Just Haven't Met You Yet

by Sophie Cousens

  ‘That’s a beautiful way to think of it. I—’

  ‘Ted? Ted Palmerston?’ comes a voice from behind us. We both turn to see a thickset, muscular man with a shock of ginger hair and a tattoo of the Jersey flag, a white rectangle with a diagonal red cross, on his arm. He has his hand outstretched towards Ted, a huge grin on his face. ‘While I live and breathe, Palmerston returns.’ He laughs.

  Ted’s eyes seem to grow larger as he holds up a palm in greeting.

  ‘Hey Danny,’ he says.

  Danny looks at me, waiting for an introduction he doesn’t get.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad,’ he says, turning back to Ted. ‘I always poke my nose into his porch whenever I pass L’Étacq, you know, check he’s OK.’

  ‘That’s decent of you, Danny.’

  I look back and forth between the two men.

  ‘And I … I heard about your, er, situation. I’m sorry, that’s got to be tough.’

  Ted nods, and Danny eyes me curiously.

  ‘Hi, I’m Laura,’ I say, giving him a wave. ‘I’m a passenger of Ted’s.’

  Danny glances down at the cups on our table and at Ted’s awkward expression. He’s rubbing his beard again, as though if he rubs it hard enough, a conversation genie might spring out. Maybe it’s not just me he gets all monosyllabic around.

  ‘I see.’ Danny looks back and forth between us with a sly smirk. ‘Well, you ever want to go for a beer and set the world to rights, you just let me know, mate. Though maybe you’re all set.’

  Danny gives him a wink and then re-joins the woman and boy waiting for him over by the kiosk awning. They start talking, looking back in our direction.

  Now I have so many questions. What is wrong with Ted’s dad? What’s his ‘situation’? Is he in trouble with the law? Has he entered a beard-growing competition for money and now doesn’t know how to get out of it? By the look on Ted’s face, now isn’t the time to ask.

  ‘Excuse me, I need to make a phone call. Thanks for the coffee, take whatever time you need to explore the beach,’ he says gruffly, then strides off back the way we came, shoulders hunched up around his ears.

  Now I’m worried he felt interrogated. Dee tells me I have a habit of asking too many questions when I first meet people. She says, ‘People don’t want to be bitten into like an apple, Laura – to show you their core in one conversation. Sometimes you have to peel the skin away slowly.’ It made me think of the game my mother used to play when I was a child – where she’d try and peel an apple all in one go. You had to be gentle with the knife, create an even ribbon of peel, so it came away in one piece. I’ve never been able to do it – I don’t have the patience or the sleight of hand.

  I check my phone again, why hasn’t this guy called yet? My number is right there on the baggage tag. Picking up my hot chocolate, I take a final swig but misjudge it and slosh the dregs down the front of my dress. CRAP! I desperately blot at the brown stain with a napkin, but it’s useless. What is wrong with me today? Now I’ll definitely need to find something else to wear before the suitcase exchange.

  Climbing down to the beach via steps built into the harbour wall, I try to shake off my irritation. The woman and her two children are still on the beach, and I ask her to take a picture of me on the rocks, in the same place my mother stood. Checking the old photo for reference, we line up the harbour wall in the background to make it match. I tilt my body away from the camera then turn my head back round, in an effort to hide the hot chocolate stain. The tide is different, and the light is wrong, but the woman is kind and patient, and I’m satisfied with the image she takes.

  Her children are wide-eyed girls with blonde hair, sun-cream-streaked faces and sand-dappled legs. They show me what they’ve been collecting in their buckets.

  ‘Beach tweasure,’ says one, handing me a shiny green rock the size of a coin. ‘For you.’

  The sweetness of the child and the kindness of the gesture sends a stab of something through me, and I clasp the rock to my chest as though it really is treasure. Heat rises behind my eyes as I say goodbye to the family and head back to the car. All those hours my mother must have spent doing childish activities for my benefit: collecting shells at Portishead beach, making papier-mâché crowns to paint and decorate, endless treasure hunts in the garden to find buried coins made of kitchen foil. All that time she invested in my childhood happiness. I wish now I had held onto just one of those papier-mâché crowns.

  Back at the car, Ted has put his cap back on, pulled low over his brow. He looks at my chocolate-covered dress as I climb into the passenger seat.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Clumsy-itis. Does it look terrible?’

  Ted pauses and then shrugs. ‘As long as you’re not trying to impress anyone.’ His eyes flash me a sly look.

  He knows that is exactly what I am trying to do – as soon as I can find the person I am trying to impress.

  ‘Look, I got a present,’ I say, showing him the green rock.

  ‘Sea glass,’ he says.

  ‘Sea glass?’

  ‘It’s all over these beaches. It’s old glass – rubbish, worn down, and tumbled smooth by the sea,’ he says, looking at the piece in my hand. ‘My mother used to collect it. She’d say the sea was trying to give us back something beautiful from the ugly things we throw away.’

  ‘I like that.’ I stow the sea glass in a zipped pocket of my handbag. After biting my lip for a moment, I can’t help asking, ‘So, is that guy Danny an old friend of yours?’

  Translation: tell me about your dad and your ‘situation’.

  ‘Everyone knows everyone else’s business in Jersey. It’s part of the reason I left.’ He turns back to the road. ‘Ready to go?’

  Like I said, I don’t have the patience or the sleight of hand to peel an apple slowly.

  Tiger Woman on Social Media

  Tigers do not seek ‘likes’, they do not need the validation of other tigers; their success is self-evident – they are alive. YOU are alive, you beat the odds to even exist; you have got yourself this far in life’s journey. Take a moment to ‘like’ that.

  Chapter 8

  We drive in silence for ten minutes or so. I’m not offended; if Ted doesn’t want to tell me what that guy Danny was talking about, that’s fine. I’ve got other things on my mind – like, how am I going to track down Hot Suitcase Guy if he doesn’t get in touch with me soon?

  My phone repeatedly pings with text messages, and Ted glances across at me.

  Suki: Can you tie your article in with some photos of Lily James in that Potato Peel Pie film?

  Seriously, is that film the only cultural reference anyone has for the Channel Islands? I tap out a reply.

  Me: Great idea Suki! That was Guernsey rather than Jersey though.

  Suki: Any headway on Henry Cavill skinny-dipping photos?

  I shake my head – Suki appears to have lost focus on the purpose of this trip.

  Vanya has created a new WhatsApp group with Dee and me, called ‘Hot Suitcase Guy’, with a group icon of yet another naked man, holding a suitcase in front of his groin.

  Vanya: I thought we needed a chat group so you can send us both updates. If you haven’t found him yet, do you want me to get someone I know to hack the airline database to get his deets? Vx

  Dee: Vanya, do you know how illegal that is?! Fact: the place you are statistically least likely to meet your life partner – Prison.

  Gran: Please call me when you can, Laura. Not urgent, but there are a few things I’d like to discuss. Also, could you bring me back some black butter if it’s easy? Annie used to eat it on crackers – the taste makes me think of her.

  Gran rarely volunteers memories of Mum like that and I savour this tiny nugget of new information.

  ‘You know you’re missing the view,’ says Ted, distracting me from replying.

  ‘I’m sure you think I’m glued to my phone, but I am here to work.’

  ‘And find your soulmate,�
� he says, flashing me that teasing look again.

  I tilt my head sideways at him.

  ‘That will be a bonus. If I don’t do the work, I won’t have a job to go home to.’

  As though reading my mind, another text from Suki pings through:

  I trust you will come up with something marvellous for the mini-break piece – I have every faith in you. #LoveLife4Ever

  I am used to Suki’s oscillations. One minute she is cold and critical, the next she is praising you, claiming you as family. It’s effective, because just as you give up hope of ever pleasing her, she drops a breadcrumb, and you’ll do anything to keep the warmth of her approval shining in your direction. No one is immune, not even Vanya.

  I thank Suki for her confidence in me, quickly respond to some work emails, and then call the airport, asking to be put through to the lost luggage desk.

  ‘Hi, yes, my name is Laura, last name spelled L.E.Q.U.E.S.N.E. I picked up the wrong bag after a flight yesterday. I wanted to know if mine had been returned, or if the man who has had it called?’

  ‘Ah, Ms Le Cane,’ comes the nasal reply, ‘my colleague tells me you left with another passenger’s suitcase last night.’

  Damn it, zany specs dobbed me in.

  ‘Er, yes, that’s not exactly what happened and it’s Ques-ne, rhymes with Chesney.’ Ted clears his throat beside me. ‘I just thought it would be easier if I delivered the bag directly. If you could give me the man’s details, we could work it out ourselves. The airline doesn’t appear to be doing a great job of retrieving my luggage.’

  Maybe I can scare this woman into giving me his number if I get all ‘customer complaintsy’ on her.

  ‘Miss Le Ques-ne,’ she imitates the way I said my name. She doesn’t sound at all scared of me. ‘It isn’t airline policy to release customers’ private details. Be assured we are trying our best to get in touch with the passenger whose bag you have. Could you give me the code on the baggage receipt for your missing luggage?’

  With a sigh, I read out the number on the receipt stuck to the back of my wallet.

  Then she says, ‘We will do our best to locate your missing item. Now, if you let us know where you are staying, we’ll send someone to pick up the bag you have taken’ – she pauses – ‘in error.’

  ‘Hang on … my reception is going,’ I lie. ‘Just, er, call me if he calls! Bye!’

  I hang up and then look in trepidation at the screen, as though the woman I was talking to might leap out of my phone. How crazy am I acting, on a scale of one to Amy Dunne in Gone Girl? Probably still only a three or a four, right? People do crazy things for love all the time.

  ‘What’s your plan then,’ asks Ted, ‘with this case?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He’s bound to call though, right? How can this guy not have realised he has the wrong bag by now? It has my mobile number written on the tag.’

  ‘Remind me why you are so intent on meeting this man?’ Ted says, drumming the steering wheel with his fingers. ‘What was the book that makes him so irresistible?’

  ‘I don’t need your mockery, thank you very much.’

  ‘I’m not mocking you. Maybe I could help search the bag for clues.’

  ‘I don’t know. I should probably just wait for him to call.’ I turn to see if Ted looks serious. ‘What qualifies you to help anyway?’

  He pauses for a moment, stroking his beard with one hand, as though genuinely contemplating his skill set.

  ‘Hmm, I have a Boy Scout badge for Signs, Signals and Codes?’

  ‘Well, in that case …’

  The car turns out of a lane boxed in by low granite walls, and we emerge again on the coast. The island is small, so nowhere is much further than a fifteen-minute drive, but the place is a maze of lanes I am glad that I don’t need to navigate myself. Ted pulls into a gravel car park overlooking the sea and drives right to the edge of the cliff. It is a very different scene to the bay where we have just been: instead of low by the shore, we are now high above the sea, grey-blue water stretching to the horizon in every direction. On either side of the car park, narrow footpaths follow the undulating shape of the land’s edge, the slope covered by a blanket of green and brown. Down below, waves turn white where the rock meets the sea – a wild swell pulsing against the dark granite edge of the island. I think of pirates trying to land here centuries ago, how impossible it would have been to get ashore.

  Ted and I both get out of the car and I stretch my arms above my head, exhilarated by the blustery clifftop breeze.

  ‘This place isn’t in my album.’

  ‘No, but you wanted me to look in the bag, and it’s a good place to stop.’

  ‘I didn’t know Jersey had all these cliffs,’ I say, snapping a photo of the scene.

  ‘The island slopes down like a block of cheese. The north is like this, the south is flat, beaches.’

  ‘So, I’m on top of the cheese right now?’

  He smiles. ‘You are.’

  ‘I’M ON TOP OF THE CHEEEEESE!’ I shout at the sea.

  He laughs, and then screws up his face as though he thinks I am silly. I can’t help smiling at his reaction, and then I keep smiling from gratitude that he’s shown me this beautiful view. The air here feels so unlike London, like I’m breathing new air that no one has ever breathed before. Ted’s gaze meets mine, and I notice his eyes are calm, like a boat with a deep, even keel.

  ‘Are you always like this?’ he asks.

  ‘What am I like?’ I ask, curious as to what he might say.

  ‘Joyful,’ he says, and it is the last word I expected.

  ‘Not always,’ I say, trying to cover the surprise in my reaction. ‘Alright then, Boy Scout, let’s see if you deserved that badge of yours.’

  His eyes smile then, and the moment passes, but the word ‘joyful’ reverberates in my head like the name of a long-forgotten friend.

  As we walk around to the boot of the car, Ted says, ‘You do realise this suitcase is the McGuffin in your story?’

  ‘What’s a McGuffin?’

  ‘Not a Hitchcock fan then?’ Ted shakes his head, takes his cap off and flings it into the boot. As he runs his hands through his thick hair, I’m struck again by how much younger he is than I first assumed. He is certainly not making the best of himself. I wonder how his wife handles kissing that beard. There’s just so much of it, it would be like kissing someone through a hedge. Why am I imagining other people’s kissing predicaments? Inappropriate, Laura.

  ‘A McGuffin is an object or event that motivates a character in the story, but is ultimately unimportant or irrelevant, like the Holy Grail in Arthurian legend, the ring in The Lord of the Rings, Rosebud in Citizen Kane.’

  ‘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.