As I leaned down to unzip my case, I realised that either my ears were still dodgy from the flight, or the luggage was buzzing. I walked up closer to it, straining my ears to listen, telling the kids to shut up.
‘This case is buzzing…’ I said, cautiously flipping over the name tag with one finger. Mr and Mrs Smith of Solihull, it read. Which was odd, as I was expecting it to say Mrs Summers of Oxford. I said as much out loud, and Lucy instantly snapped out of her catatonia.
‘You picked up the wrong case, you fucking idiots!’ she declared, jumping up with more energy than she’d shown in the last year and dashing to her own luggage to inspect it. ‘But that’s okay! Phew! It doesn’t matter, panic over – at least you got mine right!’
‘And mine,’ added Ollie after checking. ‘Looks like it’s just you with the buzzing luggage, Mum. Should we call the bomb squad or something?’
‘It’s probably just one of Mum’s vibrators – imagine them giving an armed escort to a Rampant Rabbit!’ sniggered Lucy, loving every moment now she knew her straighteners were safe.
‘I do not own a vibrator!’ I snapped back, prodding the case with my toes to see if the buzzing stopped, ‘although maybe I’ll buy one when I get back, seeing as your dad has opted out of active service on that front, and I’m not quite dead yet!’
Silence from both offspring at that comment – a double-whammy reminder of the fact that not only had their father left, but their mother had sexual needs. Guaranteed killer.
I decided to open the case. It was probably just an electric shaver that had been switched on by accident or something. The bags had been through the wars, and had sat out in the sun for a lot longer than they should have while the baggage handlers enjoyed a second cup of coffee. I mean, how weird could a Mr and Mrs Smith from Solihull be?
‘Yeuuw!’ yelled Lucy, jumping away as I opened the lid.
‘Gross!’ added Ollie, so shocked he took several steps back.
‘Shit!’ I said, as it was the only word I could remember. The pungent aroma of overheated rubber and sweaty plastic wafted up from the case, making us all wrinkle our noses in disgust. It was like being held face-down in a ball pool after a couple of toddlers had vomited in it.
Inside Mr and Mrs Smith’s suitcase was a dazzling display of sex toys. I mean, dozens of them. A stash easily big enough to start their own shop, or at least a well-stocked market stall. As the smell cleared, the three of us stared down at the contents.
Even at first glance, I could see cock rings, dildos, vibrators, whips, baby-pink butt plugs and items in gaudy cardboard boxes promising a real kinkorama. There was a Make Your Own Vagina moulding kit, some actually rather attractive-looking red vibrating pants, and a blow-up doll called Suck-Me-Dry Sally.
Ollie reached out and picked one of the boxes up, eyeing the cover photo with interest. ‘Fake Pussy,’ he read from the blurb. ‘This pussy ain’t too fussy, let it stroke your cock for the purr-fect orgasm…’
‘Give me that!’ I shrieked, grabbing it out of his hands and throwing it back into the case. Lucy, in the meantime, had lifted what looked like a tramp-red lipstick and was snorting away as she informed us that it was, in fact, a Clit Stick. Which are not words you want to hear coming from your sixteen-year-old daughter’s mouth. I made a lunge for that as well, but she’d already pocketed it.
I had no idea who Mr and Mrs Smith were, but if they’d ended up with my bag, then somewhere in Turkey they were currently crying with disappointment. There was nothing more stimulating in it than a pile of trashy novels and swimsuits with control panels in the tummies. Not much that could compete with his-’n’-hers Hole Lot of Fun vibro-sticks, that’s for sure.
The suitcase switch also presented some very practical problems – like the fact that I had no clothes other than the ones I was standing up in. And they were in such a state, they could probably stand up without me.
Jeans, Timberland boots and a fleece sweatshirt might not be unreasonable for four a.m. in England, but in Turkey I was likely to boil to death and die if I couldn’t find an alternative.
I was already so hot and bothered I thought I might faint at a moment’s notice – although that might also have been a delayed reaction to seeing the Black Beauty Joy Rider in its nine-inch glory.
I needed a shower, fresh clothes, and a glass of something very cold and very alcoholic. Not necessarily in that order. On cue, Lucy grabbed her suitcase, walked into her room, and clicked the lock shut.
‘No,’ she shouted, ‘you can’t borrow any of my clothes – you’re too fat, and it’s your fault I don’t have a hairdryer…’
There was a stunned silence as I walked into the Blue Bay Hotel’s poolside bar to catch the last few minutes of our welcome meeting.
The rep’s voice trailed off to a stammering standstill, and a gentle murmur of surprise did a noticeable Mexican wave around my fellow holiday-makers.
As I sat down, I was feeling decidedly nervous. Even under normal circumstances – without lost suitcases and the sudden appearance of sex aids – I wasn’t used to doing this kind of thing on my own.
Every holiday I’d been on for the last seventeen years had been with Simon. Simon was good at social situations. He was charming and confident and always completely at home in a room full of strangers. I usually got away with being the support act, something I had rather pathetically mastered over the years. Now I was on a steep learning curve to becoming Miss Independent, and I can’t say I was enjoying the climb that much.
I’d been left with two options – staying cooped up in the hotel with two surly teenagers waiting for a stray suitcase to turn up. Or finding an alternative way forward. I had things to do, people to meet. I wanted to sign up for sailing lessons, take mountain-bike rides through the hills and perfect my serve. It was kill or cure – either I’d simultaneously find my inner strength and lose a stone, or I’d drop dead of a heart attack.
More to the point, I wanted to go downstairs because I was absolutely gagging for a drink – it had been a long day. Travelling is never easy, but doing it mid-marriage collapse and accompanied by the alien beings known as teenagers is torturous.
After a few wardrobe malfunctions and a lot of swearing, I eventually found something I thought I could live with, and made my way downstairs into the midday heat. It wasn’t the perfect outfit choice, but it covered my bits at least.
I sat alone; glancing around, I saw that every other table was filled with smiling couples and their children. Children who didn’t hate their parents. Husbands who hadn’t run off with Latvian lap-dancers.
More to the point, they were all dressed in nice, normal clothes. Colourful swimwear, sarongs, shorts, bright T-shirts – nothing more outrageous than a straw hat at a rakish angle. Their suitcases had obviously been packed by smart-casual beachwear experts.
Mine, on the other hand, had been packed by a pair of perverts from the West Midlands – which explained why I was wearing a Naughty Nurse Nancy costume, complete with shiny white plastic miniskirt and a name tag that said ‘Sister Slut’.
All in all, it was a less than perfect start to my allegedly perfect holiday.