Page 7 of The Wrong Suitcase

What kind of person has a hotel room to get ready for a wedding, but then is never in the bloody thing? It makes no sense. Surely she wants me to find her as much as she wants to find me. Surely this mystery woman must be worried and panicked too. Women freak out for weeks about what to wear to swanky events like this. I wonder if we’re walking up and down the corridors, missing each other?

I bang on the door so loudly that a bloke pops his head out of the opposite room and asks, ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah,’ I say, watching him clock my hotel dressing gown and slippers. He’s wearing a slim-fit cream suit and a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, and the contrast to his brown skin makes him look like … well. He looks really good. Oh god. Everyone at this wedding is going to look like they’ve stepped out of a Gucci catalogue, and then there’s going to beme.Crap. Crap, crap, crap. I realise the guy is still watching me. ‘Have you seen anyone go in and out of this room?’ I ask, frantic and wide-eyed. ‘I think the woman in there has my suitcase.’

He shakes his head. ‘Afraid not.’

Damn it. I knock on the door again. I don’t care if he’s watching. I don’t know what else to do.

‘You know we’re supposed to be down there in ten minutes, don’t you?’ the bloke says, in between knocks. I flex my hand to stretch it. I think that last knock was maybe a bit too hard. It’s entirely possible the woman in there isn’t coming out because I’ve scared the living daylights out of her, banging like I’m an army general and about to stage a hotel coup, not retrieve my shaving kit.

‘I do,’ I reply. ‘But look at me. Don’t you think Sarah will be upset if I turn up in white, too?’

He stifles a grin. I sound melodramatic and unhinged – my voice matching the erratic banging – but at least he’s kind enough not to outwardly mock me. I must look pitiful. If I wasn’t so flustered, I might have the good sense to be a bit more self-conscious.

‘Do you need a shirt?’ he asks. ‘If the person in that room has your suitcase, does that mean you don’t have a shirt to wear?’

It’s my turn to size him up. I think he’s being sincere. ‘Do you really have one?’ I enquire. ‘Because if you do … that helps. That helps a lot.’

‘I do,’ he responds. I look at the time on my phone. I’ve got a decision to make: do I waste more time figuring out where my case is, or suck it up and wear this man’s shirt and figure out the rest later? I’m part of the ceremony – I can’t miss the thing because I’ve got nothing to wear.

‘I’ve got a minibar full of cold beers in here too if you want one,’ the man adds. ‘You look like you could do with one. No judgement,’ he adds, raising up his palms to demonstrate that he comes in peace.

‘Sam,’ I say, reaching out a hand. ‘But everyone calls me Birchy.’

‘Aran,’ he says, as we shake hands. ‘And everyone calls me Aran.’

‘Aran,’ I say. ‘I owe you one.’

I start to wheel the case with me towards his room, but realise it’s no good to me. I push it back towards the door of Room 12, spin it around so that the front is facing forwards, and lower the handle back. Let this invisible woman have her case back. I need to surrender to the day. I don’t have any fight left in me. The universe wins. Whatever is up there in sky, determined to take a great big dump all over me, wins.

‘Follow me,’ instructs Aran, holding the door open behind him as he goes back to where he came from.

‘Just you?’ I ask, loitering as he pulls out a white shirt from a dry-cleaning bag slung over a chair in the corner and examines it. His room is bigger than mine and has a balcony.

‘Yeah,’ he says, assessing if it needs an iron around the bottom. I can already see that it does. ‘I know Sarah from junior high. She was my first girlfriend, actually. And my last, as it goes. This is going to need an iron, but it should fit you, I think. Right?’

He holds it up to me, and I’m confident it will. We’re both built lean and muscular, and come in at about the same height. What are the chances?

‘It’s probably pushing it to ask if you’ve got a spare pair of trousers, isn’t it?’ I say.

He nods. ‘I’m just a bloke who picked up his dry-cleaning on the way to the airport,’ he says. ‘Not your fairy godmother.’

‘Right.’ I nod, smiling. ‘Yes. Of course. I honestly appreciate the shirt so much though. I’m havingquitethe day, and this is … Well, cheers.’

‘You in for that beer?’ he asks. ‘If we drink fast?’

We don’t have time for it – not really – but I feel like I need it. All the big exhaling I did out by the pool and in the shower has been undone by the last thirty minutes. I need a reset on my reset if I’m going to head down there smiling and ready to be a good guest. And weddings never start on time, do they? That’s whole point. Time stops existing when you’re marrying the love of your life, and your guests float, suspended, in a bubble of celebration and booze.

‘You know what? I am,’ I decide, and Aran tells me to make myself comfortable on the terrace. I head out and sink into a plush armchair with thick-striped cushions and look out onto the golden fields splayed out in every direction I can see. What a place for a wedding.

‘Not bad, is it?’ He hands me a Peroni, wet with condensation.

‘The view?’ I say. ‘No. Not bad at all.’

I take a swig and feel the honeyed nectar travel down my throat. I guzzle from the bottle again. It’s good. Needed.

‘Weddings are weird, aren’t they?’ Aran says. ‘Especially if you’re single. Hard not to feel left behind.’ He takes a gulp from his beer too, and I steal a look at him to see if he’s taking the mickey out of me. I don’t think he is.

---