A suitcase tale: Juggling flirtation and bargain-bin spy drama in New Zealand.
Episode 1
Ah, the smell of jet engine fuel. Most people wrinkle their noses. Not me. I love how it offers the promise of beginnings.
Brisbane International Airport hummed softly in the early morning, dimly lit and barely awake. There’s something about terminals at dawn that deepens the pause between leaving and arriving.
It felt good to be back in one of my favourite places. Journeys. Possibilities. I never tire of them, no matter how many I take.
How to turn an ordinary day into an extraordinary one.
After a leisurely breakfast and easeful boarding, I settled in for the short flight.
Somewhere across the Tasman Sea, I politely disturbed the man next to me and squeezed my way to the cramped toilet. I’d noticed him earlier in the airline lounge, scrolling on his phone over a coffee.
He smiled as he stood to let me back into our row.
As I half fell, half slide into my allotted space, I noticed a folded scrap of paper on the seat.
Not mine.
Not airline branded.
Too deliberate?
I looked at my seat mate, who was back to watching a movie on his iPad.
Never one for hesitation, I opened it.
Three handwritten words, in a scrawl that was hard to read.
It begins today
No signature. No explanation.
Righto. What sort of trick was this?
I glanced at the row in front, peeked through the gaps of the seats to check behind, leaned forward to see across the aisle.
Nothing. All passengers were suitably engrossed in watching, reading, or sleeping.
Whilst the man next to me had a particularness (is that even a word) about him that aroused in me a certain curiosity, this was…what, exactly? I had no idea.
He looked over.
“Everything alright?”
A hint of amusement tugged at one corner of his mouth.
“Fine.”
I shrugged.
But his gaze was fixed on the note in my hand.
Episode 2
Lack of sleep overtook any curiosity over the random note. I dozed, and the flight continued with the ease it had begun. A few wobbles on landing—it was Windy Welly after all. Disembarking was a breeze.
But somewhere between customs and the smiley Welcome to Wellington! signs at the baggage carousel, I realised that the note was gone.
I searched my pockets and laptop bag. Nothing. Nope, not wedged inside my passport or crammed into my handbag either. No paper scrap, no scrawled handwriting, no proof I hadn’t imagined the whole thing.
My seat mate walked past me with a courteous nod as he headed toward the exit. A faint scent of musk followed him. My skin tingled as a whisper of déjà vu lingered.
Outside the terminal the temperature was warmer than expected. I sweated in the jumper I had thrown on after landing.
Family hugs, chats, and laughter filled the rest of the day.
Drifting off to sleep that night, the note slipped into my consciousness. The randomness of both the appearing and disappearing. I am not one for losing things, particularly mystery notes.
In the morning, I headed into Upper Hutt for a little Christmas shopping, but the mood dimmed when I discovered that two bookshops I often visit had closed down. Another reminder of how much the New Zealand economy has been struggling.
Imagining a world without books, I sought solace over a coffee.
The café was bursting with chatter, the kind that ricocheted off the concrete floors and leapt up to the metal beams overhead like overexcited acrobats. Every clink of a cup became a tiny cymbal crash, every laugh a bright, bouncing echo. It wasn’t so much background noise as a full-blown, caffeine-fuelled symphony; messy and overly loud.
I put my earbuds in and listened to my favourite tunes.
My phone buzzed.
A message.
An unknown number.
Just three words again, this time typed.
I’m watching you
Episode 3
My stomach dropped.
I scanned the café. No one was paying the slightest attention to me; not the parents with young children, the retirees, or the solos working on laptops. Not even the dark-haired man at the neighbouring table who was staring vacantly out the window like a brooding statue.
Great. Then you’ll know exactly when to duck. I shot back.
My thumb hung mid-air over the delete and block tab.
Why I hesitated I’m not sure. Curiosity? Stupidity?
I told myself I’d make a decision later. After all, it’s not as if random plot twists are an everyday happenstance.
The next day I sat on a bench at the Upper Hutt Swimming Complex, the smell of chlorine taking me back to my days of churning out laps and the satisfaction of hard sessions.
I watched my four-year-old grandson during his lesson. His joy at being in the water was reflected in his huge smile every time he surfaced.
A normal morning in every possible way.
Until my phone buzzed.
Unknown Sender: Nice reflexes yesterday
I typed back before good sense could intervene.
I practice in secret. Mostly involving rogue seagulls and flying croissants.
A reply landed a few seconds later.
Useful skills. Today you’ll only need the first one
I blinked at the message, then looked around the pool. Yelling kids, bored lifeguards. Not a spy, assassin, or mysterious admirer in sight.
Another ping.
Unknown Sender: Relax. You’re perfectly safe
A pause, then: Probably
Great. Nothing like conditional reassurance from a stranger who may or may not have Google Maps open on my exact location.
My grandson waved from the learners’ pool.
A multitude of responses jostled, fighting for the number one spot.
I stared at the screen.
Was that a threat? A joke? A flirtation? A warning?
Perhaps I should have hit that delete and block tab.
I shoved the phone into my bag.
My watch buzzed. I braced for a coded threat, a confession of undying love, or instructions for a covert rendezvous.
Nope. Just my exercise app telling me to move. Even my wearable tech was trolling me.
No more messages appeared during the rest of the day.
The worst part wasn’t the last text. It was the silence that followed as if someone had stepped back into the shadows and was simply…waiting.
Episode 4
Morning arrived. My phone remained mute, offering neither reassurance or explanation.
At the Upper Hutt ice skating rink, I watched my grandson shuffle in cautious little steps while gripping his daddy’s hand like a lifeline. So cute, and heart comforting.
I pretended to not openly admire the figure skater gliding past like he was made of light or the coach who tore around the rink as if he was chasing a hockey puck.
Later I wondered aloud if my hometown offered “senior” ice skating classes. My son, ever the tease, suggested the term “geriatric” might be more applicable.
Afterwards, I strolled over to the Sunday markets for a coffee. There had been no more texts, and I felt at ease with the super chill vibe of Upper Hutt.
Just as I placed my order, a stranger stepped up behind me and tapped my shoulder. He held out a small metal key and a 50 cent coin.
“I think these are yours,” he said. “You dropped them when you left the restaurant last night.”
He pointed across to Brewtown.
I stared at the unfamiliar key in my hand. When I looked up, he’d disappeared.
Episode 5
The rural peace of Whitemans Valley is the perfect place to refocus on my writing. Today, I stayed true to my intention and spent several hours at my laptop.
I ignored the key thrust into my pocket. It lingered like an unwanted pet rock, heavier than it should be and judging me for not knowing what it opens.
The 50-cent coin lay beside it, clinking when I moved.
After the strange happenings of the past few days, it was great to escape into some fiction. At least my plot made sense.
Needing a break, I went for a walk in the paddock. The open valley of farms and green hills was pleasantly bucolic. I breathed deeply and sighed with contentment.
Right on cue, my phone buzzed in my hand. A repeat of the other day. Unknown sender, blank preview. Groaning, I clicked to open the message…
….and the damn thing disappeared before my eyes. The message, not the phone. Not a trace remained that it had ever arrived.
My cursing was loud enough to disturb a grazing cow.
I began to feel as if I’d stumbled into someone else’s mystery. Wrong person, wrong storyline. A random plot that didn’t makes sense.
I just hoped that the sacrifice of my sanity was appreciated.
Episode 6
Today was a perfect summer day—sunny, and almost hot. Wellington sparkled, all bright water, blue sky, and light that made the city feel freshly washed. Along the waterfront, the scent of coffee and sea salt teased.
I basked in the warmth.
Then I saw him, my seat mate from the plane. He was leaning against a pole, presumably watching seagulls fight over stolen chips.
I suddenly felt cold. It wasn’t him was it…the note and the texts?
He chose that moment to look in my direction and smile. The same upturned curve of the lips, the slight twinkle in his eyes, as on the plane.
Perhaps I was being too harsh? Perhaps he had only one sort of smile.
I took a deep breath and walked over. After a cursory greeting, I blurted, “Are you sending me messages?”
He blinked. “Messages?”
I couldn’t pick his accent.
“The note on the plane. The text at the café. The pool. Even in the paddock.”
“What’s a paddock?” He laughed. “I haven’t contacted you at all. Should I have?”
I searched his face. No wrinkle of deceit, no furrow of guilt showed.
“If you’re suggesting something…” he continued.
“Forget it.” My face flushed red. “My mistake.”
I fled.
On the train journey back to Upper Hutt I cringed with embarrassment. Desperate for distraction, I opened my notebook.
I flipped through pages I hadn’t touched in months.
And there it was.
My handwriting, unmistakably mine, scrawled, hurried, passionate:
It begins today
I had dropped the note.
I had misread his glances.
I had imagined meaning where there was none, and twisted reality.
But I sure as hell hadn’t sent the texts to myself.
I tugged my phone out to double check my sanity.
A familiar buzz. My fingers twitched and the phone fell to the floor of the carriage.
New message. Unknown sender.
Episode 7
Why are you ignoring me?
I stared at the screen the way one might stare at a penguin wandering into a café; confused, mildly alarmed, and not entirely sure whether to offer it a biscuit.
After several minutes of theatrical nonchalance, I picked my phone up, slid it back into my bag, and did…absolutely nothing.
I didn’t respond.
I didn’t delete.
I didn’t block.
I simply opted out of participating in whatever randomness this was.
Another beautiful sunny day dawned. The Kiwis, bless them, were simultaneously rejoicing that summer had finally arrived after a harsh winter, and wilting in 25-degree heat.
After a delightful brunch, I wandered into my favourite second-hand bookshop in Upper Hutt. I took a deep breath, savouring the smell of old pages and forgotten stories.
I reached for a worn paperback, opened it randomly…and froze.
A slip of fresh white paper was nestled inside the yellowed pages.
You didn’t respond, was written in tidy, unfamiliar handwriting.
This time I knew that I hadn’t accidentally dropped one of my own notes. The writing was far too neat. Plus, the laws of physics and logic made it impossible.
I snapped the book shut, frowned at the cover.
Nope. Definitely not titled Messages from the Void.
“Right,” I muttered, shoving it back on the shelf, “I’m ignoring you too.”
Fast-forward to late afternoon.
I’m on a yacht in the Mana Marina with family and friends, the world soft and shimmering around us. The bubbles and chatter flowed. Protected from the wind, the boat barely rocked. A light, salty air brushed against my skin.
My phone was buried in my bag. Out of sight. Out of mind.
Or so I thought.
Midway through a conversation about sandbars and currents, my watch buzzed.
I hesitated. I truly did. But curiosity, that seductive little tyrant, won.
Another message:
If you keep teasing me like this, I’m coming over tonight
I nearly dropped my glass.
My son thought I’d spotted a dolphin.
What should I do?
It’s one thing to make a decision; it’s another to do it without knowing the odds.
Episode 8
All through dinner at a nearby pub, I pondered how to respond to the last text. Should I flip a coin?
I still didn’t haven’t a plan by the time we returned to the valley.
My phone buzzed as I unlocked the door to the cottage.
You’re ghosting me. Again
Me: I was at sea. Literally. Hard to text when one hand is holding bubbles and the other is twirling a stand of hair.
You’re teasing me. Again.
The Unknown Sender certainly had a fondness for repetition, as if emphasis might actually substitute for clarity.
Me: If I were teasing, you’d need armour.
I peered out the glass door into the dark fields.
Careful. I meant what I said, came the reply.
Me: Great. Shall I pour some wine?
I wondered if the dogs would bark if a stranger came prowling. They’re large, white, and fluffy, gentle as can be, but with a wolf like growl.
You haven’t given me your address
Me: Ah…Fab. I get the whole bottle to myself.
I flung my phone onto the couch, where it stayed all night.
My last day in New Zealand dawned soft and sweet. Even though I’d slept badly, I woke early to spend precious moments with my family.
Despite all the bizarre events, the week had been lovely. My heart full, but sad to be leaving.
My son drove me into Wellington for my final night. An early morning flight feels far more civilised when all I have to do is shuffle a few metres to bag drop.
I spent the afternoon strolling around the waterfront. The city is beautiful, and sunshine always makes it sparkle.
With the evening light slowly stretching around the hills, the idea of staying in my hotel room felt tragic. I wandered down to the bar instead.
I’d just sat in a corner seat when a rowdy group arrived. I immediately rummaged for my earbuds, like any responsible adult in flight mode.
A shadow loomed over my table.
I glanced up to find my seat mate from the plane smiling down at me, pointing at the empty chair as if we’d planned a rendezvous.
No way! I was still embarrassed about the mix-up when I’d accused him of sending messages.
My phone buzzed. Unknown sender.
For real?
The man took that moment to sit.
Another buzz.
“Whoever it is, they sound insistent,” he said.
Trapped between two strangers, I tapped the screen.
I bit back on the curse and settled for a groan. The sound was not pretty.
The man asked, “Is everything alright?”
I stared at my phone.
Beside me the man raised an eyebrow. Was the smirk one of amusement or annoyance?
Unknown sender: OK Serena, this is getting weird
I agreed; just not for the reasons they thought.
Then came the second message. A long paragraph complained that I was inconsistent, evasive, and possibly suffering from early-onset goldfish memory.
At this point I began to suspect I was starring in a sitcom where I hadn’t read the script.
I replied, I regret to inform you I am not Serena. I’m a completely different brand of chaos.
They sent back six question marks, one exclamation mark, and (for some unknown reason) a GIF of a man falling off a kayak.
Then the truth unfolded through a flurry of texts. At the same time, the man beside me radiated such a strong presence I could practically feel my personal space filing a complaint.
I scrolled to the next message, which contained a screenshot of my number beside a dating-app profile of a woman who loved crocheting, salsa dancing, and ‘meaningful eye contact.’
For days, I’d been wondering whether I was caught in espionage, fate, or some elaborate prank.
But no—just arithmetic failure.
“One rogue digit,” I muttered.
“I have to admit I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The man leaned closer. Not in a romantic way, but in a ‘please tell me this situation is entertaining enough to justify my time’ way.
“One digit off.” I held up my pointer finger. “One. I’ve spent seven days thinking I was in a Hitchcock plot, and instead I’ve been starring in a numerical farce.”
The man took a slow sip of his drink.
The Unknown Sender apologised profusely. I accepted, mostly because I was relieved. He wasn’t a cult recruiter, assassin, or someone asking for money.
Then he wrote: So…who HAVE I been texting?
Just think of me as Serena 2
I didn’t even bother to include a full stop.
Case closed.
Mystery solved.
Chaos undefeated.
I put my phone away.
“I don’t suppose you know anything about a key and a coin. 50 cents, Australian.”
He shook his head, raised an eyebrow, the left one this time. It looked highly trained, and capable of causing heart palpitations.
And that was the moment I realised that the night was about to get significantly more complicated.
Episode 9
I left his room around 2:30 a.m. There was no point crawling into my own bed for the half-hour left before the alarm would ring. My body buzzed with exhaustion and…whatever that night had been.
Still dazed, still unsteady, I drifted down the escalator from the hotel into the terminal, hauling my suitcase behind.
It was surprisingly busy. A blur of travellers, rolling bags, fluorescent lights, muted by the darkness of closed stores.
I stopped suddenly.
There he was ahead, unmistakable even from behind.
Two burly policemen flanked him, holsters heavy on their hips. My mind snagged on the oddest thing: New Zealand police don’t carry guns, except at the airport.
And that thought stayed with me long after he disappeared from sight.
Then a whisper slid through me like a shiver. Who exactly had I just spent the night with?
We’d talked and laughed, swapped first names and phone numbers, let the hours stretch into something warm and reckless.
I stood frozen, heart thudding, a dozen impossible explanations tumbling through my tired brain.
Then he turned slightly, as though sensing me, just enough for the corner of his mouth to lift in the faintest, most maddening smile.
Not a greeting.
Not a goodbye.
Just a promise that perhaps I would never know his story.
And somehow…that felt exactly right.