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 goosebumps 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 there just 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, Laura.

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

P.s. 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! Oh, and his handwriting – there’s something so appealing about good handwriting – it’s so neat, but with these long, upright letters, just how I imagine eighteenth-century poets writing. He’s 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.

I know I’m getting carried away, 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 my cabin fantasy? His suitability is indisputable now. I pick up the jumper and hold it briefly to my nose. He even smells amazing – like log fires and baked scones and the sweat from vigorously cutting wood. He’d get hot from all the chopping, take the jumper off, and make love to me in the sawdust.

Am I thinking like a crazy person? Probably. But this feels like so much more than just some hot guy I’ve seen outside a vintage store. 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.