The Love Detective (29 page)

Fuck.
Alerted by the sound of the battery beeping, I look at my screen and let out a groan of dismay. This can’t happen now. Not when I’ve got so close.

‘What’s wrong?’

I glance up to see Jack sitting in the hotel lobby on his iPhone. No doubt checking emails from his jewel-smuggling crime ring, I think testily, or flirty texts from Cindy. ‘Nothing,’ I stay stiffly, handing my key in to reception.

‘You can’t fool me with that one, I know what women mean when they say “nothing”.’

‘Oh, really,’ I say, distractedly. The last thing I need right now is to be treated to evidence of Jack’s wealth of experience with the female sex.

‘It means something’s definitely up.’

I feel like an idiot for ever having fancied Jack. What was I thinking? It was being at the Taj Mahal; it was so romantic I got totally seduced by it all. It was almost like I fell under some kind of spell. A spell that is now broken, I tell myself firmly, ignoring him and thanking the receptionist, before turning towards the exit.

‘Where are you going?’

I’m really tempted to just walk right past him – after all, he’ll probably find this new predicament of mine even more hilarious than the last one – but my manners get the better of me.

‘My phone’s died. I’m going to walk into town to buy a charger so I can try and call my sister.’

‘Wait, I’ll come with you—’

‘No, there’s really no need to bother,’ I say hastily, hoping he’ll get the hint.

He doesn’t. I swear sometimes I think the part of his brain that deals with sensitivity is Teflon-coated.

‘It’s no bother, I need to stretch my legs,’ he says, getting up from his chair before I can stop him.

‘Oh, OK,’ I say reluctantly as he joins me. What a difference thirty-six hours make. Before, I would have been thrilled to spend time with him, but now everything’s turned 180 degrees.

‘By the way, you were right.’

I look at him blankly.

‘The henna washed off.’ He gestures to my face. ‘That was lucky.’

‘Oh, right. Yes,’ I nod, though if the truth be told it’s not so much down to luck as the hour spent at the bathroom sink, scrubbing my face with a flannel until it was red raw. I probably took off about three layers of skin. Though of course I’m not going to tell
him
that. In fact, from now on, I’m not going to tell Jack anything very much at all. If he wants to be secretive, two can play at that game.

‘Very lucky,’ I say tightly and, without waiting for him, I stride off ahead.

Some people say you shouldn’t go by first impressions, and in some cases that’s very true, but not when it comes to Pushkar. The moment I step out of the guesthouse, I can tell immediately that this is a very special place.

Maybe it’s because of the religious energy. As Rocky explained, this small town, which curls around a holy lake, is actually one of the most sacred Hindu towns in India. Or maybe it’s because of the enchanting, almost mystical feeling that comes from being right on the edge of the desert. From the borders of the town, the sand stretches far away into the distance and, as we start walking into town, camels saunter by. An actual real caravan of camels!

I gaze at them wide-eyed in amazement, feeling as though I’ve been transported to another world. If London felt a million miles away before, now it’s hard to imagine it even exists.

Still, whatever the reason, Pushkar has a feeling quite unlike anywhere else I’ve been. There’s both an energy and a timelessness to it, and I can quite imagine whiling away days and weeks here. Apparently a lot of backpackers who arrive here do just that, I realise, glancing at the hippy tourists who drift by in their tie-dye T-shirts and baggy harem pants.

As we head into town, we’re instantly greeted by swarms of local children. They run up to us with outstretched hands and infectious smiles, and we empty our pockets of sweets and coins. Yet my eye is caught by a little girl sitting cross-legged on the ground. She can’t be more than three years old and is with her family, who are selling strings of wooden beads at the side of the road, along with lots of other hawkers. With her hair cut into a short bob and large, chocolate-drop eyes, she’s waving randomly at passers-by and squealing delightedly whenever anyone waves back.

There are other children around her, playing – her brothers and sisters most likely – but there’s something about her. She’s like a magnet. A bundle of energy. As she sees me looking, I wave back and she waves more furiously, with both hands this time, and beckons me over.

‘Later,’ I shout, smiling, ‘I’ll come back later.’

The main street is one long bazaar lined with shops and stalls, selling everything a tourist could want, and more. Mirrored bags and rainbow-coloured pashminas that I’ve seen for twenty times the price in chichi shops in Notting Hill; silvery jewellery, embroidered Rajasthani wall-hangings and billowing silk scarves.

In amongst them are a couple of shops selling electrical goods where I find several phone chargers, but none of them are the right kind – much to my disappointment and that of the shopkeepers, who almost turn their shops upside down in their determination to find one that fits.

‘Why haven’t you got an iPhone?’ frowns Jack, as we leave yet another shop empty-handed. ‘You could have used my charger, then.’

‘Because I don’t,’ I say, for the umpteenth time.

‘But that thing’s ancient,’ he grumbles, ‘you can’t even get emails on it.’

‘That’s why I like it,’ I say loyally. ‘I don’t want to be online all the time, like some people,’ I say, shooting him a look. ‘I like being able to switch off.’

‘Well, you’ve definitely achieved your aim then,’ he quips sarcastically.

We both glower at each other, our tempers fraying fast.

‘Look, I’m getting kinda hungry: how about we go in there and get some breakfast?’ he suggests, gesturing to a rooftop café filled with coloured umbrellas fluttering in the breeze.

It looks sorely tempting. The cold morning air has melted away in the sun and the temperature has risen steeply. I’m hot, thirsty and hungry. I could kill for a banana pancake and a lassi. But I can’t.

I shake my head. ‘Sorry, but my sister’s more important. I
have
to find a charger.’

‘Oh c’mon, can’t it wait?’ replies Jack frustratedly. ‘I don’t see your sister dying to get hold of you. She hasn’t answered any of your calls or texts so far. What difference is another couple of hours going to make?’

I feel myself bristle. ‘No, it can’t wait,’ I say defensively, ‘and anyway, I need to try the number that I found in her room again. Maybe it belongs to someone in this town, maybe that’s where she is—’

‘Give me the number,’ he instructs me.

‘What?’

‘Give. Me. The. Number.’

His expression is stern and I hesitate, then wordlessly unfold the piece of paper and pass it to him. He glances at it and punches the digits into his iPhone.

‘It went straight to voicemail,’ he says matter-of-factly. Handing back the number, he slips his phone into the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Now can we go eat?’

‘You can’t just do that,’ I cry.

‘Do what?’ he frowns.

‘Ring once, then give up,’ I gasp. ‘You need to keep trying!’

He looks at me, then lets out an impatient sigh. ‘Look, I hate to be the one who says this, but don’t you think it might be time
to
give up?’

I stare at him, open-mouthed. ‘No, I don’t!’ I gasp, shocked by his suggestion.

‘All I’m saying is, I don’t think she wants to be found.’

‘Well, of course not,’ I reply tightly. ‘People who elope usually don’t.’

‘Well in that case, just forget about her.’

‘Forget about her? I can’t do that!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’s my little sister, I can’t just abandon her!’

‘Like she abandoned you at the airport?’ he reasons, and I feel my cheeks flush. I’d told Rocky about that over dinner in Agra; he must have told Jack. So much for my resolution not to tell him my secrets.

‘It wasn’t like that,’ I say protectively. ‘She didn’t mean to . . .’

‘You sure about that?’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘She sounds pretty selfish to me.’

I feel my hackles rise. Everyone knows the golden rule that only you can criticise your family, and Jack just broke it. ‘She’s not selfish, she’s headstrong,’ I retaliate, jumping to her defence. ‘She thinks she’s in love.’

‘Maybe she is,’ he argues.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I retort.

‘Who says?’ he counters. ‘Have you ever stopped to think she might actually love this guy?’

I stare at him, taken aback. Suddenly, somehow, the conversation has taken a new turn and is now hurtling in a completely different direction. And one I don’t want to go in.

‘I’m not getting into this with you, Jack,’ I cut him off.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m standing here in the middle of the street discussing something that’s private,’ I hiss, gesturing to the people standing nearby, several of whom are now glancing over.

But Jack ignores them and carries on, regardless. ‘You know, you might like to try opening up to someone; it might not kill you,’ he tuts loudly.

‘Oh? Like you opened up to Cindy?’ I retort, then wish I hadn’t. I don’t want him to think I care. Correction:
cared.

‘What’s this got to do with Cindy?’

‘You tell me, you’re the one with all the secrets,’ I reply, before I can stop myself.

‘Oh yeah?’ he challenges. ‘Somehow I don’t think so.’

His accusation catches me by surprise. ‘Meaning?’ I demand.

‘Why are you so down on love?’ he cries, losing his temper. ‘You don’t like weddings, you don’t believe in romance . . .What the hell’s wrong with you?’

I feel myself reel. All the hurt, all the disappointment, all the emotions that I’ve pushed down deep inside of me come suddenly rushing back and I squeeze my fists tight, digging my fingernails hard into the palms of my hands to block out the pain.

‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ I say tightly.

Jack snorts loudly. ‘Don’t you feel anything? Don’t you
have
a heart?’

It’s like a boxer’s jab. Sharp and hard, it inflicts the most pain.

‘Get lost, Jack.’

His jaw sets hard. ‘Fine,’ he says angrily. ‘I’ve had it with you.’ And throwing his arms up in the air, he turns his back on me and walks away.

Chapter 26

Watching Jack’s figure striding away, I resist the urge to chase after him. I feel angry and upset. I don’t want to row with Jack; I don’t know what just happened. One minute I was trying to find a stupid charger, and the next everything was unravelling into insults and anger.

I pause, caught between wanting to run away from him and run after him. I can’t bear to be near him, and yet, now, standing here on my own, in this busy marketplace, I can’t bear not to be. Tears prickle on my eyelashes and I rub them roughly away. What the hell is wrong with me?

For a few minutes I don’t move. I can’t. I just stand there, motionless, in the busy street, emotions and activity swirling around me. I feel all shaken up and turned upside down, like one of those figures in a snow globe. Until gradually my breathing returns to normal, my heart stops thudding loudly in my ears, and the outside world filters back in again.

Vaguely, I become aware of Bollywood music floating from across the street and, glancing over, I see a café on the corner. A large sign reads, ‘We have coffee and Internet’, and it’s filled with backpackers bent over their screens. India may be a wildly fascinating and exhilarating country – in one town alone there might be four hundred temples to visit and holy waters to be blessed in – but sometimes it would appear it can’t hope to compete with the lure of a latte and Facebook.

It’s the smell of fresh espresso that gets me. I haven’t had a decent coffee since I arrived in India. Chai tea might be delicious, but sometimes nothing quite hits the spot like a strong coffee and, boy, could I do with one now, I muse, feeling tempted. I give in to the urge and walk across; I’m immediately swooped upon by a waiter in a tight T-shirt and even tighter jeans, who’s bopping backwards and forwards between the tables, serving up cappuccinos and dance moves.

‘Hi beautiful, what can I get you?’ he says, flashing me a smile.

Still feeling tearful about the fight with Jack, I can only manage a small smile in return. ‘Just a cappuccino, thanks,’ I say, perching on the one empty stool at the counter, as all the tables are taken.

‘OK, beautiful,’ he winks and shimmies over to the espresso machine, where he begins grinding beans and frothing milk, his hips still gyrating as if there’s an invisible Hula Hoop around him.

As someone who’s never had any rhythm, I watch in fascination as he dips and bops, swiftly moving from one Bollywood dance move to another, the beat of the music flowing right through him. It’s as if he cannot stand still.

‘Here you are,’ he says, putting the cup down in front of me, and I notice he’s drawn a love heart in the foam. ‘For you,’ he smiles, before exclaiming, ‘I love this one!’ and quickly turning up the volume.