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The driver’s beard is quite extraordinary, and I find myself staring at it. It’s nothing like a well-groomed hipster beard – more of a Tom Hanks in Castaway beard. This guy literally looks as if he washed up here a few years ago, has been sleeping in a hut, living off coconuts, and then today decided to start driving a cab. His car also smells distinctly castaway-like – there’s a definite musk of wet, sandy towels.
He surveys me in the rear-view mirror, and I’m slow to muster a smile.
‘Cheer up. Hey, might never happen,’ he says, in a soft, deep voice.
And that does it. Something inside me snaps, and before I can stop myself, I bite back.
‘I am allowed to look grumpy if I want to. It is my face and my prerogative not to smile. You don’t know what’s going on in my life, and it is not my responsibility to make the world a prettier place for you, OK? So just keep your eyes on the road, please.’
His dark eyes grow wide in surprise, and he dutifully returns them to the tarmac ahead. I know I should stop talking, rein it in, but it’s like this bubble of rage has been sitting in my stomach for I don’t know how long – and now that I’ve popped the cork, out it spews.
‘And you know, maybe I don’t want to look cheerful. Maybe I’ve got nothing to look cheerful about. Maybe I’m doing everything wrong and I’ll have “died with unrealistic expectations” engraved on my bargain basement headstone.’
I sink back into the seat, having scared myself a bit. I’m not sure the author of Tiger Woman meant me to ‘unleash my inner roar’ on a poor, unsuspecting stranger.
‘You’re over from London, then,’ says the driver, shifting awkwardly in his seat.
Oh right, so now he thinks I’m some angry city cow. It’s not city living that has made me angry. I cross my arms and turn to glare out of the window at the evening sky. We’re driving along the sea front now, a huge expanse of dimpled, wet sand merging into grey-blue water. I try to catch my breath, taking a moment to absorb the sight of the sea.
The driver is watching the road, his shoulders relaxed, a finger tapping on the wheel, unflustered by my outburst. Obviously, I should apologise – I know I’ve overreacted and none of what I’m feeling is this cab driver’s fault. But if I try to be nice, I think I might cry, and I really don’t want to cry on him – that would be even more awkward than him thinking me rude.
I’m booked into the Weighbridge, a hotel on a cobbled square in the centre of St Helier. It’s got a spa, several restaurants, and a beautiful view over the harbour. Ridhima, one of the assistants at work, got me a great deal as long as I hashtag the hotel in social media posts. At first glance, it seems the ideal central location from which to explore the rest of the island.
As we arrive, I snap a quick photo out of the window for Instagram.
‘Thank you,’ I say to the driver as he drops me off. Giving him a hefty tip, I mutter an apology.
‘Good luck,’ he says, in a way that implies I’m going to need a great deal of it because I’m clearly bonkers. Fair enough really, given my earlier meltdown.
My hotel room is exactly what I need; clean and comfortingly neutral. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed in a hotel alone before – only ever with a friend or boyfriend. Do I wish David was here? No, he’d only be calling the front desk to enquire about the duvet tog rating or checking if the TV has Sky Sports. I shall relish the luxury of having a king-size bed, a giant bathtub, and all this space just for me. I start running a bath and take a small tub of Pringles from the mini bar. I know these things are a rip-off, but since my outburst in the cab, my hands won’t stop shaking. I need to give them something to do.
Who was that person who exploded at that poor man? That wasn’t me; I don’t get angry like that. I didn’t even know I was worried about any of that stuff. I know I’ve been a little all-over-the-place since losing Mum, but deep down I’ve always felt like an optimist. Maybe what Dee said in the car got under my skin, about needing to be realistic when it comes to love. Maybe I just need to accept I’ll never be the happy-go-lucky person I was before Mum died.
I pour myself a strong gin and tonic and open the balcony window to look out at the cobbled square and the harbour full of boats beyond. The sound of people enjoying themselves in the bar below rises up to meet me. Walking back to the bathroom, I turn off the bath tap and splash my face with water. Don’t waste this weekend being melancholy, Laura – this should be a happy weekend, a celebration of what your parents had, an adventure discovering your Jersey heritage.
Pulling my bag onto the bed to unpack, I notice it feels lighter than it should. Then I see the zip colour is wrong; it’s dark grey, rather than black. I frown as I open the case; on top is a man’s white work shirt, a travel-size stick of men’s deodorant …
For a moment, I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. These are not my things; this isn’t my bag. As it dawns on me that I have picked up the wrong case, I close my eyes for a moment. This is all I need; now I’ll have to go all the way back to the airport to retrieve mine.
As I stare down at the contents of the case, willing them to be different, I notice the paperback lying next to the pile of clothes: To Kill a Mockingbird, my lifelong favourite book, one of Dad’s favourites, too. I pick up the well-thumbed copy, an old edition just like the one Dad left me. Placing it on the bed, I find myself looking through the contents of the case. A strange sensation, like a cluster of clouds moving aside, comes over me, my irritation at having the wrong bag morphing into something new, something unexpected.
Beneath the book is one of those thick-knit cream fisherman’s jumpers. I love these sorts of jumpers on a man – the kind Chris Evans wears in Knives Out, or that Ryan Gosling might wear on a weekend away to a log cabin, where he’d chop wood and make gin martinis before asking if you’re up for a game of Scrabble by the fire. Beneath the jumper is a book of piano music. I love men who can play the piano, it has to be one of the sexiest skills. I briefly dated a pianist when I worked at the music magazine, and his playing alone was almost enough to make me overlook the fact that he was a complete pig … and then I read the words on the book of music and slap a hand across my mouth – ‘Phil Collins’ Greatest Hits’. OMG, what is this? This can’t be a coincidence. I take everything out of the case in a frenzy, as though the man who owns this bag might be hidden at the bottom.
There are blue running trainers and a neatly tied clear plastic bag full of worn clothes and running gear (I draw the line at rummaging through that). At the bottom of the case, in a sealed Duty-Free plastic bag, is a perfume bottle – Yardley English Lavender, my mother’s perfume. Seeing it sends goose bumps down my arm. I don’t know anyone else who wears this scent. No doubt it is a present for someone, but it feels as though it is for me – a sign from Mum. I blink away the itch behind my eye. Get it together, Laura – it’s probably a gift for the guy’s wife. Then, tucked against the side, I find an unsealed card in a blank envelope. Would it be terrible if I looked to see if it has been written in? Best not to ask yourself these questions.
Dearest Mum,
I know you wanted a beehive for your birthday – but I thought if you smelt of lavender, you’d have swarms of admirers …
Love J
PS your real present is in the garden. I shall expect honey for Christmas.
Oh my, he sounds adorable. He bought his mother a beehive, I want a beehive! I feel bad for reading the card now, but also relieved it wasn’t for a wife. Oh, and his handwriting – there’s something so appealing about good handwriting; it’s so neat, but with these long, upright letters. He’s a J … James? John? Jack? Jim? There are so many great J names. In fact, I can’t think of a single J name that’s not super hot – except maybe Jenson, but that’s literally the only one I can think of.
I’m getting carried away, I know, but I can’t help myself. This is too spooky, especially factoring in Vanya’s intuition about this weekend. The final object of interest I find is a bunch of keys, hidden in a side pocket. They are tied to a piece of old sailing rope, and have a tag made from wood, with the words ‘THE CABIN’ etched on. He has a cabin, wasn’t I just daydreaming about cabins? His suitability is indisputable now.
I pick up the jumper and breathe it in. Amazing – like log fires and baked scones and the sweat from vigorously cutting wood.
Am I thinking like a crazy person? Probably. But there’s something about this that feels so real. Everything about this man in this case, it all fits with my story. It is too perfect not to mean something, for it not to be a sign. This must be him, my Great Love, delivered to me in a black carry-on suitcase.
