The Love Detective (45 page)

‘So is Steve Archer the guy?’ she sniffs. ‘The one you met in India. Is it him?’ She looks at me fervently.

‘Let’s just say I had some inspiration,’ I say vaguely.

‘So are you going to see him again? I gotta meet him!’

‘I don’t think so,’ I smile sadly.

‘Seriously?’ Diana looks at me aghast.

I nod. ‘I’m afraid I don’t get to write this ending.’

Diana blows her nose violently one more time. ‘Well, it’s nice to have you back,’ she says cheerfully, and gestures to the manuscript, ‘in more ways than one.’

‘Thanks,’ I smile gratefully.

‘I reckon it’s going to be your best seller yet.’

I feel a flush of pleasure. ‘You think so?’

‘I know so,’ she nods. ‘You wrote this one from the heart.’

There’s a pause and for a moment a look passes between us, before Diana suddenly notices the time.

‘Shoot, I gotta go.’ Jumping up, she begins randomly grabbing things from her messy desk and stuffing them into her huge handbag. ‘I’ve arranged to meet someone for a drink—’ She breaks off, as if remembering something. ‘Actually, it’s the same guy I asked you to meet, remember? But you said no.’ She shoots me a look and I blush. ‘Anyway, it’s a favour for a friend of a friend; this guy’s in town and doesn’t know anyone, so I said I’d meet up with him.’ She pauses to raise an eyebrow. ‘Why don’t you come along?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I shake my head hurriedly. Before, I didn’t want to meet anyone because I didn’t believe in love; now it’s for the very opposite reason. I do believe in love, I’m in love with Jack, and, even though it’s hopeless, I don’t want to meet another man.

Diana, who’s busily buttoning up her duvet coat, pulls a face. ‘Fair enough, I’m sure he’s no Steve Archer anyway.’

I smile, despite myself, and together we take the lift downstairs.

‘So what are your plans now?’

‘Oh, I’ve got a long list of things to do,’ I hear myself saying, though in actual fact my long list consists of 1) pick up dog food and 2) buy flowers for Mrs Flannegan, as it’s her birthday. I’ve been so busy working that I haven’t stopped to think about much else for weeks, but now I do, I feel at a bit of a loss.

‘OK, well, bye, sweetie, I’ll be in touch.’ Giving me one of her rib-squeezing hugs, Diana flags down a taxi and jumps inside. ‘And congratulations on the book again,’ she hollers out of the window. ‘Go celebrate!’

Standing on the street I wave her off, watching as the cab disappears around the corner. Diana’s right, this calls for a celebration. Plus, I haven’t had a chance to see anyone since I’ve been back. I emailed the gang when I returned from India, but I’ve been so busy with work, now’s a good opportunity to finally catch up. I could text Rachel and see if she’s free, invite Milly to a Skype drink, or even take the Eurostar to Paris for the weekend and visit Harriet . . . I pull out my phone, then pause.

And yet, to be honest, I don’t feel much like celebrating. Because if the truth be told, the only person I want to celebrate with is Jack.

Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I set off walking towards the Tube, my breath making little white clouds in the evening dusk. The forecast is snow and, pulling up my collar, I wrap my scarf around me, trying to stuff the gaps to keep out the frozen air. Regent Street is bustling with traffic and people and my eyes flick over the droves of men and women in smart business suits, glossy designer stores, fashionable restaurants . . .

Plunged into the fast pace of modern London, it’s hard now to imagine Rajasthan exists. The ancient land of fortresses, maharajas, sweeping deserts and holy lakes seems almost like a fairy tale. Yet it exists inside of me. People bring back souvenirs to remember their holiday, but I brought back something else – something less tangible, but something much more profound.

Before I went to India, I felt as if I was sleepwalking through life. After Sam, it wasn’t just my heart that was bruised, it was my soul that was shaken. I lost my faith in love and the joy from my life. Oh, I did all the things you’re supposed to do. I drank wine, I bought a new lipstick, I partied with friends. But there was no quick fix. It wasn’t like in the movies – there was no fast-forwarding to the I-will-survive moment of rebirth. Instead, I had to plod slowly through the days until, eventually, my eyes stopped welling up, I stopped hoping for some miracle that could put it all right, and I just got on with it.

Getting on with it is a way of life for so many people. People you see every day, pinning on smiles and saying they’re fine, are actually really lost, deep down inside. But life moves so fast there’s no time to be lost, so you’ve got to push it down, square your shoulders and get on with it.

So that’s what I did. And I was good at it. In fact, I was so good at it I convinced myself that that’s how life should be. How
I
should be. But India changed everything. It awakened my senses, lifted my soul and brought joy and beauty back into my life. It brought
me
back to life. But, most importantly of all, it opened my heart and gave me back my belief in the one thing none of us can do without.

Love.

‘Hello luv, can I help you?’

I stop by a flower stall on a busy street corner, the bright blooms an explosion of colour on a dark grey wintery day.

‘Yes, please,’ I nod, casting my eyes across long-stemmed red roses, fluffy yellow chrysanthemums and bold bunches of purple hyacinths, and wondering what kind of flowers Mrs Flannegan would like. I go with the hyacinths: they always smell so wonderful.

‘That’ll be seven pounds fifty,’ nods the stallholder, briskly wrapping them up in paper.

I reach into my bag for my wallet, but it’s not there. It must be in a different pocket. I start rummaging . . . Hang on, where is it? My phone begins to ring, but I ignore it. OK, I’m not going to panic, it must be here somewhere. Doubts start to mushroom. When did I last have it? Oh, I know, I used it to top up my Oyster card, then I went straight to Diana’s office.

My phone’s incessant burbling is stopping me thinking straight, and with my free hand I impatiently snatch it from my pocket.

It’s Diana.

‘I’m so sorry, I must have picked it up by mistake.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Your wallet. You must have left it on my desk.’

My other hand stops rummaging. I suddenly remember the person with a bucket collecting for charity outside the office and emptying my wallet of loose change. I was still holding it in my hand when I walked into Diana’s office.

‘I’m such an idiot.’

I snap to. ‘Don’t worry about it, I’m just glad it’s not been stolen!’ I say with relief. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. ‘Where are you? I’ll come and pick it up.’

‘Would you?’ She sounds relieved. ‘Oh sweetie, that would be so helpful. I’m in a pub in Covent Garden, the red something or other, you can’t miss it – it’s the big white building right across from the Tube . . .’

‘OK, I’ll see you soon.’

‘Thing is, I’ve got to dash off from here in ten minutes to go to a publishers’ dinner.’

Ten minutes?
I do a quick calculation. If I run I think I can make it. ‘Hang on. I’ll be straight over.’

Chapter 41

Apologising profusely to the vendor at the flower stall, I dash across the street and start heading towards Soho. It’s rush hour and the pavements are packed with pedestrians. Dodging people and taxis I race through the back streets, my heart thumping in my chest. God, I’m really quite unfit. In my head I try to create a mental map to work out the fastest route. Now’s one of those times I wish I had an iPhone.

No sooner has the thought fired across my brain than I think about Jack. My mind flashes back to the day we spent together in Pushkar looking for that silly phone charger, and for a moment I’m back there again. I drag myself reluctantly into the present moment. I have to stop this. It’s hopeless.

Reaching Charing Cross Road, I slow down and hit the pedestrian crossing. Two lanes of traffic are streaming past.
Come on, come on
. . . I hop up and down impatiently. Oh, sod it. Without waiting for the green light, I start to cross, dodging between a space in the cars. A double-decker bus lurches forwards, blocking my way, and for a moment I’m stranded in the middle of the road, caught between the lanes of traffic jostling for space.

Then suddenly it moves, revealing a little white Ambassador car.

I do a double take.

It appears, as if from nowhere, and I stare at it in disbelief. That’s so weird, it looks just like . . . but I don’t finish the thought as I raise my eyes and I suddenly get a straight view of the driver.

It’s Rocky
.

Everything seems to freeze and the noise of London disappears, as if someone just hit mute. He’s staring straight ahead. I can see his side profile, the familiar outline of his glasses perched on his nose, the tufts of white hair . . . then almost as if he knows I’m here, he abruptly turns towards me. Our gazes meet and, dipping his head, he looks right at me above his glasses. His eyes are a piercing blue, bluer than I even remember, and taking a hand off his steering wheel he gives a small wave of hello – or is it goodbye?

Despite my thick woollen coat and scarf, I feel a shiver run down my spine.
What the . . .?
But it’s impossible. Rocky can’t be here, in his little white car. I’m seeing things. I’m going crazy.

Suddenly I can hear him speaking. ‘You must have faith, Ruby,’ he’s saying quietly. ‘Faith, Ruby, you must have faith. You must trust in the universe . . .’

Suddenly a blast of horns snaps me back. I come to, the traffic moves, there is no little white car, it’s gone, vanished as quickly as it appeared. My head spinning, I quickly make it to the other side of the road, and for a moment I lean dizzily against a wall, trying to collect my thoughts.

What just happened there? I close my eyes, my mind reeling, and I’m suddenly reminded of his prediction, him reading my palm. I’d forgotten all about it, but now it comes rushing back. What was it he said? Without any prompting, I hear him as clearly as if he were standing right next to me.

‘
You will meet another man, but there will be some problem, see how the line breaks here?
’

I think about Jack. Well, he was right about that.

‘
A break in this line signifies a setback, a difficulty to be overcome.
’

And for a split second I’m transported back to India, back to that tiny restaurant in Agra, with its vivid blue walls and aroma of exotic spices.

‘
What kind of difficulty?
’

‘
You have said no to him once.
’

I wrack my brains. But that doesn’t make any sense
.

‘
I see a lion, a big lion, but this lion is red . . .
’

Oh for god’s sake, none of it makes any sense! Snapping to, I open my eyes. Grey inner-city London greets me and I quickly pull myself together. Come on, Ruby, what are you doing? This is crazy. I look back into the road, but the traffic has moved. The double-decker bus is far up the road and there’s no sign of any white Ambassador car. Honestly, I’m seeing things. What next? A lion in the middle of central London? I mean, come on.

Giving myself a brisk shake, I glance at my watch. Shit, and now I’m late. Setting off quickly down a street, I soon find myself in the middle of Covent Garden. I race towards the Tube. Gosh, there are so many tourists! Weaving in and out, I finally reach the station and look across the street to the large white building on the corner. I stop dead.

‘
Sometimes it is difficult to understand now, but it will all make sense one day.
’

There, ahead of me, is a painted sign outside the pub. ‘THE RED LION.’

My whole body breaks out in goose bumps. It’s a coincidence. A freaky coincidence. It has to be. But I don’t stop to think about it, I can’t, I don’t have time. Pushing open the door, I hurry inside. It’s one of those upmarket gastro pubs, with stripped oak floors and a recessed dining area. It’s already full and I briefly scan the tables, but I can’t see her. Or more to the point I can’t hear her.

‘Excuse me!’ Spotting a waiter, I charge over. ‘I’m looking for Diana Diamond?’

The waiter looks at me blankly.

‘Tall, grey-haired lady, American,’ I add, still catching my breath.

His face registers. ‘I’m afraid she just left.’

‘Left?’ My voice comes out a little more high-pitched than I would like and I look at him in surprise. ‘Did she leave a wallet?’

The waiter furrows his brow, doubtfully. ‘A wallet? No, I don’t think so . . .’

She must have had to dash off; she’s probably left it behind the bar or something. Still, it’s funny she didn’t text to tell me that. ‘Could you check?’ I ask urgently.

The waiter pulls an impatient expression that makes it clear, in no uncertain terms, that he’s got better things to do than look for some girl’s missing wallet, but he nods dutifully and disappears.

Meanwhile I dig out my phone. Nope, no messages.