TIGER WOMAN, ON DESTINY

Do Tigers believe in destiny? Do they believe their fate is written in some celestial plan? They do not. Tiger Women think only of survival: hunt to kill, eat to live, sleep to recharge for the task ahead, which is always the same – survival. So stop looking at the stars for answers, press your paws to the dirt and know there is only one guiding light in your life – you.

Once I have calmed down from the excitement of having found the man I am probably going to spend the rest of my life with, I start to worry about the whereabouts of my own suitcase. I don’t have any clothes and the handwritten notes for my article are in my notebook. All I have with me is my laptop, the clothes I am wearing, my mother’s photo album, the book Tiger Woman, and about one million non-applicator tampons.

If I have Hot Suitcase Man’s case, that must mean he has mine. I could call the airport, get his number, and arrange a meeting to exchange bags – perhaps over dinner? Everything would fall into place. My mind wanders forward to an image of me telling this story to my grandchildren: ‘Oh, how did I meet Grandpa? Well, it was a funny story – I picked up his bag by mistake and fell in love with the contents. I knew straight away: this was the man I was supposed to be with.’ OK, so I’m definitely getting ahead of myself, I need to dial it back, just a touch.

Pacing over to the window, I look out at the sea. I wonder if Jake/Jack/Jim has realised he has the wrong bag yet. Maybe he did the same thing as me; felt annoyed at first, then curious about the mystery owner. I wonder what my possessions might tell him about me. I regret not packing my decent underwear now. Then I realise with a jolt of anxiety that my diary is in that bag. The inner monologue of a grief-stricken twenty-nine-year-old woman might not be the best introduction to a potential soulmate. I shake my head; the book is clearly a diary, what kind of weirdo would go through someone else’s personal possessions? I look back at the bed, where I have unpacked and inspected the entire contents of this man’s case. Oh.

I find the number for Jersey Airport. The phone rings twice and then a recorded message tells me the airport is closed. Closed? What kind of airport closes at 8.15 on a Thursday night? I suppose a small island airport where the last plane lands at 7 p.m. I pace the room. This is a setback. It’s Thursday today and I’m leaving on Sunday, I don’t have long. I guess I can set up a meeting to exchange the cases tomorrow morning, but it would probably be better if the beginning-of-the-rest-of-my-life started tonight.