‘Do you have a pen?’
I zone back in to see her looking at me expectantly.
‘Oh, yes, somewhere,’ I say hurriedly, getting up to look around the room. I always feel slightly embarrassed whenever I can’t lay my hands on a pen. I mean, I’m a writer for goodness’ sake – by rights I should have pens coming out of my ears.
‘Your books make me so happy,’ the girl continues, ‘even when I am sad. They teach me to believe in true love, to believe that I will have a happy-ever-after . . .’
As she speaks I feel a stab of guilt. I suddenly feel like a fake. Here I am, writing about happy-ever-afters and true love, and look at me. I’m hardly a walking advertisement for it, am I?
‘ . . . but how can I ever live happily when I cannot be with the person I love? If all the time my heart is broken . . .’
I glance up from rummaging in a drawer and realise her eyes have welled up and a tear is spilling from her cheeks.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she sniffles, quickly wiping it away with her fingers.
‘Oh please, don’t be silly!’ I admonish, impulsively reaching across and squeezing her hand. ‘We’ve all had a broken heart.’
‘Even you?’ she looks at me, surprised.
‘Yes, even me,’ I nod, ruefully.
‘So tell me, what do I do?’ Expectantly, she looks at me for advice.
I can’t help smiling at the irony. ‘I don’t know,’ I confess with complete honesty, and see a flash of disappointment across her face.
‘But you write about love,’ she replies, her brow creasing.
‘I write about love because it fascinates me, but I’m not an expert on love. No one is. No one knows all the answers, because there are no answers,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s not called the mystery of love for nothing. In fact, the more I learn, the less I realise I actually know.’
I think back to how I felt just a few weeks ago – how I didn’t believe in love, how I thought it was all bollocks, and now . . . ‘But one thing I have learned is that even when you’ve lost faith and hope, love can surprise you.’
I look at the young girl sitting across from me and think about all the millions of people in the world, all of us looking for answers in one way or another.
‘You’ve just got to hold on,’ I add firmly. ‘Don’t ever let go.’
Our eyes meet and we share a moment of complete understanding. Because that’s the thing about love: it doesn’t care how old you are, where you live, what religion or culture you belong to. Deep down inside, it feels the same for every single one of us.
‘Oh look, a pen.’ Turning away, I spot one on the small table behind her and reach for it, then open the book and turn the page. ‘Who shall I sign it for?’
‘Suhana,’ she replies, smiling gratefully.
With the nib of the pen already resting on the page, I feel myself stiffen. Hang on, that rings a bell. ‘Suhana?’ I repeat, rolling the name around in my head.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ she nods.
I have a flashback to the train from Goa: Vijay – the photo on his mobile phone.
‘Do you know a boy called Vijay?’ I ask, and no sooner has his name escaped my lips than I know I’m right. Her face says it all.
‘Vijay?’ she gasps, as if hardly daring to believe it. ‘You know Vijay?’
‘I met him on a train,’ I nod. ‘He told me all about you!’
‘He did?’ Her voice falls to almost a whisper. ‘How was he?’
‘In love with you,’ I answer simply.
I see her breath catch inside her and for a moment it’s as if she hardly dares exhale, as if holding it tight inside of her will keep my words forever suspended in the air around her. ‘Please . . . tell me about him,’ she asks finally, her voice trembling. Her dark eyes meet mine. ‘Tell me about my Vijay.’
And so I tell her. I tell her everything. About how much he loves and misses her. About how he knows they can never be together because she would never disobey her father. About how he doesn’t want her to, because he respects her father. ‘All he wants is to know that you are happy,’ I tell her. ‘That’s all he wanted to know.’
And Suhana listens, her eyes shining with tears of both happiness and sadness, and says it’s a sign. And I can’t help thinking maybe she’s right. Love works in mysterious ways, and who’s to say destiny didn’t play a part in me catching the same train as Vijay? In that breath of wind that blew my hair loose and caused us to strike up a conversation about Suhana, the girl he was in love with. In the flat tyre that saw us arriving late into Udaipur and happening across this guesthouse because everywhere else was full. In me writing a novel that would be read by a young receptionist called Suhana who asked me to sign it . . . and me returning the favour by asking her to be my Facebook friend . . .
Well, actually, that’s me giving destiny a little helping hand. Because maybe one day Suhana and Vijay will be looking through my friends list and see each other, and who knows what will happen? The rest is up to destiny.
After we’ve finished talking, Suhana hugs me goodbye and I’m just closing the door behind her when Jack reappears around the corner carrying two large bags.
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ he asks, spotting me in the doorway.
Immediately I feel my heart sink. Uh-oh. What now?
‘I’m a Brit; the bad news,’ I say, without missing a beat.
He smiles. ‘OK, well the bad news is all our clothes are ruined.’
‘What?’ I frown, looking at him in confusion. ‘But how?’
Without saying a word he walks past me into the room and empties one of the bags onto the bed. A jumble of pink rags fall out onto the bedspread. At least I think they’re rags, only on closer inspection I realise it’s our clothes.
‘Everything’s pink,’ I say, somewhat redundantly.
‘Do you like pink?’ He raises his eyebrows.
Picking up a T-shirt that is now a strange shade of bubble-gum and stretched to twice its size, I stare at it in bewilderment. ‘And what’s the good news?’ I ask tentatively.
‘I got us both new outfits,’ he says simply.
‘You did?’ I feel a flash of panic. Oh dear. This is not good. The last time a man surprised me by buying me an outfit, I ended up having to wear a revolting dress that was like something Bo-Peep would wear.
I watch nervously as he dumps the other bag on the small chair.
‘You know, the pink isn’t actually that bad,’ I begin, then fall silent as Jack pulls out the most gorgeous length of sparkly bright blue sari material I’ve ever seen.
‘Oh wow,’ I gasp, mesmerised by the shimmering flashes of colour and glitter. ‘But how . . .?’
‘Mrs Gupta,’ he says. ‘I figured if we’ve got a whole night of weddings to crash, we should dress the part.’ As he tugs out an elaborate golden silk tunic and holds it up to himself, I stare at him in amazement. ‘And she does have the best deals in town,’ he grins, flashing me her card.
For a moment I just stand there, wordlessly. Then, breaking into a delighted smile, I pounce on the sari material and scoop it up into my hands. ‘Wow, Jack, this is gorgeous!’
Pleasure flashes across his face, then he gets down to business. ‘Come on, let’s get ready, we’ve got a big night ahead of us,’ he says, clapping his hands to hurry me along.
Reminded, I snap to and, clutching my new outfit to my chest, dash into the bathroom. Closing the door behind me, I tug off my towel, then pause, suddenly daunted by the evening ahead. I feel a clutch of nerves at the thought of chasing through the streets from wedding to wedding . . .
I also feel a thrill of excitement. Reaching for the swathe of sparkling silk, I start getting dressed. Forget 007, right now I feel like I’m in my own adventure movie.
Chapter 34
Who’s that girl?
Standing in front of the mirror, I gaze in disbelief at the reflection staring back at me. I almost don’t recognise myself. Gone is the scruffy
, dusty, hair-in-a-scrunchie tomboy who camped in the desert; in her place is a woman wearing the most exquisite cornflower blue silk sari, delicately embroidered with gold thread and sequins, that shimmers and sparkles as she moves. Freshly shampooed hair hangs in loose waves across her shoulders, her eyes are lined with dark kohl, and her intricately hennaed hands, which have now darkened properly, look amazing.
She’s even wearing the most gorgeous jewelled bindi, I muse, touching it delicately. As I do so, the glittering stack of bracelets on my arms jangle and I can’t help smiling.
‘I feel like a real-life fairy princess,’ I say, turning to Jack who’s standing beside me dressed in a traditional Indian achkan, a knee-length jacket made from gold silk, and a pair of tight-fitting trousers.
‘So what does that make me? Prince Charming?’ he grins.
I laugh, but something inside me flips right over. Clean-shaven, his dark hair brushed back from his tanned face, and without a frayed fedora, pair of flip-flops or tatty old shorts in sight, Jack looks ridiculously handsome, like a hero in a Bollywood movie.
‘So how do we look?’ Turning back to the mirror, he asks my reflection.
‘Um . . . not bad,’ I say, trying to make my voice sound nonchalant. But instead I feel as if every nerve ending is alive.
Dressed in our traditional Indian outfits, we don’t just look completely different, it’s as if somehow we are completely different. We’re not Jack and Ruby, two travellers thrown together on a road trip across India, with two completely different agendas. We’re Jack and Ruby, a man and a woman, all dressed up and on their way to not just one wedding, but possibly a dozen of them.
Crikey. I feel a tremble of excitement and panic. Usually if you go to a wedding as a couple, it’s a sign things are getting serious, and we’ve got up to twelve to go to.
But we’re not a couple. Jack’s just doing me a favour. We’re only doing this together because he’s helping me find Amy, I remind myself firmly. Before it’s too late and she makes the biggest mistake of her life.
‘You look gorgeous, Ruby.’
I turn to see Jack looking at me in a way he hasn’t looked at me before.
‘Um, thanks,’ I say, my voice coming out high and squeaky. ‘You, er, don’t look too bad yourself,’ I add, trying to be all jokey.
He remains looking at me for a moment, as if he might say something, then seems to think better of it. ‘OK, let’s go.’ He holds out his arm.
Like I said, we’re definitely not a couple. He’s just doing me a favour. That’s all.
And, threading my arm through his, I head out of the door with him.
Downstairs we encounter Suhana racing around reception. Balancing a large pile of post on top of several towels, she crashes blindly into us. ‘Oh, I am so sorry, sir and madam,’ she exclaims, then suddenly stops dead as she recognises us. ‘Oh my goodness me! Ruby!’
‘Hi Suhana,’ I smile, as Jack flashes me a perplexed look, wondering how we’re on first-name terms. I make a mental note to tell him all about it later.
‘You look so . . . so different,’ she gasps, goggling at us both.
‘We’ve got a wedding or two to go to,’ smiles Jack, scooping up several envelopes that have fallen to the floor and balancing them on top of her pile.
She shoots him a grateful smile. ‘The whole town is going to a wedding!’ she exclaims. ‘I have my cousin’s and I am so late!’ She glances at the clock on the wall and lets out a little squeak of horror. ‘Oh no, look at the time!’
‘Well, we’d better not keep you,’ I say, sensing the panic that only another female understands, of not having enough time to get ready.
‘Maybe we’ll see you later,’ nods Jack as she dives behind the reception desk.
‘Yes . . . please . . . you must come to the party afterwards,’ she nods, hurriedly switching off various electronics. Popping her head back up from behind the parapet of files, she flashes us both an excited smile, ‘There will be live music and lots of dancing! Look for the Royal Shiva, it is a five-star hotel on the lake . . .’ Then she disappears under the desk again.
Exchanging hurried, and muffled, goodbyes, we leave the guesthouse and walk outside onto the front steps. The street is already crowded with people and noise and there’s a carnival atmosphere. Dusk has fallen and the moon has risen in the sky, but the whole town is alive.
‘You both look wonderful!’
Hearing a voice, I tip my head and see the little white car tucked into the smallest of spaces across the street, and Rocky leaning against it.
‘Oh, hey!’ waves Jack. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘But I saw you,’ he nods with a smile. ‘You make a wonderful couple.’
I feel myself blush awkwardly. ‘Thanks,’ I smile, not looking at Jack.
‘So my job is done,’ he adds, as together Jack and I begin descending the steps to cross the street to him.
‘Yes, well done for getting us safely to Udaipur,’ grins Jack.
I glance at Rocky, and as he meets my eye I somehow get the feeling that isn’t what he was referring to, but no sooner has that thought zipped across my mind, than we’re distracted by the sound of a brass band, the buzz of energy and excitement, and then, from around the corner, a wedding procession appears.
It’s led by a drummer, and he’s followed by a dozen or so musicians – tuba players, trombonists, drummers, all in band uniforms of red jackets and gold buttons; there are boys carrying candelabras connected to generators, and crowds of revellers swarming behind. The whole effect is dazzling and chaotic and completely exhilarating.
‘Rocky was right, everyone is getting married,’ I gasp, as we’re separated from him by the procession and lose him in the crowd.
‘Mrs Gupta said she knew of at least twelve weddings, right?’ asks Jack.
‘Uh-huh,’ I nod, mesmerised by the flashing lights and brightly coloured saris that are streaming past like a school of tropical fish.
‘So where do you reckon we should start?’
‘I have no idea!’ I yell, above the clash of cymbals and trumpets.
‘Well in that case . . .’ Without further hesitation, Jack grabs me by the hand and together we dive into the procession.
Engulfed by noise and surrounded by people smiling and cheering, there’s no time to wonder what to do, or worry about my sister, or feel nervous about what’s going to happen. All we can do is surrender ourselves to the moment and allow the night to take us where it will.
And, laughing with delight, we join everyone else in raising our arms in the air. Let the great big wedding extravaganza begin.
I once read that life should not be about the number of breaths you take, but the number of moments that take your breath away. If that’s true, then this one night in Udaipur is filled with a million of those moments. Just the colours are enough to set your heart racing. People talk about an ‘explosion of colour’, but you’ve never really experienced the true meaning of that phrase unless you’ve been to India, and never more so than at a wedding.
Canary yellows, dazzling pinks, emerald greens . . . and those are just the saris. Add to them flaming red turbans, showers of golden marigolds, brightly decorated horses, camels and elephants, and a blaze of fireworks lighting up the dark sky overhead and it’s like suddenly seeing life in high definition. Believe me, if colour was an Olympic sport, India would win the gold medal every time.
Mine and Jack’s first wedding experience finishes when we spot the groom on a white horse. Resplendent in a long white silk jacket, elaborately jewelled turban, and carrying a sword, he looks like a fairy-tale prince on a white charger. But he looks nothing like Shine. So reluctantly we duck out of that wedding.
And straight into another.
This procession is even bigger and louder than the last. Led majestically by an elaborately adorned elephant, fire-breathers entertain whilst crowds dance to Bollywood tunes blasting out from giant speakers.
‘Come on, let�
�s dance,’ whoops Jack, grabbing hold of me and twirling me around.
‘I can’t dance,’ I protest self-consciously, laughing in embarrassment, but he just twirls me harder.
‘Just look around you,’ he yells, above the music. ‘It doesn’t matter!’
And as I spin around, I glance at all the people around me and see he’s right. It doesn’t matter, no one is watching; everyone is too busy flinging their arms in the air, bumping and gyrating, leaping and clapping. Inhibitions have gone out of the window, for some more than others, I muse, catching sight of one man who’s rocking out with a sort of jive crossed with head-banging routine.
It’s true what they say: weddings, wherever they are in the world, bring out some crazy dance moves. I’ve seen some bad dancing at weddings, and I mean really bad dancing, but the best part of it is no one cares; everyone’s too busy enjoying themselves. Plus here, thankfully, there isn’t a handbag in sight to dance around.
‘Woo-hoo!’
Caught up in the throng of revellers, I find myself dancing with a bunch of other tourists, some Dutch girls and several Italian guys, who really know the meaning of letting their hair down, whilst Jack is commandeered by a larger-than-life lady and her friends, who chuckle loudly in delight. And then for a few moments I lose him in the crowd as a swell of people push past and, hearing a loud honking, have to stand to the side to try and let a cab that’s found itself caught up in all of this mayhem drive through.
Just like we did when we first arrived in Delhi. My mind flashes back. It seems so long ago, I feel like a different person, I muse, glancing in through the car window as it inches past.
And get a surprise. It’s Cindy! Sitting alone on the back seat, she looks terrified.
The Love Detective Page 27
