The Love Detective (16 page)

OK, calm down. Don’t panic.

Swallowing hard, I put the brakes on my nervous breakdown and step back from the ledge. This isn’t as bad as it first looks. Things like this happen all the time. I was once pickpocketed on the Tube and they took everything, including my house keys, and I had to climb in through my bathroom window. I coped then. I’ll cope now.

With superhuman effort I gather myself up and somehow manage to get myself off the train and onto the platform. It’s filled with frenzied activity and a cacophony of noise and I find myself caught up in a huge swarming crowd. It’s like swimming upstream, but I manage to make it out the other side and collapse onto a bench.

Taking a few deep breaths, I glance around me at the unfamiliar surroundings, trying to hang on to my resolve. But I can feel the reality of my situation fast sinking in, like a red wine stain on a stranger’s white sofa. I’m alone. In India. Surrounded by total strangers. With no passport, money, or phone.

Plus, it’s also freezing, I realise, suddenly noticing the marked drop in temperature from the south. And I have no warm clothes, except for this old grey hoody. Shivering, I untie it from around my waist and pull it over my head.

Right, well, I’m right about one thing: this isn’t as bad as it first looks. It’s worse. Much, much worse.

But I’m wrong about the other:
I really think I should start panicking
.

What am I going to do?

I mean, seriously,
What the fuck am I going to do?

Then I see him.

Far ahead in the hazy distance, amid the moving sea of people, a head and shoulders standing tall above the rest. A battered old straw fedora bobbing up and down above the waves of shiny black hair and kaleidoscope of headscarves.

The American.

Like a drowning man spotting a lifeboat, my heart leaps. Jumping to my feet, I begin to race after him. Shit, why didn’t I ask him his name? I’m going to lose him in this crowd. I want to call out to him, but what do I yell?
Oi, you, the annoying American!
OK, no, maybe not.

I rush down the platform, trying to beat a path through the mass of people, ‘Sorry . . . excuse me . . . I’m so sorry . . . If I could just get through . . . I’m sorry.’ A man with a donkey blocks my view and I reach up on tiptoes trying to see. Oh no, now he’s disappeared!

A fresh wave of panic propels me forwards and, abandoning my English politeness, I push past, bobbing and weaving from side to side, trying to spot a glimpse through the gaps in the crowd.

Oh, there he is! For a few seconds I catch sight of the hat, then it disappears from view again. Frustration bites. Along with panic, which is yapping at my heels like a crazed Jack Russell.

He’s my only hope! I can’t lose him. I just can’t lose him.

My sandal slips off my foot and I go flying. Argh, these fucking sandals!

I throw out my hands to break my fall, grabbing onto the person nearest to me.

‘Holy Moly!’

I’m not sure which happens first. Hearing his voice. Or realising my hands have gripped onto his chest. Either way, I’m too relieved to be mortified.

‘It’s you!’ He does a double take.

As I lock eyes with the American it strikes me that I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy to see someone. And especially someone who – a few moments ago – I never wanted to see again.

‘Oh thank god . . . thank god,’ I pant, trying to catch my breath. ‘I was scared I was going to lose you . . . I don’t know what I’d have done.’ I’m babbling, the shock and the panic and the relief all merging into one big messy ball of emotion.

‘I made that great an impression, huh?’ His eyes flash with amusement. ‘And there was me thinking you didn’t like me—’

I come up short. ‘No, not like that!’ I snap. Suddenly realising my hands are still clutching his chest, I snatch them back as if I’ve been stung. ‘I’ve been robbed!’

‘Robbed?’ His amusement is replaced by shock.

‘Everything’s been stolen! My passport, my money, all my credit cards, my phone . . . everything . . .’ A lump forms in my throat; unable to hold it together any longer, I suddenly burst into tears.

For a moment he just stands there, watching me, then he lets out a groan. ‘Oh c’mon, don’t cry, I hate it when girls cry.’ Digging into his pockets, he pulls out a wad of toilet roll. ‘For the bathrooms,’ he explains, peeling off a few sheets and handing them to me. ‘Don’t worry, it’s clean.’

Fighting back tears I take the paper from him gratefully. ‘Thanks,’ I sniffle, roughly wiping my eyes. ‘I just feel like such an idiot.’

Putting his hand on my shoulder, he manoeuvres me to one side where it’s a bit quieter and puts down his backpack.

‘So what happened?’ he asks gravely.

Blowing my nose like a trumpet, I give a little shrug. ‘I just woke up a few minutes ago on the train and it had all gone.’

‘What? Whilst you were asleep?’

‘Yeah, it must have been,’ I nod, dabbing my eyes, which I can feel welling up again.

‘Wow, that’s terrible.’ He shakes his head, his brow creased with concern.

I feel a surge of affection. Maybe I misjudged him. Maybe underneath he’s really nice after all. I take another piece of loo roll.

‘I know,’ I sniff, ‘I think they must have drugged the chocolate.’

There’s a pause, and then . . .

‘
Chocolate?
’

It’s like the sound of a minor key chord on a piano.

‘What chocolate?’ he repeats, only the concern in his voice seems to have suddenly disappeared and is replaced by something that sounds a lot like accusation.

Feeling myself stiffen, I try to explain. ‘Um . . . well, I was really hungry, and I couldn’t eat my meal as it was too spicy – although I love Indian food, it doesn’t love me – and then this little boy got on and he was really cute, and he had all this chocolate . . .’ I feel my face growing red with agitation.

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘What? No. I couldn’t believe it either, he had such a selection, all different kinds—’

‘I’m not talking about the chocolate,’ he admonishes, ‘I’m talking about you eating it!’

I fall silent at his rebuke.

On second thoughts, maybe I should stick with first impressions.

‘After everything I said. I warned you about that happening,’ he continues reprimanding me, as if I’m a small child. ‘Were you not listening?’

‘OK, you don’t need to rub it in,’ I reply. I can feel my tears drying up as quickly as they had appeared.

‘Jeez,’ he shakes his head. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

And suddenly, I feel myself snap. ‘What’s wrong with me is that I’ve had everything stolen!’ I explode, ‘and I already know I’m a complete moron for not being more careful and I don’t need you telling me . . .’

He looks at me, not saying anything, but his silence only adds to my fury.

‘And on top of that I feel like some stupid idiot tourist! I mean, just look at me, I’ve always dreamed of coming to India and here I am and I’m rubbish at everything! I’m useless at yoga, I can’t find the right seat on a train, I can’t eat the spicy food . . .’

But it’s fury at myself, because suddenly it’s all coming spilling out of my mouth. All my frustrations and disappointments and anger at myself from the past few days are pouring out in one big torrent, and now I’ve started, I can’t stop.

‘I can’t even haggle!’ Grabbing one of my sandals I take it off and waggle it at him. ‘Have you any idea how much I paid for these stupid sandals?
Have you?
They’d have cost less at Nine West!
And
I wouldn’t mind but they don’t even stay on my feet!’

As I thrust it at him menacingly, he shrinks back.

‘And I’ve only gone and weed all over them as I can’t even squat properly in the loos without dribbling all over my feet!’

His eyes grow wider and he looks at me aghast. I know, I can’t believe I said that either, but it’s like a censor has been removed from my mouth and everything is spewing out.

‘And not only that but I’m scared of everything! I’m like some big pathetic wuss! I’m scared of the roads, the stray dogs, the insects . . . look at all these mosquito bites.’ I roll up my sleeve and shove my arm at him, which is covered in lots of angry red marks. ‘I cover myself in repellent and they still get me!’

As if to prove my point I scratch them viciously.

‘And I wish I’d just stayed at home in my flat because none of this would ever have happened, but I didn’t, because I needed a break . . . and my sister sent me this postcard . . . and I just wanted to do something adventurous and impulsive and not sit on the sofa like I’ve done every night since Sam and I . . .’

I break off. Tears well up in my eyes again, but I brush them roughly away.

‘And now I’m in a total mess and I don’t know what to do and the only person I can ask for help is a know-it-all American who prefers to stand here lecturing me about what a complete and total idiot I’ve been, instead of trying to help me . . .’

I break off breathlessly and I’m suddenly aware he hasn’t said a word for the last five minutes and he’s just looking at me, somewhat shocked by my outburst.

He’s not the only one. Where did all that come from?

There’s a pause, as I get my breath back. ‘So are you going to help me, or what?’ I finish finally.

He tips back his hat to wipe his brow, then studies me for a moment as if weighing me up.

‘Only if you promise not to be a pain in the ass,’ he replies.

Well you’d know all about that
, I fire back in my head, but I bite my tongue. No answering back, Ruby; he’s your only hope, remember.

‘Thanks,’ I nod, composing myself. ‘I really appreciate it.’

‘Well, I don’t have much choice do I – after all that.’

I feel a flush of embarrassment. ‘I was a just a bit upset, that’s all,’ I say stiffly.

‘Understandably,’ he nods.

I feel myself soften slightly towards him.

‘And, for the record, I don’t think you’re pathetic. India can be a bit of a shock at first, it just takes a while to get used to,’ he says evenly, ‘and, once you do, you’ll fall madly in love with it.’ He holds out his hand. ‘I’m Jack by the way.’

‘I’m Ruby,’ I reply, and we shake hands awkwardly.

It feels like a truce. For now, anyway.

Chapter 14

‘OK, let’s go.’

Introductions over, Jack hoists his giant backpack over his shoulder and promptly sets off towards the exit.

‘Go? Go where?’ Plunging back into the crowds, I hurry to keep up alongside him. He has a very big stride.

‘Well, the first thing you need to do is report it to the cops.’ He pulls out a bottle of water and proceeds to glug down its contents. He drinks like my parents’ Red Setter, water going everywhere.

‘Right, yes,’ I nod, making a mental list. ‘Where’s the police station?’

He shakes his head, coming up for air. ‘Now that I can’t tell you. I’ve been to Delhi before, but I’ve never needed a police station . . .’ He shoots me a look.

I ignore it. ‘Oh hang on, I’ve got a guidebook in my bag,’ I remember triumphantly.

‘Would that be the bag you just had stolen?’ He raises his eyebrows.

I feel two spots of colour burning on my cheeks.

‘And I thought it only covered Goa, anyway?’

The two spots merge into one great big blotch.

‘Now I see why you need my help,’ he mutters, and takes another swig of water.

I bite my tongue. He’s my only hope, remember?

‘Want some?’ He offers me the bottle. There’s only a dribble left.

‘Do you have any aspirin?’

‘Are you always this demanding?’ He shoots me a look.

‘Are you always so unfriendly?’ I shoot one back.

‘Hey, I’m helping you, aren’t I?’

‘I’m sorry, I just have a blinding headache.’ Taking the bottle from him, I wipe the neck with my sleeve and take a thirsty glug.

‘You won’t catch anything, you know.’

‘It’s a habit,’ I reply. ‘You can never be too careful.’

‘Shame you didn’t think that about the chocolate,’ he counters.

I hand him back his water bottle.
Only hope. Remember Ruby, he’s your only hope.

Repeat on a loop.

As we walk out of the station, a fanfare of traffic horns heralds our arrival and Delhi greets us like a pushy relative, enveloping us in a choking hug that almost knocks the breath out of me.

Despite everything I’ve heard before, all the travel programmes I’ve seen, the crazy stories I’ve listened to, the coffee-table books filled with photographs I’ve flicked through, nothing could have prepared me for the sensory overload that is Delhi. The sheer scale of people and traffic, the explosion of brightly coloured saris, the melee of honking taxis, the pungent smell of diesel oil and exhaust fumes mingled with incense and spices.