Page 8 of The Wrong Suitcase

‘Are you asking me for the first slow dance?’ I ask. ‘Because if you are, my answer is yes.’

Aran laughs. ‘Good to know. If my first choice doesn’t work out, it’s an absolute maybe from me.’

I drain the last of my beer. I don’t know how I drank it so fast.

Aran pulls his phone from his jacket pocket and checks the time. It’s my cue to leave.

‘Thanks again, man,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you down there in five?’

‘No worries. Glad to be of service. And yeah, see you down there.’

He follows me out of the room, so I have an audience when I say, ‘Oh!’

‘Oh?’ he repeats.

‘The case I left for her,’ I say. ‘For Room 12. It’s gone.’ I step across the corridor and knock loudly. Aran stands awkwardly behind me, and I tell him I might not need his shirt after all.

‘Hello?’ I say, again, knocking ever harder than I did last time.

‘Sorry to break it to you,’ Aran declares. ‘But I think you’re stuck with my shirt. There’s nobody there.’

7

Izzy

I’m feeling good. I’m looking good. With a glass in my hand and gloved waiters milling around making sure it’s never empty, I take a moment to appreciate the day. My suitcase magically appeared at my door. I was able to use my lotions and potions, iron my dress and even have a spare five minutes on the balcony before I came down to the courtyard to get a flame-emoji-worthy selfie I can post tomorrow, forever cementing the occasion on my grid. I still don’t know who the owner of the man’s case is, but he obviously doesn’t want it that much if he hasn’t tracked me down.

As I wait for Anastasia and Kat, I look out over the grounds of the property. The stone has shifted in colour from what it looked like earlier; before, it was sandy and domineering, but now it’s a softer terracotta and safe. Inviting. Thousands upon thousands of fairy lights are strung up, and I can tell that by the time darkness falls it will be magical. Sarah told me that Italians often have up to eight courses at a wedding feast, and I wander around trying to see where we’re going to eat before remembering what Anastasia said about getting lost and deciding to stay put.

‘I just have to say,’ a kindly voice intones, interrupting my reverie as I look out across the vineyards, ‘that your dress is stunning.’

A woman in her sixties is holding a glass of fizz in one hand, arm in arm with a man whom I presume is her husband. She’s wearing the most exquisite beaded shawl and a long satin dress that comes to her mid-calves. Her partner is in a suit that looks made-to-measure, cut in a lightweight beige linen to the exact shape of his shoulders and waist, the fall of his trousers the exact length of his leg.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘If I am going to receive a compliment from the best-dressed couple in the room, it would be rude to say anything other than thank you.’

‘And she’s charming too!’ the woman comments, quite the charmer herself. I raise my glass to hers.

‘I’m Izzy,’ I say.

As we three clink rims, she replies, ‘I’m Claire.’

‘Ian,’ says the man. He stands so close to her there’s barely room to get a piece of paper between them. I love seeing older people in love. Everyone acts like if you’re not settled down by thirty it won’t ever happen for you, but older couples like Claire and Ian remind me that there’s no time limit. Who’s to say they didn’t meet last year and feel the rush of true companionship for the first time only after they both went grey? Or that it’s not a second marriage for them both? Or that they have actually been together for a million years, but nearly split up a thousand times and each time they decide to stay together, their love takes on a new, different shape? I don’t worry about being single now – I’d rather be alone than with the wrong person. That’s why I broke up with Doug. But I do worry about being old alone. I won’t feel like an old maid if I’m not married by thirty, but at sixty I’d definitely like to be sat on the sofa with another human, complaining about our ungrateful children and spoiling our grandkids. I’d like to have a date for weddings, where we can both dress up and look as worldly and glamourous as Ian and Claire.

Jesus. I’m projecting a lot onto them.

‘Bride or groom?’ Claire asks, sensing I’ve drifted off into my own little daydream.

‘Bride,’ I say, coming back to earth. ‘We met at university in Toronto.’

‘Oh, how fun!’ Claire says. ‘We’ve never made it across to Canada, have we, Ian?’

‘Never been out of Europe,’ he corroborates.

‘Good job there’s so much of Europe to see, then.’ I smile. ‘In fact, you know, half the time I think globetrotting is all well and good, but I should probably explore England a bit more. I’ve never been to the Lakes or Cornwall …’

‘Oh, we keep a holiday home in Cornwall, actually. It’s a beautiful part of the world.’

We’re interrupted by a shout of ‘Grandma!’ and two little boys of about eight or nine crash into Claire’s legs, forcing Ian to admonish them. ‘Woah, calm down a bit, will you! You’ll have us on the floor next time!’

---