The Suitcase Swap

Chapter Three

Sophie hadn’t been able to believe her luck when she’d found an apartment to sublet in her son’s building, and now that she was seeing it, she felt doubly lucky. It was a floor above them, with a small living space and the tiniest kitchenette, which pleased her greatly. Sophie could make tea and had an excuse to never cook again. Andrew had liked a good roast, and during their marriage Sophie had spent a large portion of her time at home cooking for her family. Which at one point, she’d loved. She still liked to cook for friends on occasion. When she chose. It was the expectation that she had to that had weighed her down. Not just to cook, but to cook what Andrew liked. She didn’t even particularly care for a roast.

This, however, was perfect for her needs. It felt like a good omen, like New York was welcoming her. The apartment owner obviously loved a bright palette – the walls were aqua blue, with hanging plants and vibrant art hung here and there. The loveseat was orange, the ottoman pink and the ceiling a bright yellow. A small red table with two chairs sat next to the kitchenette. It felt a bit like being inside a parrot.

The bedroom wasn’t large, containing only the bed, a bedside table, and a small chest of drawers wedged into the cupboard. The owner was clearly also big on textures, because there was a faux fur throw across the mattress.

Marisa sidled up next to her, nudging her with her elbow. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think it’s one mirrored coffee table and a line of cocaine away from the 1970s,’ Sophie said honestly. ‘And I love it.’

Marisa didn’t quite laugh, but she did smile a little, which was something. ‘Good to hear it.’

Tom wheeled the suitcase in behind her, along with a bag of groceries they’d picked up on their way in from the corner store, which Marisa had referred to as a ‘bodega’. ‘Only one suitcase, Mum. I’m impressed.’

Sophie plucked the bag of groceries from him and set them on the counter. ‘Oh, I don’t need much. I have my laptop, so I can work. My e-reader. I can wash my clothes, so I didn’t need to bring my entire wardrobe or anything.’

‘Here,’ Marisa said, stepping forward, ‘let me put away the groceries. You settle in.’

Sophie followed Tom into the bedroom, letting him heft her single piece of luggage onto the bed. She didn’t want to open it in front of him – there were a few things in there she didn’t particularly want her son to see, even if he was an adult himself. But he didn’t linger, instead stepping in and checking out the cupboard-sized bathroom.

She took the opportunity to pop open her bag, hoping to sneak her toy into her make-up bag, only . . .

Only to find an array of clothing, mostly in dark colours, that was definitely not hers. She didn’t own blue trainers. Despite her shock, she took a moment to admire the organization at work. Everything was neat, tidy, folded. The boxers were in perfect rolls, lined up like a pack of sausages.

Tom peered over her shoulder. ‘What’s this?’

She splayed her hands out helplessly. ‘Not mine?’

Tom nudged her out of the way and started rifling through the clothes, being careful to keep things folded at least.

‘What are you doing? Those aren’t yours!’ The last word, she was sure, came out in the decibel range only some really precocious dogs could hear. ‘Stop it!’

‘Why?’ Tim moved on to the other half of the bag. ‘We need to find out whose bag this is, don’t we?’

‘That’s what the luggage tag is for!’ She pointed at the small plastic rendition of Starry Night resting at the top. ‘How would you feel if this were your luggage?’

Tom only shrugged. ‘Life is short, find joy where you can.’ He straightened, putting his hands on his hips. ‘Absolutely nothing interesting. Congratulations, Mum. You got the luggage of the most boring man in England. No condoms, no pills, not even a smuggled marmoset.’

She frowned at him. ‘I’m a little jet lagged, so forgive me if I’m being obtuse, but why would anyone be smuggling marmosets out of England?’

‘Why do people do anything?’ He tucked the clothes back into place and zipped up the case, finally turning the tag over. ‘I guess you can ask Michael Tremblay when you phone him.’

Sophie gave him a bewildered look. ‘You want me to ask him why he doesn’t smuggle tiny monkeys in his bags?’

‘No, ask him why he’s so boring.’ Tom crossed his arms with a huff. ‘Next time I travel, I’m going to put something inexplicable in my luggage, just in case this happens. Like a roll of duct tape and a single can of sardines. Anything to avoid the possibility that someone would open my luggage and go, “Bit boring, innit?” ’

‘That’s a little judgemental,’ she said. ‘Besides, you have no idea if this luggage is indicative of him as a person. The luggage might be a clever ruse. Maybe he’s just good at his job and whatever he’s smuggling is on his person, or in a hidden compartment.’ She clutched her son’s arm. ‘Do not go looking for a hidden compartment.’

He smiled at her, amused. ‘You never let me have any fun.’

Marisa poked her head into the room. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Mum got the luggage of the most boring man in England,’ Tom said.

‘Oh,’ Marisa said. ‘That’s too bad. It would have been a lot more fun if he’d had something cool in there. Like fetish gear or a puppet.’

‘I suggested duct tape and a can of sardines, which now feels like amateur hour compared to your idea.’ Tom eyed his fiancée speculatively. ‘I’m not sure if I should be impressed by how quickly you came up with them or disturbed by your pairing.’

She sniffed, tilting her nose in the air. ‘Impressed.’

Tom put his arms around her and kissed her forehead. ‘I’m always impressed by you.’

Instead of enjoying the sweet scene before her, Sophie was nailed in place by a sharp jab of panic as she remembered what was in her bag. ‘Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.’

A slow grin unfurled on Tom’s face. ‘Now I’m wondering what’s in your bag.’

‘Smuggled marmosets, mostly,’ Sophie replied absently, her mind circling with worry. Maybe she would get lucky. Maybe Michael Tremblay wouldn’t open it at all. Surely he would just read the tag and know. Except . . . she hadn’t, had she? She could say it to herself all she wanted, but she didn’t believe it. She simply didn’t have that kind of luck.

She’d been so looking forward to a shower, too. Oh, she could take one, but the idea of putting on the same clothes didn’t sit well.

‘Since he’s the most boring man in England, he’s probably going to turn you in for smuggling, but I’m sure it’s just a fine,’ Tom said. ‘No jail time needed. Which is good. I don’t think you’d do well in prison.’

Marisa shook her head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Your mom’s got steel in her spine. I bet she’ll start her own gang and have an underground trading ring of highly sought-after prison wine. And think of the ratings for your blog when you get out.’ Marisa patted her shoulder. ‘You’ll be like Martha Stewart.’

Sophie considered this. ‘I wouldn’t mind being friends with Snoop Dogg.’

‘He makes wine,’ Marisa offered. ‘Like, actual wine that you can buy and not the kind made in a prison toilet.’

Tom tilted his head. ‘I can’t tell if I want you to go to prison now or not. I don’t want to see you behind bars, but I would love to see photos of you and Snoop Dogg spread all over your socials.’ His expression went flat, his tone turning dry. ‘I’d absolutely love to forward those along.’

He didn’t say to whom, but they all knew, nonetheless. Andrew’s name hung in the air like a particularly aggressive spectre. It took a long minute for Sophie to banish him from her mind, but she eventually managed. She refused to let him ruin her post-marriage life by spending her days angry. Not that she wouldn’t feel that way sometimes, but she’d already devoted so much of her time to that man, and she refused to give him a minute more of it.

She clicked open her phone and typed in Michael Tremblay’s number.

‘You’re not going to call him, are you?’ Marisa asked, the tone of horror in her voice not unlike the one people reserved for things like stabbings or not ordering enough food for a dinner party. ‘Haven’t you ever seen Dateline ?’

Sophie frowned at her. ‘No. What’s Dateline ?’

‘It’s a true crime show,’ Tom said. ‘Full of murders.’

‘Sounds very American,’ Sophie said, not unkindly.

Marisa sighed. ‘I’d love to argue with you, but you’re right.’

Tom’s brow furrowed. ‘I’m not sure calling a strange man is a good idea. He could be a serial killer.’ He waved at the plain luggage. ‘The more I think about it, the more his neatly folded clothing has sinister undertones. What if he’s in a cult? A murder cult?’

‘You’ve been here too long,’ Sophie said. ‘Not everyone is in a murder cult.’

‘Oh, like we don’t have those at home,’ Tom said. ‘It’s just not safe, giving a stranger your phone number.’ He put his hands on his hips and blew out a breath. ‘You could use my phone.’

‘What if I’m not his type and he needs young men for his murder cult?’ Sophie asked with a grin. He scowled at her instead of laughing as she’d expected. Perplexed, Sophie turned to Marisa with a wordless question.

Marisa put her hands out flat in a sort of shrug. ‘He’s been a bit in overdrive lately because . . .’ She made a face, waving at her own stomach. ‘Protective with occasional slides into bossiness.’

‘I see,’ Sophie said neutrally. She placed a hand on her son’s arm. ‘My darling boy, light of my life. I’m going to text a man about his luggage, not sign up for a blood sacrifice.’

‘No one knows they’re signing up for that, Mum,’ Tom said ominously. ‘People work up to that sort of thing.’

Marisa grabbed him by the shoulders, herding him out of the room. ‘I’ll manage this one and remind him that you’re a grown-up who can make their own choices. You text the most boring serial killer in London.’

‘Thank you, love,’ Sophie said. ‘You’re an angel.’ She tapped out a message to Michael Tremblay. Hello, Mr Tremblay. I’m afraid there was a mix-up and I seem to have your luggage. Hoping we can exchange soon?

Mike had only just picked up his phone from its awkward position against the vase – Rahul having signed off to deal with a fussy Archie – when the text came through.

Hello, Mr Tremblay. I’m afraid there was a mix-up and I seem to have your luggage. Hoping we can exchange soon?

He stared at her open suitcase guiltily for only a moment before replying. This must be Mrs Swann. I was just about to message you. I’m afraid my schedule is full for the next few hours. Possible to meet up after?

Mike had already been annoyed at his schedule – no one should have a meeting directly after arriving – but that was hardly anyone’s fault as his original flight had been for the night before. His plan of meeting, dinner, nap, however, had been thoroughly derailed. Now he was going to have to venture off to some far-flung corner of the city instead.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Nothing he could do about it. It had probably been his fault in the first place. He’d been tired after the long flight, and somewhat overloaded by the sensory overwhelm that was JFK Airport. His mind hadn’t exactly been on the task, or really anything it should have been on. It had been on the woman he’d found resting against the wall.

He rubbed a hand over his face. Get a grip, old man. She wasn’t even that pretty.

But even he was calling himself a liar when his phone buzzed again.

My dreams of a shower and a fresh change of clothes go up in smoke. Alas, I shall soldier on.

Mike smiled. Even over text, Sophie Swann was funny. His mind helpfully reminded him of the silky green between his fingers from earlier and before he thought better of it, he typed a response. A pain I understand deeply. Would be happy to come to you and apologize for the inconvenience with dinner?

As soon as he’d sent it, he regretted it. What if she was awful? What if she thought his offer was awful? Was it strange, asking her to dinner? It was just a meal. It wasn’t like he was asking her on a date . . .

He tapped his phone against his head. This was why he didn’t date. He hardly knew what to do any more. To be fair, he hadn’t known what to do in the first place, really. His wife had been a patient woman who had somehow, miraculously, seen past his shortcomings. What were the odds that anyone else would?

His phone buzzed again. How do you feel about paella?

Mike only had a vague memory of what paella was – his love of food had seemed to die with his wife. He knew there had been a time in his life when he’d enjoyed going out to eat. Food these days was mostly fuel, eaten as he read or worked, only hazily aware of what he was putting in his mouth. But he wasn’t going to say that to a stranger, no matter what delightful things he’d found in her luggage.

He thought for a moment before typing out his response. There are few things I love more than paella. It’s right up there with children’s laughter and puppy videos.

Once again, he regretted it after he sent it. Professional, polite: that’s what the rest of the world got. Usually he kept this kind of messaging for his children. Jet lag. That was his only excuse. At this rate, she was probably going to throw his luggage at him and leg it.

That is high praise indeed. I’m now concerned that the meal won’t live up to your standards. Shall we say eight o’clock?

Mike let out his breath in a whoosh. Eight is perfect.

She sent him a link to the restaurant where they would meet. Mike clicked on it as he freshened up quickly to get ready for his meeting. He sent Sophie another text as he walked to the nearest subway station. How will I know which one is you?

He didn’t see her response until he was smashed up against a cross section of the New York populace, various colognes and sweat clashing in his nose.

That’s easy. I’ll be the one with the suitcase.

Mike found himself smiling as he responded. I suppose I should have thought of that. I’m blaming jet lag.

It does cover a lot of sins.

He barked a laugh at her response, earning him a couple of quick glances before he was ignored. New York’s subway was much like the tube back home – he would have to behave a lot more weirdly if he expected anyone to really notice.

The meeting ran over. Mike wasn’t entirely sure how, since he was certain the meeting itself could have been an email. A short email. By the time he’d collected his luggage and made it to the restaurant in Brooklyn, he was twenty minutes late, tired and not a little sweaty. The air in New York had a weight to it that it didn’t have in London. His temper, usually a long, slow boil, had burned so hot during the meeting that all liquid had evaporated, leaving him feeling hollowed out and waspish.

And he was starving.

As such, he was not in the best of moods as he dragged the luggage into the narrow restaurant. The place teemed with people – he didn’t see any empty seats as he peered around for Sophie. The restaurant itself was charming – exposed brick walls, sconces that looked like old-fashioned gas lamps surrounded by copper fixtures that reflected the light. Lots of greenery and colourful splashes here and there in the tiled walls and artwork. It was a warm, happy kind of place, smelling of spices and sizzling meats. His stomach didn’t so much growl as roar.

He awkwardly wheeled the suitcase as he sought his quarry. Finally, a man waved at him from a table tucked into the back corner. His expression wasn’t unfriendly, but it was assessing, and it suddenly occurred to Mike that he might have accidentally asked someone else’s partner to dinner. Maybe the man was with Sophie and didn’t appreciate some stranger taking his girlfriend out. Shit. Was he going to need to apologize? Surely Sophie would have said something. He hadn’t meant anything by it. Maybe he could offer to cover the man’s meal as well.

There was a woman seated next to him who was also waving, an amused expression on her face. There was no one else at the table, so this would have to be Sophie. He hadn’t realized until that moment that he’d been hoping for something – some one who he connected with as much as he had with the woman in the airport. Disappointment weighed him down, making it hard to smile in greeting, but he managed.

The waving woman was beautiful, but too young and obviously taken. That was okay. It had been a silly idea anyway, and it wasn’t like he had time or really the inclination to date while he was in New York. Work ate up the hours. He’d just been trying to fulfil his son’s request, really, which he could still do by having a nice dinner with these two strangers.

It was a relief, actually. So why did he feel let down?

He pulled the case to the end of the restaurant, coming to a stop at the table. Then he stuck out his hand to the woman. ‘Sophie, I assume. Thank you for being so patient about my schedule.’

A slow smile bloomed on the woman’s face as she took his hand. ‘Oh, I’m not—’

There was a clatter to their left, all of them turning to look at once.

A woman – the woman – had frozen in the middle of the narrow aisle, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. Behind her, a busboy was bending down to pick up the silverware he’d dropped. He was apologizing but kept sending her dirty looks that implied it had been her fault, probably for stopping in the middle of the aisle.

Mike noticed this absently, the details filtering into his brain as he stared into familiar hazel eyes.

‘It’s you,’ she said.

Mike nodded as if this was something he needed to agree to; that he was, in fact, himself. She looked a lot better now than she had – there was colour in her cheeks, and her skin no longer had that clammy sheen to it that people sometimes got when they didn’t feel well. His deeply unhelpful brain decided to gleefully announce that this, this must be Sophie of the green, silken knickers, and chose this second as the best time to conjure up images of her wearing them.

His mouth went dry. If he licked a stamp right now, nothing would happen. When was the last time he’d licked a stamp, anyway? Also, why was his brain such a traitorous bastard? He’d never thought they were friends, but he’d at least thought they were uneasy allies.

And why, why was he so fixated on her knickers? Lingerie had never really been a thing for him before. Was it just that it had been ages since he’d held anything like that in his hands? Maybe his kids were right. He did need to get out more if this was all it took for him to act like his brain had melted. He hadn’t even greeted her yet. His mouth had stopped working, which might be a good thing, considering the mess his thoughts had become.

He was just . . . staring at her. To be fair, she was staring back, but it had to be unnerving. How long had they been like this? When had timed stopped moving properly? What was wrong with New York anyway, that it just let time do whatever it wanted? He felt a fine mist of sweat break out on his brow. Without thinking, he grabbed one of the glasses of water off the table and drank it.

‘Pretty sure that was mine,’ the man said, a hint of amusement in his tone.

‘Sorry,’ Mike replied, but didn’t relinquish the now empty glass. He cleared his throat. ‘No headlines, then?’

‘You’re safe from mobs crying for retribution.’ She smiled and held out her hand. ‘Sophie Swann.’

He reached out to take her hand, realized he was still holding the empty glass, and set it down hastily. ‘Michael Tremblay.’ Her warm palm slid against his and he felt it all the way to the backs of his knees, which made no sense. His brain continued to mutiny and chose that moment to point out that Sophie-of-the-green-knickers didn’t have a wedding ring. She also didn’t have anyone there with her currently. Which didn’t mean anything, damn it, it was just dinner, only dinner.

Mike swore he could hear his own brain laughing at him and wondered if he should maybe see a doctor.

Someone cleared their throat. ‘And I’m Enrico. Any chance I can get through? Table nine has been waiting for a fork for, like, ten minutes.’

Mike blinked at the busboy. ‘The ones that were on the floor?’

Enrico shot him a scathing look. ‘I took those to the kitchen already. These are new.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Sophie said, stepping out of the way. She pulled Mike with her, which made him realize he was still holding her hand. He dropped it, regretfully, dragging the suitcase out of the way.

The other man at their table stood up and took the handle. ‘I’ll put it back here with your suitcase. It’s out of the way.’

‘Thank you,’ Mike said. He looked to Sophie. ‘I can’t believe it’s you.’

‘I can’t believe it’s me, either,’ Sophie said, moving around him, taking the seat by the wall. ‘Sit down, sit down. Marisa, Tom, this is the man who helped me earlier at the airport.’

Tom brightened at this. ‘That was you? We owe you a bit of thanks, then.’

‘That was me.’ Mike sat, a little like someone had cut his strings. He couldn’t fathom it. He’d never acted this way in his entire life – at least not sober. What was wrong with him? He ran a hand over his face.

The younger woman across from him looked at him sympathetically. ‘Long day?’

‘Today has been the second longest day of my life,’ Mike responded honestly. His brain still had that melted feeling, his usual social filter gone in the aftermath.

The woman cocked her head to the side. ‘What was the first?’

‘The day my wife died.’ Mike could have bit his own tongue. He hadn’t meant to say it. Over the years, it had got easier to tell people; it was no longer a sharp blade in his organs every time he mentioned her. He’d boiled it down to simple words – I had a wife. She died. Most people left it at that. Gave a tut and patted his arm sympathetically. No one really wanted to talk about grief. Not really.

But while it was easier to say now, he didn’t usually offer it up like that. People had to ask first. He certainly didn’t blurt it out to people he’d just met for dinner. Not even over dinner. They hadn’t ordered yet. Was this how he was going to be now? Hi, my name is Mike and my wife is dead?

‘Jesus,’ the young man said, picking up the glass of water that had been in front of the woman and taking a sip. ‘Forget getting you a water. Sounds more like you need the cocktail list.’

‘On it.’ Marisa plucked a small menu from her side of the table, her accent telling Mike that if she wasn’t from here, she’d lived here quite a long time. She leaned across the table, placing the cocktail menu in front of him, her expression sympathetic. ‘You need a drink?’

Mike, who had been doing a spectacular re-enactment of the facepalm emoji, lowered his hands to the table. ‘I could murder a pint right now.’

The young man, apparently named Tom, choked on his water.