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll go back up again.’

I start to walk away – hard to do in a dignified manner when you’re in hotel slippers and the floor is carpeted – and I know I’ve just been a twat. I catch one last look at the porter and rectify my tone, adding, trying to sound genuine, ‘Thank you for your help, Eleanora.’

5

Izzy

I knock on the door of Anastasia’s room.

‘I can’t believe you made me walk all the way down here!’ I exclaim as she thrusts it open, her dark hair still in rollers as big as hay barrels but fully dressed in a skin-tight sleeveless black jumpsuit with a bow tie around her neck. She’s wearing matching black peeptoe stilettoes. It’s her take on a formal suit and looks phenomenal. I think she’s even wearing body glitter. She moves aside to let me in to her room.

‘Oh, stop your whining,’ she insists, waiting for a compliment. ‘I wasn’t coming down for a second time, not in these shoes. Soz, pal.’

Her wife Kat doesn’t look up, continuing to wave a mascara wand over her lashes whilst dressed in nothing but a bra and matching thong. ‘Hey, Izzy,’ she says. ‘Sorry about your case.’

I say ‘hey’ to her back. Well, to her bum crack, if I’m honest. It’s hard not to stare.

‘I called down to reception again to see what’s happening, but it was engaged,’ I explain, closing the door behind me and then leaning against it. God, Anastasia really does look good. She’s got the figure of Gisele back in the days she dated Leonardo DiCaprio, but works in communications for the Prime Minister of Canada. It’s just not fair. Imagine your job being to hang out with Justin Trudeau all day. That’s bonkers to me. I deal with five-year-olds. I mean, I love it, but on the last day of term, I did literally have to wipe a student’s arse after he accidentally crapped himself with pre-summer-holidays excitement. ‘I don’t mind admitting that I’m panicking a bit now, so thanks for letting me rummage through your make-up bags. I’ve got concealer and lipstick in my handbag, but all the best stuff is in my bloody suitcase.’

I watch Kat finish her eye make-up and spray her face with setting spray. Then she packs up a velvet pouch with a bunch of products from the vanity and, as she hands it over to me, Anastasia blocks it, looking at me expectantly.

‘You look old and haggard,’ I tell Anastasia, quenching her thirst. ‘Totally terrible. If your legs were any longer, you’d be a giraffe.’

She grins, satisfied. ‘That good, aye?’

‘That good,’ I concede, and Kat waves her make-up-laden arm to remind us she’s still there.

‘Hello?’ she says impatiently.

‘Sorry,’ I say, taking my loot. ‘Thank you.’

‘Use what you want. There’s a nice crème blush in there that will really suit you. I’m loving your hair too – it’s so much blonder than in your photos. You’re lookinggorgeous.’

I catch my reflection in the mirror.

‘Thank you,’ I reply, smoothing it down. ‘Although, the bleach has made it really coarse. It took so long to dry that the hairdryer gave me a shoulder cramp.’ I idly look through the sack Kat has given me. It’s a better make-up collection than mine is, to be honest. I’ve lucked out. I add, ‘Not to mention making me deaf in one ear. Was yours noisy?’

‘The nosiest,’ Anastasia says.

Kat primps and preens with a smear of lipstick. ‘I was thinking,’ she says, smacking her lips together and then spinning her washboard stomach and perky boobs around to face us. ‘Worst-case scenario, I’ve got a spare pair of heels with me. If your case doesn’t get found …’

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