The Love Detective (23 page)

‘Those water heaters in the bathroom never work, it always runs freezing after about two minutes, so I’ve been having to take cold showers . . .’ He trails off and pulls a face. ‘I really hope you’re right about there being a hot shower. I haven’t had one since I arrived.’

Oh god. I am
such
an idiot.

‘Sorry, what were you saying about being safe?’

I completely got the wrong end of the stick. ‘Oh . . . um, nothing . . .’ Waves of mortification are washing over me. How much of my speech did he hear? Any of it?
All of it?
‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to your . . . er shower,’ I say, turning and bashing my toe against the doorframe.

Fuck. These stupid sandals. It throbs painfully as I start trying to unlock the door. Oh god, and now the key won’t go in.

‘Need a hand?’

‘No, I’m fine!’ I protest shrilly, jangling it around desperately. Finally it turns. Flinging open the door, I charge inside and close it behind me.

Then slump thankfully against it.

Who knew fancying someone could be so
stressful
? I should have stuck with my resolve of swearing off men. My heart’s racing, my head’s all over the place, I’m all jumpy. I’m like a nervous wreck.

I’m distracted by sounds on the other side of the paper-thin wall of a shower being turned on. An image of Jack, naked, flashes through my head. I feel a tug of desire and frustration. Oh my god, there I go again.

Seriously, I can’t cope with all these
feelings!

Chapter 19

As it turns out, I get my cold shower anyway.

Correction
: nearly die of hypothermia.

This region of India might have the most beautiful palaces and lavish fortresses, amazingly colourful cities and gorgeous
havelis
, glittering tribal costumes and stunning jewellery of anywhere in the world.

Constant hot water, however, is proving a little trickier to find.

For ten minutes I stand shivering in my towel, waiting for the water to warm up and deliberating over whether or not my hair really does need washing. Which is something of a rhetorical question, considering there’s less grease on a fish-and-chip wrapper. Every so often I stick my hand underneath the icy spray and try not to scream.

There’s cold, and then there’s
cold
. I’m not kidding, even those swimmers you see on New Year’s Day, jumping in frozen seas in bathing suits, would balk at getting under that shower.

Because it’s not just the temperature of the water. It’s a combination of the temperature outside, which plunges down to freezing once the sun goes down, and the marble floors of these old
havelis
, which were designed to keep guests cool in the heat of the summer, but are like ice cubes underfoot in the winter.

Hopping on one foot, then another, I briefly wonder whether I can take a shower in my woolly socks. Fashion faux pas or no fashion faux pas, I’m not sure I can bear to take them off. I have goose bumps the size of
marbles
.

And, of course, the
haveli
being over two hundred years old, there’s no such thing as central heating here. Instead of radiators, there are beautiful old tapestries on the walls. Which are stunning, truly they are.

It’s just hard to admire them when my teeth are chattering.

In the end I screw up all my courage and dive underneath the shower and for a brief, glorious moment I’m rewarded by a hot jet of water. Oh the joy. Watching myself turning a lovely shade of lobster pink, I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. There are only a few things in life that can feel this good: 1) An ice-cold gin and tonic on a hot summer’s day 2) finding those shoes you’ve really wanted marked down to 50 per cent off in the sale and there’s one pair left in your size, and 3) a paparazzi shot of a supermodel in a bikini with what looks
distinctly
like cellulite.

But a hot shower when you’re tired, dirty and cold has to come tops.

Conversely, there are only a few things that can feel as bad as a shower suddenly turning freezing cold when you’ve only been in it for a few minutes.

I shriek loudly, and leap out again.

Especially when you realise you’ve still got to rinse the shampoo out of your hair.

Oh fuck.

It takes until the time I’m dressed for the feeling to start returning to my head. Still, at least I finally have clean hair, I console myself, wincing as my frozen scalp starts to thaw. Finishing towelling it dry, I pull it into a damp ponytail. And there’s something about having clean hair that makes you feel loads better. All I need now are some clean clothes, I muse, reluctantly pulling on my hoody. I’ve managed to get the stain out, but still. First thing tomorrow, I must try and buy something else to wear.

Locking up my room, I go to knock on Jack’s door to see if he wants to eat dinner, only there’s no answer. He must have gone out. Feeling disappointed, I turn to leave, then pause. On second thoughts, maybe he’s fallen asleep. I hang back to see if I can hear any faint snoring coming from inside. No, nothing. Oh, wait . . . I think I can hear a voice.

‘I’m really sorry . . . yes . . . it was unavoidable.’

It’s Jack and it sounds as if he’s on the phone. His voice is slightly muffled and he’s saying something about being delayed in Agra and missing an appointment. What appointment? I feel my curiosity piqued. I wonder who he’s talking to?

Anyway, whoever it is, I’d best not interrupt him. That’s probably why he seemed so distracted earlier, I decide, turning away.

But not before I hear, ‘Ruby . . .’

I turn back. Hang on. Did he just say my name?

For a moment I stand frozen in the corridor, my head cocked, straining to hear. Is he talking about me? And if so, what’s he saying? I feel a hopeful flutter.
Is it something nice?
I wait, my curiosity ratcheting up a notch, but of course now I can’t hear a bloody thing. Maybe if I press my ear up against the door? . . . Nope. Still muffled. I know, there’s a glass in my room, maybe if I use that—

Oh my god,
what am I doing
?

All at once my common sense slaps me round the head. What is it about fancying someone that turns normal, sane women into secret agents? When we’re not Googling them and searching for them on LinkedIn, we’re snooping through pictures on their Facebook page.

And why stop there?

Why not just take complete leave of your senses and go into full stalker-mode and loiter outside their hotel room, eavesdropping on their personal conversations, huh?

Huh?

Quickly snatching my ear away from the door, I take stock of the situation. Who knows what Jack was saying, but if I carry on like this, the only thing he’ll be saying about me is that I’m bat-shit crazy! I mean seriously, there might as well be a policeman with a megaphone in my ear, blasting, ‘Put down your crush and step away from the door, Ruby.’

I give myself a shake. Right, come on, pull yourself together. It’s time to stop all this nonsense and behave like a normal person.

Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin and set off purposefully down the corridor.

Quickly. Before I completely lose the plot.

I go downstairs and walk through the courtyard towards reception. It’s very quiet and there’s hardly anyone around, just an older couple sitting on a sofa having a drink. I’m almost tempted to join them. I haven’t had an alcoholic drink since I left Goa and I could really do with one right now, though on second thoughts perhaps that’s not such a great idea. In my experience, alcohol + unrequited lust = making a complete fool of yourself. I’ve done quite enough of that already
and I’m sober
.

I keep walking. Ahead are the two large wooden doors leading out onto the street, and as I get closer I can hear music. Lifting the iron latch, I step outside and see the white Ambassador parked in a row of cars and Rocky leaning against the bonnet, talking to another driver.

‘Miss Ruby,’ he smiles, standing to attention.

‘Please, it’s Ruby,’ I insist, even though I know it’s futile. ‘What’s happening?’ I ask, gesturing towards the music drifting from the building opposite.

‘A wedding,’ he replies matter-of-factly.

Ah yes, of course. I should have guessed.

‘Much dancing,’ he grins, relaxing his stance and giving a little wiggle of his hips.

He looks so comical, I can’t help but start laughing.

He stops wiggling and looks at me thoughtfully. ‘You should laugh more,’ he says decisively, ‘it is good to laugh.’

‘Yes,’ I nod in agreement. ‘Only there just hasn’t been much to laugh about recently,’ I can’t help confessing.

‘But that is the beauty,’ he replies, his eyes shining. ‘Laughter doesn’t need a reason. It just feels good to laugh, like a scratch feels good.’ As if to prove his point, he gives his head a good scratch.

‘Does that feel good?’ I smile in amusement.

‘Yes, you should try it!’ he exclaims, and lets out a roar of laughter. ‘I laugh when I am sad. I laugh when I am angry. Because let me tell you,’ leaning closer, he lowers his voice as if sharing a secret, ‘it tricks the gods into thinking you are happy, and when you are happy, good things happen.’

Despite the cold night air I feel an unexpected warmth inside me. He makes it sound so simple, doesn’t he? And maybe it is, I reflect, turning the thought over in my head. Because somehow, being here right now, it feels like it could be that simple. It’s just back in my life in London, things seem a lot more complicated.

‘You should try it,’ he nods, with a grin.

‘Maybe I will,’ I smile, feeling a sudden bond between us. I really like Rocky. There’s a lot more to him than just a driver and tour guide. Underneath the smart clothes and polite demeanour, he’s got a wickedly mischievous sense of humour and his habit of giving sage advice, which at first I thought was amusing, has an awful lot of truth behind it.

‘So, you are by yourself?’ he’s asking now.

‘Yes, Jack’s on the telephone . . .’ I begin, then break off. I feel embarrassed just talking about it. ‘I mean, I think he is, I’m not sure.’

‘Are you hungry? Do you want me to drive you to a restaurant in the town?’

‘Oh, no thank you, I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m sure I can eat something here.’

‘It is no trouble,’ he protests. ‘It is my pleasure.’

‘No, really.’ Shaking my head, I glance back inside the courtyard. The couple that were drinking cocktails are now sharing a romantic candlelit meal together.

Actually, on second thoughts . . .

‘Are
you
hungry?’ I ask, glancing at Rocky.

‘A little,’ he nods, looking uncertain as to where this line of questioning is going. ‘But I am happy to drive you to a restaurant before I go to eat.’

‘Where do you have dinner?’

‘It is just a little place in the town,’ he replies dismissively.

‘Is it OK if I come with you?’

‘You want to eat with me?’ He looks astonished.

‘Yes. I mean . . . if you don’t mind,’ I add quickly.

‘No, not at all,’ he says hastily, ‘it would be a pleasure, except . . .’ he pauses, then looks abashed ‘ . . . except I am afraid this is not a fancy place; it is where all the local people eat.’

‘It sounds great,’ I say enthusiastically.

Rocky’s face breaks into a huge smile. ‘Excellent. In that case, I am honoured for you to be my guest.’

Chapter 20

Together we zigzag through the intricate maze of dusty roads, dodging cars and motorcycles, stray dogs and street hawkers. Darkness has fallen, but the town is still very much alive and I follow Rocky away from the busy tourist restaurants to a street corner on which there’s a man with a vast frying pan, filled to the brim with bubbling oil. He’s cooking something that smells delicious, but before I’ve got time to ask what it is, Rocky dives up a staircase next to a fabric shop.

Where on earth are we going? Doubtfully, I follow him, wondering if perhaps I should have stuck with the safer option of gate-crashing the romantic-meal-for-two at the
haveli
, when abruptly I’m led out into a large open-sided café. A wall of chatter hits me. Bright and noisy, with strip lighting and vivid blue painted walls, it’s crammed with long tables and benches, canteen-style, and packed with people.

All at once everyone turns in my direction, and I get lots of overtly curious looks, before the diners obviously decide that, actually, I’m not that interesting, and turn back to their food.

‘Gosh, it’s so busy,’ I gasp, taking in the scene. ‘We’ll never get a seat.’

‘It is always like this; there are always many people,’ nods Rocky, seemingly unfazed. He signals to a waiter who whisks us through the crowds and shows us to a a table.

At first I assume there’s been some mistake: the table is completely full, there’s no way we can fit on there. But without a word of complaint, just lots of friendly smiles, everyone shifts up and two spaces appear.