The Love Detective (37 page)

I let out a long gratified sigh and gaze out of the window. If I crick my neck, I can just catch a glimpse of the Lake Palace hotel floating on the water. It’s immediately recognisable from the Bond movie. I smile to myself. There was me thinking I’d never been here before when in actual fact I’ve spent many a Christmas Day in Udaipur, watching Roger Moore give chase around these twisting, colourful streets.

I yawn, a wave of tiredness washing over me. It was a long drive from the desert and I hardly slept last night. I close my eyes and am just thinking about the possibility of getting some sleep when there’s a knock on the door. It’s probably Jack; no doubt he’s forgotten something, I decide, getting up.

‘Don’t tell me, you’re missing a sock,’ I quip, pulling open the door.

‘I’m so sorry to bother you.’

Only it’s not Jack, it’s the young girl from reception.

‘Oh, hi, sorry,’ I smile, slightly flustered, ‘I thought for a minute you were someone else . . .’

‘Is this a bad time?’ Her eyes fall to my towel. ‘I can come back later.’

‘Oh no,’ I shake my head, and quickly tuck the towel in firmly around my chest. ‘My clothes are at the laundry.’

‘Because I wanted to ask you a question,’ she begins, then swallows hard and I realise she’s extremely nervous. ‘I was looking at you when you first arrived, as I thought I recognised you from somewhere . . .’

‘Oh my gosh, me too!’ I exclaim. I knew it! I never forget a face.

‘And I could not put my finger on it, but then when I went back downstairs it was quiet and so I started to read my book again, and I realised . . .’ She breaks off and looks at me, her eyes shining with excitement, ‘It’s you!’

The whole time she’s had her hands folded across something she’s clutching to her chest and, as she holds it out to me, I realise it’s a book.

My latest novel.

‘Ruby Miller!’ she continues, breaking into a smile as she points to my author photograph on the back cover. ‘You are my most favourite author!’

‘Oh . . . wow,’ I smile, both delighted and confused. It’s so great to meet one of my readers, and here in India! And yet that doesn’t explain why she looks so familiar.

‘I don’t want to trouble you, but would you sign it?’

I snap back. ‘Yes, yes of course,’ I say readily, ‘please, come in.’

‘Thank you so much, Miss Miller—’

‘Please, call me Ruby,’ I insist.

‘Ruby,’ she nods, blushing, and follows me inside. I motion to a chair whilst I perch on the small ottoman at the foot of the bed. She smiles gratefully and, sitting down, passes me my book to sign.

It feels so strange to see it. Here, in this little room, in a guesthouse in Rajasthan. Holding the book in my hands, I let my thumb flick through the pages. The whole time I’ve been here in India I haven’t thought of writing. For the first time in my life, I’ve been too busy living a plotline worthy of one of my own novels to want to escape into my imagination. But now sitting here, my writer’s block seems like a thing of the past. I feel a renewed energy, I feel inspired again—

‘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.