OK, I’m going to count to ten.
No, twenty. Make it twenty.
I start counting. One, two, three . . . maybe I’m going too fast, I’ll slow down . . . ten elephant, eleven elephant . . . No need to panic. Amy’s always late. She’ll turn up. Just stay calm. Be patient. Keep counting. Niiiinnnneeettteeenn . . . I’m like a record on the wrong speed . . . Eleeeepppphhhaaannnttt . . . I take a deep breath . . . Tweeeennnntttttyyyyy . . .
I stare at the concourse. No Amy.
Shit.
Hot with annoyance, I scroll down my list of contacts to call her. Honestly, she is so irresponsible! She is always late! In fact, I feel like I’ve spent my whole life waiting for her. She was even late being born, too – three weeks overdue, apparently. Poor Mum was the size of a barrel.
The number connects and starts ringing. Irritation stabs. This call is probably going to cost me a fortune. God knows how much I’ll be charged, but I don’t have any choice, do I? If she doesn’t turn up soon we’re going to miss the plane.
Argh! No answer! I listen impatiently to the ringing tone. Why doesn’t she ever answer her bloody phone, for Chrissakes? Just for once. Pick up your bloody phone . . .
‘Hi, this is Amy, I’m away travelling so can’t get to the phone right now . . .’
As her voicemail message clicks on, I hang up and stuff my phone in my pocket. Impatience gives way to unease. I’m actually getting worried now. I hope nothing’s happened to her. The journey to the airport was pretty nerve-wracking, even in a cab. What if there was some kind of accident? What if—
Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have let her go off on her own. I should have insisted she came with me.
‘This is a last call for the flight to London Heathrow. Any remaining passengers need to make their way to check-in immediately.’
As an announcement sounds over the loudspeaker, I zone back in and turn around to look over at the check-in desk.
I do a double take. Hang on, where is everyone?
Before there was a long queue of people waiting to check in, a whole crowd milling around with suitcases and passports, but now they’ve all disappeared. There’s just an empty space where they once were.
Surely everyone can’t have gone through security, can they?
Can they?
I check my watch and my panic level moves from amber to code red.
It’s that time already?
‘Excuse me.’ Grabbing hold of my suitcase, I quickly wheel it over to the check-in attendant sitting behind the desk.
She looks up from her paperwork, as if surprised to still see a passenger. This is not good. Inside I can feel code red starting to flash. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ she enquires politely.
‘I hope so,’ I reply, giving her a big smile. I once read an article about how the power of a smile can break down religious boundaries, open doors of opportunity, and change people’s lives. Personally, I’m just hoping it can hold up a plane for a few minutes. ‘I’m flying to London but I’m waiting for my sister—’
I mean, compared to religious boundaries, what’s a little delay?
‘The check-in is closing,’ she exclaims sharply.
OK, maybe a smile isn’t that powerful.
‘I need your passport,’ she continues, her hand shooting out towards me.
‘But I’m just waiting for someone,’ I hear myself bleating.
‘There is no time to wait!’ she almost yells at me. ‘You need to check in your bags and go to the gate immediately!’
I stare at her, frozen. For probably the first time in my sensible, practical, organised life, I have no idea what to do. I can’t miss the plane, but I can’t leave without Amy. And now my flashing code red has started sounding that loud foghorn alarm noise inside my head, like in a scene from one of those blockbusting Matt Damon action movies when the nuclear bomb is about to be detonated and all these men in suits are running around in front of computer monitors yelling and screaming . . .
Actually, that’s not a bad idea . . .
I’m stopped by my phone, which suddenly springs to life and starts ringing.
Amy.
I snatch it desperately to my ear.
‘Rubes, it’s me.’
As I hear her voice, relief washes over me. ‘Oh thank God you’re OK! I’ve been worried sick,’ I gasp, before turning back to the check-in attendant. ‘Sorry, excuse me, just a sec.’ I step quickly to one side out of earshot, then, ‘Where the fuck are you?’ I screech into my handset, any thoughts of big sisterly love flying out of the window. ‘You’re going to miss the plane!’
‘I know,’ she replies matter-of-factly.
‘What do you mean, you know?’ I fire back. ‘I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour, you promised you wouldn’t be late—’
‘I’m not late—’
‘Amy, I’m not going to argue with you,’ I snap. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m with Shine.’
‘Shine?’ I exclaim. ‘What are you doing with Shine?’ For a split second I almost think she’s going to tell me she’s doing yoga.
‘He’s driving—’ she begins, but I cut her off.
‘But I thought Biju was driving you to the airport?’ I’m standing on tiptoes, looking for her.
‘I’m not coming, Rubes.’
‘What?’ My phone must be going funny, I must have misheard her. Snatching it away from my ear, I stare at it – no, it looks perfectly normal – then quickly press it back. ‘What do you mean, you’re not coming? You’re late!’
‘Rubes, you’re not listening. I’m not getting on the flight.’
‘But I don’t understand . . .’ Confusion is whirling.
‘I’m not coming back to London.’
There’s a pause as I’m momentarily lost for words. ‘Have you gone mad?’ I gasp, finding my voice.
‘No, I’m not mad . . . I’m in love!’ Her words come out in a sudden rush.
‘In love!’ I echo in disbelief. ‘With who?’
‘Shine,’ she gushes, her voice bursting with excitement.
The surprises are coming thick and fast. ‘You mean the yoga instructor?’ I say, astonished.
But no sooner has his name come out of my mouth than it’s suddenly all falling into place: the way they were when I first saw them on the beach; the text messages on her phone; her excuses that she was always doing yoga. I suddenly feel like a complete idiot. Of course! How could I have been so blind?
‘Amy, you’re being ridiculous,’ I snap back. ‘You have to come home. OK, so I understand why you’ve fallen for him – I mean, who wouldn’t? I’m sure every woman in his class is in love with him.’ I’m trying hard to be the voice of reason. Well, someone has to be. I remember what it was like when I was on holiday in Greece aged seventeen and fell head-over-heels for the water-skiing instructor. I wouldn’t listen to anyone. ‘But this is just some holiday romance—’
‘We’re getting married.’
What the . . .?
For a moment, I can’t speak. Amy has pulled some crazy stunts before but . . . I pause, mid-thought. Of course! This is her idea of a joke!
‘Oh, ha-ha, very clever,’ I snap, glancing across departures. She’s probably hiding behind a pillar, ready to jump out. ‘Only this isn’t funny, Amy, the plane’s going to leave without us at this rate. Now will you stop joking around? I’m serious.’
‘So am I Ruby. I’m perfectly serious.’
She never calls me Ruby. I get an icy feeling at the bottom of my spine.
‘Shine and I are eloping and there’s nothing you, or Mum and Dad, can do to stop us,’ she continues determinedly.
Oh my God. Mum and Dad. At the mention of them I feel a sudden horror. They are going to kill her. But not before they’ve killed me. My whole life I’ve been told, ‘Look after your little sister.’ I can’t let her run off in a foreign country and marry a man she’s only just met.
‘Amy!’ I say sharply, trying to corral her back to reali
ty. ‘Stop being so selfish, think about Mum and Dad! How do you think they’re going to feel?’
‘You said I could never let them down,’ she replies petulantly.
I flash back to our earlier conversation when I was packing. Of course, this is why she was so nervous; it had nothing to do with her new job.
‘And what about the research centre?’ I remind her. ‘You’ve worked so hard for this opportunity, it’s what you’ve always wanted . . .’
There’s a pause and for a split second I sense a moment of hesitation, of regret.
‘It’s an amazing opportunity, Amy, you can’t just throw it away. Mum and Dad were so proud, we were all so proud.’
At the other end of the line, I can almost feel her wavering.
‘I’m getting married,’ she repeats more firmly, as if to convince both herself and me.
I feel myself explode. ‘Amy, stop being so stupid and pig-headed,’ I cry with frustration. ‘You’re being crazy, you can’t get married!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s ludicrous! You’ve only known him a couple of weeks.’
‘Love isn’t measured by time,’ she retorts. ‘You should know. That’s a line from one of your books.’
‘But that’s fiction,’ I almost yell down the phone, ‘this is real life!’
‘It can happen in real life too,’ she argues.
I catch my breath. She sounds so convinced, so sure, so certain, she reminds me of myself. Of how I used to be. I pause as my mind flicks back . . . Once upon a time I shared her conviction. I believed in love at first sight, in marriage, in happy-ever-afters . . . but now I’ve grown up, I remind myself sharply, and I don’t believe in fairy tales any more.
‘He feels the same way,’ her voice interrupts my thoughts. ‘He’s in love with me too.’
Suddenly I have a flashback. To a few days ago. Going for the massage and getting lost down a side street. ‘Amy, there’s something you should know,’ I say urgently. ‘Shine’s not being honest with you, I saw him . . .’ I pause, briefly, wondering how I can tell her, then blurt it out. ‘He was with another woman, ask him—’
But she doesn’t let me finish.
‘I knew you’d be like this,’ she accuses angrily, ‘that’s why I didn’t want to tell you!’
‘Like what?’
‘Not every guy is like Sam, you know.’
The mention of his name is like a raw nerve. ‘This isn’t about Sam,’ I protest hotly.
‘Yes it is! It’s got everything to do with him!’ she cries. ‘Just because Sam turned out to be a cheat, and broke your heart, doesn’t mean you have to write every guy off.’
Our voices are growing louder and louder.
‘I am not writing every guy off,’ I fire back, feeling stung. ‘I just don’t want you to make the same mistake I did!’
‘And what mistake’s that?’ she demands, ‘Falling in love?’
‘No, it’s believing in love,’ I yell back.
As the words fly out of my mouth, there’s silence on the other end of the line, and in the middle of arguing we both break off, breathless. Emotions are swirling around us and for a moment neither of us speaks. Until, after a pause, she says quietly, ‘Tell Mum and Dad I’m sorry I’ll miss their wedding anniversary and not to worry. I’ll call in a few days.’
‘Look, can’t we just talk about this?’
‘There’s nothing to talk about, I’ve made up my mind,’ she says stubbornly.
‘Listen to me, he’s seeing someone else,’ I say urgently. ‘I saw him!’
‘You’re lying. Shine loves me!’
That’s what Sam told me, I think desperately, my mind flashing back.
‘Amy, please, I’m not lying—’
‘And I’m not listening,’ she says resolutely. ‘Rubes, I know you’re my big sister, but I know what I’m doing and I can look after myself.’
‘It didn’t seem like that when you were borrowing money,’ I remind her peevishly, before I can stop myself.
‘I’ll pay you back every penny,’ she replies stiffly. ‘You don’t have to worry.’
‘Like I’m worried about the money!’ I burst out. ‘I just care about you, I don’t want you getting hurt—’
‘Look, I have to go.’
‘Amy, wait . . .’
But it’s no good. She’s already gone.
Shocked, I stare at my silent phone, my mind whirling, my heart thumping.
What on earth am I going to do now?
Chapter 9
I remember once seeing one of those life coaches being interviewed on some daytime chat show. I can’t remember the programme, but I do remember him. He was one of the Dr Phil types, with grey hair and friendly eyes, and he was talking about how if you can’t make a decision about something, you have to break it down into simple options. Like, for example, it’s a multiple choice question.
In which case, if this was a multiple choice question, it would go something like this:
1) You are at the airport in India about to get a flight back to London, when your little sister tells you she’s eloping with the yoga instructor. Do you:
A. Panic
B. Think sod it, she’s old enough to make her own mistakes and get on the plane without her
Or C. Miss the flight and try to stop her
‘Hurry! The flight is closing!’
I snap back to the check-in attendant who’s frantically gesturing for me, a stricken expression on her face. An alarm sounds in my head. I need to make a decision. I need to make a choice.
And fast.
‘Miss, if you don’t come now, the plane will leave without you,’ she instructs sternly.
My mind is running through a million different scenarios, seeing the consequences of every action, the domino-style effect it’s going to have on everything . . .
If I get on the plane, I’ll be leaving Amy to run off and make a terrible mistake. It’s lust, not love. She can’t marry him, she barely knows him. And what about the fact I saw him with another woman? Who was she? It could be innocent and yet . . . oh god, who am I kidding? It didn’t look innocent and, moreover, why would he lie? Why would he pretend he was on his own? In which case, how long’s it been going on? And what if she’s not the only one? What if, god forbid, he’s cheating on Amy with lots of women?
There are so many unanswered questions, but Amy’s so impulsive, so headstrong, so naive. She thinks she knows everything, but she doesn’t know anything. She still believes in happy-ever-afters, but this isn’t a fairy tale, it’s real life, and I can’t just stand back and watch her throwing away her heart, her career and her life on a man she’s just met and knows hardly anything about. Gambling everything on love.
And yet, on the flip side, if I don’t get on the plane, it means I’m not going home. I’m not going back to my life in London, I’m staying here in India and for who knows how long . . . I suddenly think about work, about Heathcliff, about the reality of the situation . . . No, it’s impossible, I have to get on that flight, I have to go back. I have responsibilities. I have a deadline to meet, a dog to look after, a pile of bills to pay. Not to mention Mum and Dad’s wedding anniversary.
I feel a wave of anxiety. God, it’s like Sliding Doors. Only in this case, there’s no Gwyneth Paltrow, just an irate check-in attendant. I flinch, catching her eye, and feeling the knot in my stomach twist even harder.
I need to make a decision.
‘Miss!’ The attendant’s unflappable calm suddenly disintegrates and she rushes over in a frenzy, almost rugby tackling me to the ground in an attempt to grab my wheelie suitcase. ‘We need to check this in!’
‘No, stop,’ I yell, holding on to it for dear life. ‘Stop!’
In mid-tussle she freezes, her hand on the suitcase handle, and seeming to remember herself, stands upright.
As do I. And I suddenly realise:
I’ve made my decision, and it’s C.
‘I’m not coming,’
I announce, my mind racing. ‘I’m not getting on that flight, I’m not going back to London . . .’
Well, what else could I do? She’s my little sister, I have no choice. I’ve looked after her my whole life, I can’t just abandon her now.
‘I’ve got to stop my sister from getting married,’ I say, reaching for my suitcase.
The check-in attendant stares at me in astonishment. ‘But weddings are wonderful,’ she exclaims in confusion, ‘you can’t stop a wedding!’
‘I’m not stopping a wedding,’ I reply.
‘But . . . ?’
Leaving the attendant staring after me in confusion, I set off towards the exit. And, under my breath, I add quietly and determinedly to myself, ‘I’m stopping her from getting hurt.’
In which case, I need to get a bloody move on.
Breaking into a sprint with my suitcase, I set off on a hundred-metre dash across the terminal. Big Sister to the rescue! I feel like I should go into a telephone box and change into a cape and a pair of tights.
God, I just hope I’m not too late. I know Amy’s impulsive, but surely she’s not that stupid. Oh, who am I kidding? This is Amy, remember. The girl who once ran away to join the fair at five years old. OK, so she only got as far as next-door’s garden, but still. My little sister is capable of anything.
I race outside through the automatic doors and grab the first thing I can find that has wheels – a brightly painted tuk-tuk whose driver looks about fifteen – to take me back to the guesthouse.
What a difference a week makes. Whereas before whenever a stray chicken or goat wandered across the road, or we overtook into the path of an oncoming lorry, I’d bury my face in my hands. Now it’s all I can do not to lean over and stick my hand on the horn myself.
‘Please, can you hurry?’ I plead as we rumble along dusty, potholed roads.
‘You want me to step on it?’ The driver turns down the radio, which is blasting out Bollywood music, and glances at me in his cracked rear-view mirror, his boyish face lighting up with delight. ‘Like in the movies?’
The Love Detective Page 7