The Suitcase Swap

by Lish McBride

Genres: Holiday Romance

Synopsis

They've got each other's bags. Will they find each other's hearts?

Sophie isn't going to let a little thing like divorce stop her from flying to New York to see her family.
Mike isn't going to let a little thing like losing his wife stop him from flying to New York for work.
The one thing they both know for certain is that they're done with love: they're too old, too tired, too lonely for any of it.

But life has other plans...

And when the luggage carousel at JFK airport decides to give them each the wrong suitcase, they agree that a friendly dinner in the big apple won't do any harm.
After all, love stories come when you least expect them - and if his briefcase and her sunshine yellow bag got mixed up, who's to say their hearts can't get mixed up too?

So begins a love story of second chances and connection later in life, all set against the backdrop of New York City...

Release date: April 10, 2025

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter One

Sophie Swann didn’t think that the people who designed airports were trying to make her life miserable specifically, but was amazed at how well they were accomplishing the feat nonetheless. She’d read several articles before she’d bought her ticket – everything from safety statistics to meditation techniques – but the problem was that, once in an airport, one couldn’t ignore the very apparent reality of the giant, and often very visible, planes.

Even in the atrium parts of Heathrow Airport where she couldn’t look out of any windows, there were actual signs everywhere reminding her that she was in an airport and would soon hurtle through the sky in a metal tube at mind-numbing speeds. Which meant that none of her data, careful planning or deep breathing were doing her any good.

She put her earbud in and opened the app to video-call her son. Tom’s face appeared on the screen only moments later, like maybe he’d been waiting for her call. Which he probably had been. She was startled, as she always was, by how much he took after his father, with his dark hair and brown eyes, and somehow was nothing like him at the same time. Tom, after all, was kind and funny, and her husband – ex, ex-husband – Andrew was decidedly . . . not.

Tom grinned at her, a crooked smile all his own, and she started talking before he’d even said hello. ‘I’m thinking of getting into drugs. Nothing extreme. The heroin lifestyle looks exhausting. Just something that would take down an elephant for eight hours and could be conveniently purchased in the airport.’

Tom’s grin widened. ‘You might struggle to find heroin in the airport, Mum, but I have faith. If anyone could manage it, it would be you.’

Now that she’d had a chance to study him and look past her own panic, she could see how tired he looked. The crooked smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and faint purple bruises underscored the fact that he wasn’t getting proper sleep. She could imagine that good sleep would be hard to come by for both him and his fiancée, Marisa. Their miscarriage was too new, the heartbreak too fresh. Grief either handed out too much sleep or too little. It was just the way of things.

Sometimes Sophie really hated the way of things.

She clucked sympathetically at him. ‘How are you holding up? How is Marisa?’

He glanced away, swallowing hard. It took him several seconds to speak and when he did, it was to mostly dodge the question. ‘I’m very glad you’re on your way.’

Well, wasn’t that an answer in itself?

‘So am I,’ she said gently. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a toy plane swoop along through the air. A small girl, perhaps two, held it tightly in her little fist, gurgles of delight marking the plane’s passage. At least someone here was happy.

‘What is it?’ Tom asked. ‘You look a bit peaky all of a sudden.’

‘Giant metal tubes with wings and I’m supposed to get on it.’ She focused on the screen in front of her, ignoring the perspiration suddenly coating the majority of her body. Sophie didn’t even like to drive, something her husb—, ex-husband – loved to poke fun at. She very carefully taped up the edges of that idea and hurled it into her mental trash bin. Then she lit it on fire, just to be certain. ‘Bring back the days of travelling by sea. I could buy a big, floppy hat and swan about on the deck of a ship being mysterious.’

The image of her son on the screen shifted, revealing another part of Tom’s Brooklyn flat. Marisa sat on a lime-green couch, her compact frame wrapped in a Sherpa blanket, smiling back at her. If Tom’s face had hinted at exhaustion, Marisa’s screamed it. Her naturally tanned skin pale, her usually shiny black hair dull and piled up on her head in a messy bun. ‘Hard to be mysterious on a plane. You going to be okay, Sophie? We can still book you on that cruise.’

Sophie was already shaking her head. The flight was cheaper by far, and more importantly, it was faster. Seven hours versus six days and by all appearances, they needed her now, not in a week. She loved London. It was home. But Tom was her heart and at some point, Marisa had become part of that, too. Her heart was breaking and if that meant getting onto a plane, so be it.

‘I shall be very brave,’ Sophie said, ‘and also possibly abuse the bar cart.’

‘Those little liquor bottles on planes are one of life’s few joys,’ Marisa said, her usually bouncy voice deflated. Sophie wished not for the first time that she could reach through the screen and hug them both. Maybe instead of meditation and illegal narcotics, she would focus on why she was going. Her son and soon-to-be daughter needed her, and they needed her now. She was a survivor, damn it all, and she would survive this.

An app on her phone helpfully pinged, letting her know that boarding would start soon. She immediately felt overwhelmingly, horribly, ill. ‘Okay, my loves. Must dash. See you soon!’ She blew them a kiss, enjoyed their chorused goodbyes, and ended the call right before sprinting towards the nearest toilets.

Sophie felt she had a solid grasp of irony. For example, she knew there was a spectacular amount of irony in a travel writer having to vomit in the airport loo at the very idea of setting foot on an aeroplane. The fact was, her writing had started as a hobby. She never in a million years would have thought she’d end up in her current career.

After her son had gone to university, she’d had little in her life beyond work. During the day she’d had her hands full running the logistics side of Andrew’s business, the one they’d built together, the one that had been theirs. Swann’s was the kind of place you went to for home DIY projects, to get interesting new fixtures, or to take a workshop on how to build a bird feeder or even a patio. While she organized payroll, managed inventory, and paid the bills, Andrew gadded about charming new clients and building the business.

She’d never enjoyed the client dinners or the travel aspects, so she’d been happy to hand those parts over to Andrew and his assistant, Lori. More fool her. She wasn’t sure what was more aggravating: losing the business she’d helped build, losing her husband, or the overwhelming cliché of it all. Losing your husband to his younger, prettier assistant was something that happened on daytime soap operas. Couldn’t he at least have used some imagination for his midlife crisis? He could have learned to juggle fire or joined a monastery. But Sophie knew this was a pointless question – Andrew had all the imagination of beige wall paint.

But before all of that, before the mess of her divorce, there had been a few years where she’d found herself at a loose end on weekends and after work. Andrew was always busy. Tom was gone. Since Andrew was allergic, they had no pets. She’d tried joining a book club, but it turned out she didn’t like people telling her what to read, especially since one of the members kept picking depressing literature. Sophie had wanted books that would sweep her away, not books that would make her cry.

What she really liked was reading stories that would take her somewhere else. Fantasy lands with interesting creatures. Romance novels set in foreign cities or on sun-drenched islands. Mysteries that took place in catacombs, or on ships, or really anywhere that wasn’t the house she’d shared with the same man for over twenty years. The same walls. The same floors, even though she’d torn out the awful carpets that had been there when they’d bought the house. Sophie had wanted at least a taste of adventure.

Which was why she liked travel shows and shows like Destination: Eats that took the viewer to interesting new restaurants around the globe. Sophie was the kind of person who liked trying new things . . . she just couldn’t go very far to do them.

It was her best friend, Edie, who’d come up with the idea. If she couldn’t go far, why not explore what was nearby? After all, there had to be other people who couldn’t travel for all kinds of reasons. Thus Swanning About was born. Sophie set up a blog for longer posts and attached social media to it. She found things to do on a budget, like free museum days, or classes that had a cheap introductory try-out session. Local theatres with reasonably priced tickets. Happy hours that actually made you happy. Sometimes she caught the bus or a train to go further afield, but not always.

She was surprised at how happy her new hobby made her. She was more surprised at how happy it made others, and she was the most surprised when she started to make money from it. What Sophie liked most, however, was the community that had formed around it. Every single time she voiced her own fears, told her readers how difficult something was for her, she was rewarded with support and solidarity.

Her latest post about her fear of flying, which she’d linked to a video about packing tips for a long-term stay, had sparked a chorus of replies.

@LolaLightfoot: you can do it, Swanny!

@MarlaBarla: You’re so brave. I know how afraid you are of planes. I wish I could take such a big step!

@Mambo#65: You’re brave, too, @MarlaBarla! Like Swanny says, if a big step is too much, a little step will do!

@GoldenGirl: You show those New Yorkers what a London Girl can do!

She let all those voices run through her head as she washed her hands and patted her face with a damp paper towel. She listened to them as she stared at herself in the mirror. Her skin was too pale. A few locks of her brown hair had come loose from her ponytail and were now sticking to her sweaty forehead and cheeks. The lighting certainly wasn’t doing the bags under her eyes or her crow’s feet any favours. She felt overwhelmed and afraid and wished, just for a second, that she had a hand to reach for. Someone to steady her as she wobbled. It was all simply too much sometimes.

If a big step is too much, a little step will do.

Right. She could take her own advice. Sophie blew out a big breath. Placed the cold, damp paper towel against the back of her neck for a second and closed her eyes, ignoring the hubbub of the airport toilets. Then she opened her eyes, got a fresh paper towel and dried her face. She redid her ponytail. She straightened her shoulders and looked herself in the eye.

You can manage one step, Sophie Swann. That’s all you have to think about. Putting one foot in front of the other until you’re on that plane. You will not let Tom and Marisa down.

Another deep breath in, then out.

‘You okay, duck?’ The old woman at the sink next to her squinted at her through a pair of rhinestone-framed glasses. ‘Because those shoes look new, and it would be a shame to get sick all over them.’

‘Thank you,’ Sophie said, her voice breathier than she would have liked. ‘I think I’m okay.’

The woman seemed dubious but nodded at her anyway.

Sophie gave her a wan smile, dried her hands, and marched out of the toilets with her head held high. She would persevere.

Michael Tremblay, or Mike to anyone he was even slightly friendly with, which admittedly wasn’t a large number of people, stowed his overhead suitcase with practised ease. He settled into his aisle seat, mentally preparing himself to be jostled every time a person walked past or the cart went by. Even with his upgrade to a seat that claimed to have more leg room, his long legs felt cramped. Walking past first class had felt like a taunt, those people seeming annoyingly comfortable in their luxury. Despite what people thought, most architects didn’t make first-class kind of money.

The young woman behind him chattered away, using the last few minutes to call her boyfriend to let him know she was safely on the plane and when to pick her up. Mike felt an unexpected pang of jealousy, not unlike the one he’d felt in first class – here’s something that’s really lovely, but it’s not for you.

Unlike not being able to afford first class, this hadn’t always been the case.

Once upon a time, he would have been making the same phone call, but Mike hadn’t had someone to notify about his whereabouts for years. His children sometimes had a general idea of where he was, but he often forgot to give them exact information. Both were busy, Amaya with her studies and Rahul with his family.

And his Tara, well, she’d been beyond hearing for ten long years.

Knowing that fact certainly hadn’t kept him from trying to reach out.

He still sometimes found himself stretching a hand out for her late at night. Not all the time any more, just every once in a while. It had become an occasional emotional love-tap instead of a constant pummelling. Sometimes he’d read a funny line in a book or see a mangy dog on the street and he’d be reaching for his phone before he remembered she was no longer around to receive his texts. He could still imagine taking a picture of an awkwardly put-together dog, all spiky fur and overbite, and sending it to her with the text: A face only a mother could love.

Just like he could imagine her response: Who wouldn’t love that face? That is a dog with character.

Those imagined interactions didn’t catapult him into heavy grief any more, at least. It was more bittersweet now, the sadness overtaken by the simple joy of having known Tara. For being gifted so much of her life.

At times like this, sitting in the plane, listening to the young woman coo at her boyfriend, it brought home the fact that he’d known what it was like to be a necessary part of something, a necessary person to someone else, and now . . . he mostly had his work. He sometimes felt a little extraneous, like an old power cable that you didn’t need any more but kept just in case.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love his children or didn’t feel loved by them. He was extremely grateful for Amaya and Rahul. They just didn’t need him on a daily – or even weekly – basis any more. He could probably be out of the country for a month before they’d notice.

Mike took out his phone, planning to switch it to airplane mode, when he saw a text had appeared in the family group chat. He grimaced. Amaya had sent him a link to an article about dating apps for people over fifty. The idea of dating didn’t appeal to him; the idea of using an app to do so actively repulsed him. He took a second to tap out a reply. Thank you, love, but I’d rather not.

Dots appeared instantly as Amaya responded. Don’t be the kind of man who only dates women in their twenties, Dad. Don’t be ageist against your own generation.

Mike very much thought ‘to each their own’ when it came to dating, but the idea of dating anyone close in age to his own daughter made him shudder. It was a blanket ‘I’d rather not’ and not anything about people my own age. I can promise you, if I ever date again, she won’t be that young. What would we even talk about?

It was Rahul who responded. This is why I love you, Dad. Most single hetero men wouldn’t be concerned about conversation. They’d only be thinking about hot sex with nubile women.

Amaya’s response was instant. Ew. Please never use any of those words together again.

Mike rubbed at the space between his brows with his thumb. He wasn’t going to get into a discussion of his sex life with his children. He’d had sex since he’d lost his wife, but it had been fleeting. Like candy floss on the tongue, here and then vanished, leaving a faint hint of sweetness behind.

What he really missed was that connection he’d shared with his wife. To have someone touch him and have it feel familiar, almost a relief. As if their hand on his skin was like aloe vera on particularly bad sunburn. He missed having his morning tea while sitting across from Tara’s scowling face (she hadn’t been a morning person). He missed date nights where they talked for hours. He even missed arguing with her.

Mike wanted sex, to be sure, but he wanted the kind of sex that felt as essential to his life as breathing.

Not that he’d say a single one of these things to his children, even if they were grown up. It was none of their business. I would also like to ban the use of the word ‘nubile’ from our chats.

Amaya sent a laughing emoji, followed by, We just want to see you happy, Dad. If you were genuinely content on your own, we wouldn’t push.

I would push, Rahul texted. He sent a picture of a squalling infant, face red, mouth open in a howl, nestled into the crook of his arm. Archie needs another grandparent to spoil him rotten.

Mike smiled automatically at his grandson’s angry face. It still stopped him short, sometimes, that he was a grandparent. Inside he felt like he was still the same awkward young man, working up the nerve to buy his first pint. Not a man of fifty-three. He wouldn’t give up Archie for anything, or his older sister Stella. Reminders of age aside, they helped fill the empty spaces in his heart.

The flight attendant made an announcement telling everyone to buckle their seatbelts. Mike quickly typed out a message while he could. And where’s my Stella?

Noah took her to the Natural History Museum. She wanted to, and I quote, ‘go and see the dead things.’

That’s my girl, Amaya wrote.

Takes after her barmy aunt. Rahul added a laughing emoji to that.

You love me! Admit it!

I do, Rahul responded, but then I’m barmy, too. I’ll have Noah send you both pics.

The overhead announcement told them all to put their phones on airplane mode. Mike typed quickly, It runs in the family. Tell Noah thank you. Got to dash.

Amaya sent a heart. Tell us when you land!

Will do. He turned off his phone, tucking it into the pouch on the back of the seat in front of him. He might not feel useful, but he did feel loved, which was a wonderful thing, and something he didn’t take for granted. He got out his tablet, hoping to get a little work done during the flight. When he was finished with that, he would read for a while. If there was one thing Michael was good at, it was filling his time.

Chapter Two

Sophie wasn’t sure she’d seen anything grander, anything more wonderful than JFK Airport. She would doubtless feel very differently if she had been there to get on a plane. Since the airport was the first available piece of terra firma after disembarking, it had taken on elements of holy ground. For a split second she considered actually kissing the carpet.

That was the exact moment she realized she’d made a tactical error. Drinking on the plane had helped take the edge off her anxiety. But the thing was, beyond the odd glass of wine, she rarely drank these days. She’d also been concerned she would be sick again, so she hadn’t eaten. Those factors, plus the fact that she hadn’t been prepared for drinking at altitude meant she had somehow managed to step into JFK Airport both still slightly drunk and partially hungover at the same time.

She felt wretched. Her stomach rolled, her head was absolutely splitting and the relentless noise wasn’t helping, either. The lights were too bright. It was all basically too much – including the taste in her mouth, which was horrid.

People flowed around her in a constant torrent as they hustled to get to their luggage and head to customs. She was repeatedly jostled, the smell of various perfumes, colognes and body odour hitting her in waves. She did not want to be sick in two different airports within the same twenty-four hours. All she had to do was make it through customs. Tom was meeting her on the other side and escorting her back to the flat. She could endure until then.

Sophie lurched through the crowd, finding an out-of-the-way spot by the bins to catch her breath. Which was good because that was when her legs decided they’d had quite enough, thank you, and gave up. She didn’t faint so much as wilt. Sophie sat down hard, leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Breathe. She just needed to breathe. In a few moments, she’d get up, head through customs and carry on, but right now she would take a tiny sliver of the day to get her bearings.

‘Pardon me, but are you all right?’ The unwelcome voice was deep and pleasant and any other time Sophie would have enjoyed it. Right now, she wanted it to go away, which she knew was unfair of her. He was just being kind. ‘Only, you look a bit peaky.’

‘Flying,’ she said without opening her eyes, ‘is unnatural.’

Whatever the voice had been expecting, it apparently wasn’t that, because it was silent for a few seconds.

‘Perhaps for humans,’ the voice admitted. ‘The act itself isn’t unnatural. Birds do it. Bees do it.’

‘Even monkeys in the trees do it?’ She couldn’t help but finish the line, smiling a little despite her current state. Her mother had loved that song. Judging by the ensuing silence, the voice hadn’t caught the reference and was now considering whether or not she needed medical attention. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit unwell. I tried to steady my nerves by drinking on the plane, and it either worked too well or not at all. Jury’s still out.’

‘I see.’

The way he said it, she was pretty sure he did see, but was also faintly amused. Not in a mean way. Andrew had often got a bit nasty when he felt she was being silly like this, but whoever the voice was, he was amused with her rather than against her.

She found herself apologizing anyway. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I take it that you’re a bit anxious about flying?’

‘Yes,’ she said, breathing in deeply. ‘Just a bit.’ The voice had nice cologne. Subtle and spicy. She laughed a little. ‘In fact, I’m fairly certain that I’ve cornered that ­particular market.’

He hummed thoughtfully at her. ‘Hold on a moment.’

She heard him walk away. Despite his words, she wondered if he was going to come back. She would have understood if he’d decided to leg it to the nearest exit. Monkeys in the trees. Damn it all. She breathed slowly, willing her stomach to settle.

To her surprise, she heard footsteps coming over to her a few moments later, then the faint rustle of cloth as he lowered himself down. Something popped, probably his knee.

‘Hold out your hand, please.’

Bemused, Sophie did as he asked. Chilled plastic met her palm. A water bottle. Startled, she opened her eyes and suddenly felt sick all over again, but for a very different reason.

Blue-green eyes. Crooked grin, causing charming crow’s feet. Deep brown hair that was slightly dishevelled after the long flight, going a little grey at the temples. Dark stubble, solid jaw, and a well-tailored suit with no tie.

Oh no. He was handsome.

Sophie was suddenly very aware that she looked like something the cat had refused to drag in because even felines had standards. She sat frozen, holding the bottle of water and staring at him.

Luckily, he’d looked away and was digging through his bag. He plucked out a little disposable pouch, the kind medicines sometimes came in, and showed it to her. ‘I’ve been sick on planes before and it’s awful, so I always carry something. This should help with your stomach and any headache, if you have one.’ He gestured to the water bottle. ‘May I?’

She nodded.

He unscrewed the top with a satisfying snap. Then he tore open the packet and carefully poured the powder into the water. After he was done, he threw away the empty packet and resealed the water bottle, swirling the contents around. ‘Sip it. You’ll feel much better soon.’

She unscrewed the lid again, taking a small sip. Cool water flooded her tongue, along with a hit of artificial citrus and something medicinal. . .