I do what I always do when I need advice; I call Dee.

‘Dee – you’ll never guess – something amazing has happened,’ I can hardly contain my excitement.

‘You found out you’re Jersey royalty? Queen Le Quesne of the Channel Islands? You get your own herd of cows and a lifetime’s supply of potatoes.’

I laugh, and then flop back onto the bed and tell her all about the suitcase.

Dee cuts me off. ‘Wait, what? You’re getting excited about some guy you haven’t even met yet?’

‘Well, yes. But all these signs – it can’t be a coincidence, can it? How many bags in how many airports, in how many cities, would have my favourite book, my favourite music and my mother’s perfume in? Plus, my ideal man jumper and the –’

‘Laura,’ Dee says firmly, ‘your life is not a film. People do not meet future partners by accidentally spilling coffee over each other, or getting stuck in lifts, or beneath trees while seeking shelter from freak lightning storms, or through some hilarious luggage-themed mix-up. People meet their partners at work, on dating sites, or through introductions from a mutual friend – I will send you the statistics.’

I know Dee means well, that she thinks she’s trying to save me from disappointment, but I’m starting to think I should have called Vanya instead. Vanya would be all over this.

‘Well, the statistics can’t always be right, can they?’ I say defensively.

‘Yes, they can, they absolutely can. Maths never lies,’ Dee sounds exasperated.

‘OK, look, judgment aside, how do I find this guy? The airport’s closed and he has my bag. Whether he’s my soulmate or not, I still need clean pants tomorrow.’

Dee sighs and I smile, imagining the torn expression on her face.

‘Beyond the J in the card, there’s no name or address tag on the luggage?’

‘No, Einstein,’ I say, inspecting the bag again in case I’ve missed something.

‘His name must be printed on the airline tag?’ says Dee.

Why hadn’t I thought of that? Vanya definitely wouldn’t have thought of that. This is why I called Dee. I look beneath the barcode on the printed ticket.

‘J. Le Maistre!’ I cry.

Le Maistre. I immediately toy with the name in my head – he’s a ‘Le’ too, just like me, that’s another thing we have in common. Ooh, if we got married, I could double-barrel the ‘Le’s and be Laura Le Le Maistre. It sounds so French and chic, like someone who owns a patisserie and maybe even a boulangerie too.

‘I’m googling him now,’ says Dee, sounding excited despite herself, ‘John, James … John again … hmmm, seems like Le Maistre is a common name in Jersey, there are hundreds of them. Does it look like a tree surgeon’s bag? Or a financial analyst’s bag?’