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‘Oh jeez, you’re one of those weird movie geeks, aren’t you?’ I say, pretending to yawn as I unzip the bag in the boot. ‘Anyway, by that logic, this suitcase isn’t the McGuffin, it’s the suitcase owner. I already have the suitcase.’
He thinks for a moment, and then looks almost impressed. ‘Lady Muck, I do believe you are right.’
‘Not that this little lecture in movie geekology isn’t fascinating, but, are you going to look for clues or what?’
Ted’s lips twitch into a smile, then he turns his attention to the case and starts lifting clothes out, carefully laying them out inside the boot.
‘Well, he’s got a thirty-four leg and thirty-two-inch waist, so you know he’s tall and lean. Expensive work shirt, must earn a bit …’
He picks up To Kill a Mockingbird and skims through the pages.
‘Let me guess, you wanted a father like Atticus Finch.’
Am I that much of a cliché? Who wouldn’t want a father like Atticus, with his strong moral compass and sage advice? But I don’t feel like admitting to Ted that when I read the book, I imagine Atticus with my father’s face.
‘I just like the book,’ I say, taking it back from him.
Ted peers into the plastic bag of worn running kit and wrinkles his nose.
‘Well, your Mr McGuffin may be well read, but his sweat still stinks.’
‘He exercises and looks after himself, I like that in a man,’ I say, feeling myself prickle. I don’t like Ted being rude about Hot Suitcase Guy’s things. It feels like a strange betrayal that I’m letting him look through the bag at all.
Ted picks up one of the expensive-looking trainers and looks at the tab inside.
‘Size eleven – well, they do say you can tell a lot about a man from the size of his feet.’ Ted raises an eyebrow at me.
‘Give me that,’ I say, reaching out to grab the shoe. I pull the trainer a bit too hard, and then watch in horror as it flies out of my hand and sails over the side of the cliff. We both stand in silence for a moment, our eyes watching its long route, bouncing down the cliffs towards the sea below – there’s no way we’re getting that back.
‘Oops,’ says Ted.
‘How the hell am I going to explain that?’ I cry.
Then we look at each other, and Ted starts to laugh.
‘It’s not funny!’ I say, pushing a hand against his chest.
‘He won’t mind about the trainers once he’s met you,’ says Ted, and the compliment sends a warm pulse up my neck. ‘A small price to pay for meeting your soulmate,’ his tone is back to teasing. ‘Come on, there’s got to be something more to go on in here.’
He pulls a worn running top from the plastic bag and holds it out in front of him. ‘Bingo,’ he says, turning it around to show me.
On the back of the top, it reads: Jersey Relay Marathon – ‘The Bee Team’, raising money for JBCS.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘The Jersey Bee Conservation Society. If he raised money for them, they might know who he is, and I happen to know that they have a stall at the Trinity Community Fete this morning – we could go ask them.’
I high-five Ted, and he looks genuinely delighted at having found a lead.
‘When we find him, I’m telling him you threw his shoe off a cliff in a jealous rage that he has bigger feet than you,’ I say.
‘He doesn’t. Mine are eleven and a half.’
We get back in the car, a strange giddy feeling in my stomach, and my cheeks feel flushed. Maybe I’m still feeling a bit carsick. I should probably stop looking at my phone on all these windy roads. Resting my cheek against the cool glass of the side window, I try to think of a good excuse for losing a shoe; what I will say when I finally track down Hot Suitcase Man.
