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; there’s a man’s white work-shirt, a travel-sized 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 book lying next to the pile of clothes: To Kill a Mockingbird, my favourite book, one of Dad’s favourites too. I pick it up; it is a well-thumbed copy, an old edition just like the one Dad left me. Unthinking, I find myself looking through the other 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.

Beneath the book is one of those thick-knit cream fisherman’s jumpers. I love this sort of jumper on a man – it’s 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 for the log burner and make you gin martinis in a rustic kitchen 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 there is … and then I read the words on the book of music and slap a hand across my mouth – ‘Phil Collins Greatest Hits’. OMG, what the hell 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.