Authors: Alexandra Potter

The Love Detective (6 page)

‘Well, I’m not sure about those sunglasses.’ She pulls a face. ‘They’re like something Mum would wear.’

‘I was in a rush!’ I protest, clutching at them. ‘Are they that bad?’ Being ten years younger, my sister is my fashion stylist. She’s saved me from more than a few horrors, including a pair of furry boots that I thought were really nice but . . . well, anyway, the least said about those the better.

‘Worse.’ She pulls a face. ‘In fact, I’m not sure even Mum would wear them.’

I glance at my reflection in the window of the tuk-tuk. Oh god, she’s right. They’re terrible. What was I thinking? I look like Elton John during his Rocket Man era.

‘But it’s the only pair I have,’ I wail.

‘I promise I won’t take any photographs and put them on Facebook,’ she grins.

My sister is a Facebook fanatic; she’s forever tagging me in embarrassing photos. She can be very annoying like that.

‘
Promise
, promise?’ I demand.

‘Cross my heart . . . Elton,’ she teases, reading my mind.

A giggle escapes. It’s impossible to stay annoyed at my sister. We both start laughing and, having grabbed my bags and paid the driver, we throw our arms around each other and walk inside.

After the noise and madness of the journey from the airport, Rising Bliss is an oasis of calm and relaxation. In fact, if you looked up ‘bliss’ in the dictionary, I wouldn’t be surprised to see a photograph of this place instead of a definition, I decide, as we walk through the garden, which is filled with hammocks strung from palm trees and the scent of frangipani flowers, towards reception.

Inside I discover the scent of incense, and the sounds of soft chanting, and Biju, the small, plump owner who, after checking me in, shows me to my room. The retreat has a main guesthouse perched on the cliff overlooking the ocean, but I’m staying in one of the individual huts, which are reached by a steep path leading down from the cliff top.

‘I trust everything is pleasing for you,’ puffs Biju, who’s insisted on carrying my suitcase and is sounding like a steam train as we finally reach the beach. Mopping his brow with a huge red handkerchief, he opens the door to a small hut tucked underneath a palm tree and ushers me and Amy inside.

Being a yoga retreat, I’ve been expecting a single bunk and no-frills accommodation, but instead there’s a large double bed with pristine white sheets, across which are scattered a gorgeous arrangement of flower petals.

Even better, it’s all mine, as Amy’s checked into the main guesthouse. As much as I love my sister, I still haven’t quite got over the shock of having to share my bedroom with her when she was born. Plus, she’s so untidy, you need a map just to locate her bed underneath all her clothes.

‘Wow, this is so lovely,’ I smile.

There’s just one thing.

‘There’s no mosquito net,’ I say, looking up at the ceiling where one should be hanging.

‘Oh, you don’t need one here, you will be fine,’ smiles Biju, whose cherubic face boasts a big grin and an even bigger black moustache.

‘Are you sure?’ I say uncertainly, ‘it did say in my guidebook—’

‘Rubes, stop worrying,’ chastises Amy, ‘I don’t have any bites, look!’ As evidence she waggles her long bronzed limbs at me.

‘Hmm, it’s just, you know how mozzies love me . . .’

‘No mozzies!’ beams Biju, rolling up his sleeves to reveal two hairy forearms as he makes a noise like a mosquito. ‘
Zzzzzzzzz
. No!’ He looks delighted.

‘OK, well if you say so,’ I smile, reassured. ‘You should know.’

Biju smiles even more broadly, his chest inflating at the compliment. ‘I will be at your service at reception,’ he says, giving a little wobble of his head, before leaving the beach hut.

The beep of a text sounds and I automatically reach for my phone. But it’s not mine, it’s Amy’s.

‘Who’s that?’ I ask out of interest.

‘Just a friend,’ she says casually, but I notice her quickly texting back in a way that tells me it’s more than just any friend. ‘OK, well I’ll leave you to unpack.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Oh . . . um . . . I’ve just got a few errands to do,’ she says quickly. ‘Let’s meet down at the beach in half an hour.’

‘OK, great,’ I smile, giving her a hug goodbye. ‘See you soon.’

She gives me a little wave and I watch as she hurries across the sand and disappears behind a palm tree. Yeah right, errands indeed. I wonder what she’s up to? And more importantly, knowing my little sister, should I be worried?

Yes. I should.

I should be very worried.

But not about Amy.

Fifteen minutes later I’ve finished unpacking and am facing the unfaceable.

OK, Ruby, deep breaths.

Standing in my room, I screw up all my courage. There are lots of ways people are brave. Rescuing children from dangerous riptides. Parachuting out of aeroplanes. Facing illness. Even getting a big hairy spider out of your bath commands a great deal of courage (well, for me anyway).

But this has to be the scariest of all.

Wearing a bikini.

And worst, in the middle of January, when I’ve spent five months not seeing the sun, my legs haven’t been out of 60-denier opaque tights and my body has not been exposed to sunlight. I’m like a vampire, only without sexy Robert Pattinson to keep me company. Even worse, I have to walk outside, into the bright sunshine, around a lot of tanned, fit yoga bodies.

Personally, I’d rather jump out of an aeroplane.
Without a parachute.

Pulling on my bikini bottoms which, as always, are never big enough, I then hoick the triangles over my boobs and tie them securely in place. OK, now for the mirror. Bracing myself, I gingerly open the door of the small wooden wardrobe. Hanging on the back is a full-length mirror and, screwing up one eye, I sort of tentatively squint through the other at my reflection.

I’ve learned this trick from watching scary movies, or reading my book reviews, and trust me, this is
much
scarier.

I catch a blurry glimpse of pale limbs, a jiggly bit above my bikini bottoms that I could have sworn wasn’t there last time, and inner thighs that prove Zumba twice a week is simply not enough.

I wince, but remain stoic. But not brave enough to open both eyes, I decide, as I do a reluctant twirl so I can check out the back view. Oh dear. It’s all I can do not to jump cowering under my duvet.

Only there’s not that option, as it’s thirty-five degrees and there
isn’t
a duvet.

Is it just me, or does every female look at their bottom in a bikini and just despair?

I mean, it should be up
here
. . .

Grabbing my bum cheeks with both hands, I hoist it up a good few inches and instantly I’m transformed. The ripple effect at the back of my thighs is smoothed out. My bum looks pert. I can even open both eyes and give a little nod of satisfaction. OK, so it’s not Gisele, but it ain’t bad – until I let go and it all just, well, ‘drops’ would be one way of putting it; ‘sags like rice pudding in a string bag’ would be another.

But I have a secret weapon.
The sarong.
I bought one at the airport, along with my sunnies, and whereas those might have been a mistake, this purchase most definitely wasn’t.

God love a sarong, I cheer, wrapping it around me like I’m auditioning to be an Egyptian mummy and covering up all the white jiggly bits.
Correction
: dry, scaly, white jiggly bits. Honestly, what central heating does to your skin should be illegal.

Finishing tying the sarong tightly, I give myself a final check in the mirror. There,
much
better. And feeling a lot more cheered, I slip on a pair of flip-flops, grab my sun lotion and towel and head out onto the beach.

It’s still early, but the small sandy cove is already a hive of activity. Several dedicated sunbathers with nutbrown limbs are stretched out on sun loungers, their oiled bodies glistening in the early morning sun like mahogany sideboards while, in the ocean, several guests from the resort are taking their morning swim.

For a moment I watch them, their heads bobbing up and down on the waves, until a very fit-looking blonde woman jogs into my eye-line, and I follow her progress along the shore to where another holiday-maker is doing his morning stretches.

Oh dear. My morning stretches involve bending down to put my slippers on and reaching for my coffee pot, but his are somewhat more advanced, I muse, feeling ever so slightly intimidated as I watch him do a handstand. I’m going to have to limber up a bit before I go to a yoga class.

Dropping my towel, I try to touch my toes. And come to an abrupt halt by my knees. But of course that’s only because I’ve just been sitting on a plane for god knows how many hours and my hamstrings are tight. I’ll be fine once I’ve had time to relax, unwind, loosen up. I know, I’ll do a bit of swimming first: that will do the trick.

Kicking off my flip-flops, I trot down to the water’s edge. No one’s looking, so I drop the sarong and step into the ocean. It’s like walking into a warm bath, and I stretch out my hands and let my fingertips glide over the sparkling water.

Wow, this is bliss. What an amazing way to start the day. I think about my usual morning routine in London, but already that feels a million miles away and, closing my eyes, I tip my face to the sun, feeling its warmth on my face. My agent was so right. As always. I should have known to listen to Diana. I feel so much better already.

Stretching out my arms I dive into the waves and start swimming further out, relishing the feeling of water and sunshine on my skin, until after a few minutes I stop and turn back to look at the shore. Bobbing up and down in the warm waves, it seems a long way away, but I can see a couple of figures walking along the seashore. I squint, trying to bring them into focus. From the outline it looks like my sister. And is that a man she’s with?

I peer harder, but they’re too far away. Plus, I have salt in my eyes, making everything all bleary. For a few moments I tread water, watching their blurry shapes bending close, then I begin to swim back.

As I near the shore they come into focus. Yup, I was right, it’s Amy and she’s deep in conversation with an Indian man. An extremely handsome Indian man, I can’t help noticing.

‘Amy!’ I call, as I walk out of the waves.

At the sound of her name she looks up, startled. ‘Oh, Rubes, hi,’ she says, and they break apart quickly. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

‘I was just having a swim, did you finish your errands?’

For a moment Amy looks at me blankly. ‘Oh . . . yes . . . my errands,’ she nods, seeming to suddenly remember, ‘yes, they’re all finished.’

‘Good,’ I nod, wringing out my wet hair and brushing away the water that’s trickling into my eyes.

There’s a pause, and I wait expectantly to be introduced to the handsome man standing next to her.

‘And then, would you believe it, but by total coincidence, look who I bumped into!’ she exclaims.

Yeah right. I’ve seen better acting in a pantomime.

‘Who?’ I prompt.

‘Oh! Right, yes . . . silly me, I haven’t introduced you,’ she says, all flustered. ‘This is Shine, the yoga teacher I was telling you about.’

‘Nice to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you,’ he says in a perfect English accent, extending his hand.

‘Likewise,’ I smile, shaking his hand. He’s wearing a white shirt, hanging open, and I catch a glimpse of his muscular torso. He doesn’t just have a six-pack, he has an eight-pack. I’m both impressed and embarrassed. There’s him with his amazing body and here’s me with my wobbly bits, I cringe, thinking about my sarong lying only yards away and wishing I could teleport it.

‘So I’m excited to hear you’re coming to my sunset yoga class later,’ he smiles, interrupting my thoughts.

‘Um, I am?’ I look at my sister.

Who’s gazing dreamily at Shine. ‘Absolutely,’ she nods. ‘His class is amazing.’

‘Thanks,’ he smiles, and they exchange a look.

Oh-oh. There’s something going on here, and it’s a lot more than a few sun salutations.

‘Super,’ I say, feeling rather green and hairy.

They both turn back to me, as if suddenly remembering I’m there.

‘Wonderful, well see you later then,’ he flashes me a handsome smile, before turning to Amy and giving a little bow of his head. ‘
Namaste
.’

‘
Namaste
,’ she chimes back, all doe-eyed.

He strides off up the beach, his white shirt billowing in the breeze.

‘So come on, spill the beans,’ I demand, as soon as he’s out of earshot.

Still gazing dreamily after him, she gives a little startled jump. ‘What?’ She looks cornered.