The wrong suitcase, p.1
The Wrong Suitcase, page 1
THE WRONG SUITCASE
Laura Jane Williams
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2022
Copyright © Just Show Up Ltd 2022
Cover design by Caroline Young © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2022
Cover illustration © Giovanna Giuliano
Laura Jane Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novella is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © February 2022 ISBN: 9780008455040
Version: 2022-01-25
For Charlotte Jacklin and Sabah Khan,
the readers I am forever trying to impress.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: Izzy
Chapter 2: Birchy
Chapter 3: Izzy
Chapter 4: Birchy
Chapter 5: Izzy
Chapter 6: Birchy
Chapter 7: Izzy
Chapter 8: Birchy
Chapter 9: Izzy
Chapter 10: Birchy
Chapter 11: Izzy
Chapter 12: Birchy
Chapter 13: Izzy
Chapter 14: Birchy
Chapter 15: Izzy
Chapter 16: Birchy
Chapter 17: Izzy
Chapter 18: Birchy
Acknowledgements
Publishing Credits
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Fiction by the same author
About the Publisher
1
Izzy
From the back seat of my taxi I can confidently declare: this is going to be the wedding of the year. It’s something about the light that does it. It’s setting the perfect mood. As we speed through the hills of Tuscany, winding on a dusty road flanked by undulating vineyards on either side, the sun glows bright and yellow, making everything look like a film set based on the director’s wildest La Dolce Vita dreams. Oh, and I do mean speed, by the way. My driver, Pietro, apparently didn’t get the memo that everything is supposed to move more slowly in Italy.
‘Chianti is very … bella,’ I offer up to him, shouting over the din of the engine. He doesn’t take his foot off the accelerator as he looks at me in the rearview mirror.
‘Key-anti,’ he says, using a hand to punctuate the air as he distinguishes between the syllables, correcting my pronunciation. I listened to some Michel Thomas lessons to try and pick up the basics on the plane over, but it’s really hard to practise a language without repeating words out loud, and I didn’t want to be that girl on the 10 a.m. from Luton. I take my opportunity now.
‘Key-anti,’ I parrot back.
‘Brava,’ Pietro says, and I think that must mean ‘good’ because he says it with a satisfied nod.
I’ve saved up all year for this. When the invitation landed on the mat of my shared Putney flat last Christmas, I knew it would be worth it even then. The envelope was sealed with a dollop of ruby-red wax and stamped with the entwined initials ‘S’ and ‘A’, the invitation printed on card so thick I almost had to hold it in two hands. I met Sarah when I studied abroad in Toronto for a semester at university, and she met Adriano when she went on to teach English in Rome after graduation. Adriano is a Yorkshireman (with long-lost Sicilian great-grandparents, hence the elaborate name) and she’s Canadian, but they’d decided on Northern Italy for their destination wedding as a midway point for their two families, in the wine region of the bottle they’d shared on their first date …
I know. It’s enough to make you sick. But, as a primary schoolteacher in South London, my life is more than a little short on dreamy love affairs set against the backdrop of chichi trattorias and the Colosseum. I’ve lived vicariously through Sarah thanks to email and FaceTime, following her Instagram with an envy kept at bay only by how lovely she is. Sarah remembers birthdays and knows when to send flowers, even though she’s an ocean away. She’s a wonderful friend who just so happens to be unabashedly in love with a man who looks like a Ken doll and is romantic enough to have proposed with a flash mob by the Trevi Fountain.
‘Is only you?’ Pietro asks, as we turn off onto a driveway that seems to stretch up ahead for miles. The sun plays peek-a-boo through the uniform cypress trees, casting shadows through the car and mercifully cooling the air.
‘Is only me,’ I confirm, grinning wildly to prove just how okay I am with it. Because honestly, I am.
Up until the beginning of summer I thought Doug was coming with me, which you’d expect of a boyfriend, obviously. But my anxiety had grown and grown as I imagined trying to keep him upbeat and entertained on this trip – the last weekend before school starts and the climax of a summer break I’ve filled with extra tutoring work and babysitting for the cash. I’d thought Doug was droll and self-mocking, but it turns out Doug is, well … I don’t want to use the words ‘a miserable bastard’, but the shoe fits. He kept reminding me how hot it would still be in Italy at the end of August and asking if I really wanted to spend all this money on thirty-six hours away when I’m supposed to be saving for a house deposit. He just doesn’t get it, and the closer it got to flying off – my gorgeous 70-per-cent-off Rixo dress packed in a sleek carry-on suitcase I’d borrowed from my sister-in-law, hair newly highlighted from the fanciest place in town – the more I realised that Doug just doesn’t get me. I live for this stuff. You know the only thing better than going on holiday? Planning a holiday. I’m the friend who books a restaurant table two weeks in advance and spends the next fourteen days googling the menu and thinking about the drinks list. Anticipation is as much a part of the experience as the actual experience, if you ask me – not to mention poring over the photos and memories afterwards. So I gently suggested maybe we weren’t a match after all. He doesn’t get excited about things and thinks enthusiasm is a weakness. You’re supposed to feel more yourself when you fall in love, aren’t you? Not less. And with Doug, I’d started to shrink the passion I have for my own life to match the misanthropic woe he goes through his with. My point being: I’d rather be travelling alone than with the dead weight of somebody who thinks the pinnacle of living dangerously is ordering chips and mash with his dinner.
‘Izzy!’
My heart swells twelve sizes with joy. I hear her, even though Pietro has started to babble zealously in rhythmic song with a hotel porter as we pull up. It’s Anastasia, the only other person from my uni who did the same semester abroad, so even though we’re from the same country I met her in Toronto, too. She loved it that much that she went straight back to Canada the first chance she got. That was six years ago, now.
As I climb out of the car, she envelops me in a tight hug, screeching animatedly in my ear as she holds my shoulders. ‘Can you believe this place? It’s like a cross between where Tom Cruise married Katie Holmes – RIP to them – and where the Volturi live. I literally got lost this morning.’
I’m vaguely aware of the porter taking my luggage through to reception, catching his eye to let him know I’ve clocked it. I’ve arrived at the castle. A Tuscan castle, with huge fortress-like walls giving way to an immaculate courtyard. The place is so medieval it’s surprising nobody is wearing chain mail and carrying a sword.
‘The website did not do this justice. This is the poshest place I’ve ever seen,’ I marvel theatrically.
‘Right?’ she says, linking her arm through mine. She lowers her voice to add, ‘I think her grandparents paid for it.’
I should hate that Anastasia is such a gossip, but it’s why I love her. She always knows the details of what’s happening behind the curtain. It’s always stuff you don’t think you care about knowing until she tells you, and inevitably then you want to know more.
‘Come on,’ she continues. ‘Let’s get a drink! I want you to meet Kat. I’ve told her all about you, obvs. She’s down by the pool.’
I glance at my watch. We have four hours until the wedding begins, and three before the pre-ceremony drinks reception, so I’ve got at least an hour before I need to start getting ready. The room cost a fortune, and I upgraded from the double to the king in celebration of the break-up – Doug would be scandalised! – so I want at least one luxurious bubble bath whilst I’m here, enjoyed with a single glass of iced champagne and the ‘Going to the Chapel’ playlist I’ve curated especially to get me in the mood.
‘They take your stuff up to your room for you, so don’t worry about that,’ Anastasia adds.
‘Lead the way, then ,’ I say, noting the line of sweat forming on my brow. It’s the hottest part of the day, coming in at over thirty degrees, even in the hills. ‘But maybe I should go and get my swimsuit. Unless you think anyone will notice if I sunbathe in my bra?’ I joke. ‘It’s black.’
Anastasia cackles with glee as she pretends to peek down my top.
‘I insist on it.’ She giggles. ‘I’ve already counted up at least three fellow guests who are exactly your type, so we may as well work on getting their attention now.’
I’m not saying I’m in the market for a fling, but it has certainly crossed my mind that I’d love to flirt with a handsome man if the chance arises. It’s all part of the fun when you’re single at a wedding, isn’t it? Not to mention single at a wedding in a Tuscan castle, fresh out of a relationship that should have ended months ago. I’m here for fun. I just want to feel like my carefree self again. I’m ready.
‘Oh?’ I laugh. ‘Well, that fits in with my objectives for this weekend perfectly!’
‘I thought it might,’ Anastasia shoots back, and we hoot delightedly once more, full-to-bursting at what’s in store.
2
Birchy
‘What’s that smell?’
My brother Charlie looks around the minivan with his face crinkled up in disgust, his gaze landing on me and the faint white stain across the bottom of my crumpled shirt.
‘Your youngest son,’ I say, through gritted teeth, ‘spilt his lunch milk on me.’
‘Smells like vomit,’ he replies, taking his seat, ever the Captain Obvious. Everyone knows that when milk dries, it stinks to high heaven. And anyone with nostrils who didn’t know that certainly does now. My temples pulse and the space behind my eyes throbs in pain. I should drink some water. I’m probably dehydrated in this heat.
‘They stowed my case under the bus before I could change,’ I explain, trying once more to open the window I’m pressed up against. I still can’t do it. ‘Hey,’ I say to anyone within earshot. ‘Anyone got some water I can have?’ My whole family ignores me. Of course they do. I’m just grumpy Uncle Sam, the one who has already spoiled the mood by yelling at the flight attendant and making my sister cry.
‘Darling,’ my mother says, moving the book and phone that I’d purposefully placed to mark out the spot beside me as off-limits. ‘Just tell me one more time. I don’t understand why Ella wouldn’t show up today. What did you do?’
She’s talking about my date for the wedding. The date who stood me up this morning. When I called, she said she’d met somebody else and couldn’t in good conscience fly with me and the whole Birch family to a wedding when she knew when we got back she’d only dump me anyway. Is it worse to tell Mum I can’t keep a woman interested in me, or more embarrassing to make her think it was my fault? I romanced Ella – wined and dined her like a princess, called when I said I would, and always planned the next date well in advance. It’s time for me to settle down – I don’t need my bloody mother to remind me of that – and so I was careful with her. Deliberate. Really tried my best. It’s remarkable that I spent all of my twenties avoiding any kind of commitment, probably breaking a few more hearts than I’d like to admit, and then the one time I actually really like someone, and tell her so, I get finished with. There’s one small consolation, and that’s the fact that I don’t have to introduce my family to a woman who thinks that kind of behaviour is acceptable. I wish I could distinguish between my heart and my ego – which one is more upset? I honestly can’t tell.
‘I can’t get this window open,’ I say to the jammed lock, making it clear I won’t engage with any talk of Ella. ‘Why can’t I get this window open?’
I wiggle it back and forth again, for longer than is strictly necessary, and when I turn back, she’s slinked off and my step-dad is in her place.
‘Here you go, lad,’ he says, offering me a cold bottle of mineral water. I like my step-dad. He doesn’t say much, but since I was ten, I’ve always known he’s there for me in his own way. I accept the water with a smile that ends up more like a grimace and feel thankful that if he’s my seat-buddy, I won’t need to make small talk. All I want is to get to this wedding with enough time for a cold beer and a dip in the pool before the ceremony so I can wash off this whole horrible day and start again. That’s it. I know I’ve been unreasonable and lashed out at the people who love me, and if I could just hit the reset button, I’ll be able to enjoy myself. I need half an hour alone to wallow and then I’ll bounce back. Just half an hour alone. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
Half an hour, I repeat to myself as a mantra. Get thirty minutes alone and you’ll be fine.
‘Well, would you look at that,’ my sister Esme says as we wind further and further through the hills and turn off towards the castle. She’s right to sound awestruck. It’s not as though I haven’t been to Italy before, but up in this part of Tuscany it’s like another world. Even my nephews go quiet as we drink in the majestic sight of a proper Italian citadel. A hush descends across everyone as the van slows, and I sense my chance. I leap up and launch myself towards the front of the taxi before we’ve even fully stopped.
‘Is that really necessary, Sam?’ I hear Mum tut as I scramble down the steps and make a break for it. I assume somebody related to me will put my suitcase where it needs to be, and hastily follow the sign for reception, where they tell me I can change and get a towel down by the pool. As I stride through the building and get closer to the water, already I start to breathe deeper.
Half an hour. I just need half an hour.
I suppose most guests are already taking a siesta before the festivities because only a handful of people are by the pool – which is a relief. It glistens like it’s laced with stars, tempting me. Luring me in. I’ve got my swimmers and goggles in my rucksack, but can’t see where I’m supposed to get changed. I don’t want to talk to anyone to ask. I look around anxiously, trying to decide what to do.
I decide nobody is really paying attention to me anyway, so pull down my shorts, step out of them as quickly as I can, and pull up my swimmers over my boxers, all in one swift movement.
I think I’ve got away with it, but at the opposite end of the pool a group of three women have clocked me from behind their sunnies and are raising their glasses in my direction, shouting, ‘Way-hey!’ like a group of lads on tour. I think they’re drunk already. Nice.
‘Thanks for the show!’ the blonde one yells, like there’s any difference between seeing a man in his boxers and his swimming stuff anyway. They could be sunbathing in bras instead of bikinis and I wouldn’t know the difference. I don’t know what comes over me, but as I finish tying the bow to tighten my shorts, I jut my chin out and give them the finger.
It causes the three women to shriek in shock and then laugh even harder, but when I fix my goggles and dive into the deep end of the pool, their ruckus drowns out like hitting the mute button on a Zoom call. Nothing else exists but the water. As I inhale and exhale with my strokes, I realise I’m breathing properly for the first time all day.
3
Izzy
I stand, flummoxed, encased in the fluffiest hotel robe this side of a bichon frise, realising that I’ve been given the wrong suitcase.
From the outside, it looks like the one I’d borrowed from my sister-in-law. A navy-blue hard-shelled Away case, with a matching navy-blue tag. I opened it with the four digits of her birthday, like she taught me. 1-3-0-2. But my party dress isn’t in there. Neither is my make-up bag or the beautiful 1930s silk nightdress I found at my favourite vintage shop in Islington. This is clearly a man’s case. It’s full of checks and blues and a pair of shiny tan leather brogues. They’re enormous, taking up most of the length of the luggage. I eye them approvingly. You know what they say about big shoes.
I pick up the phone and call reception.
‘I’ve been given the wrong bag,’ I explain, when a very patient woman switches from Italian to English and asks me how she can help. ‘There’s been a mix-up. A … confusion. Somebody else must have my suitcase. Has anybody called?’
‘You have the wrong bag?’ she clarifies, and when I say yes, she mutters, ‘Ma che cazzo, Eleanora,’ darkly, as if this isn’t the first time it’s happened. ‘One moment, yes? Arriviamo.’
