As we slowly shuffle down the steps and begin making our way along the marble pathways, I get a sense of wonderment that I haven’t felt since I was a child. Never in a million years did I think I could be this moved by a building, but there’s something magical about the Taj Mahal. Something you don’t get from looking at a photograph, or seeing it on TV. Something that surpasses all your expectations; something that makes it more than just a beautiful building.
‘According to legend, the death of Mumtaz left the emperor so heartbroken that his hair is said to have turned white virtually overnight . . .’
‘Wow, he really loved her,’ I sigh wistfully, fascinated by the story.
‘So, you still don’t believe in romance?’ challenges Jack.
I zone back in to see him looking at me, amused.
‘Well, of course I’ll make an exception for the Taj Mahal,’ I reply tightly.
‘And that’s it?’ he replies, raising an eyebrow.
‘Well, it’s not like this any more, is it?’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Love,’ I say simply.
He frowns. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because love stories like this only exist in the pages of history books. The stuff of myth and legend.’ Over his shoulder I see the bench that Princess Diana sat on, surrounded by people taking pictures. ‘I mean, look what happens to our modern-day fairy tales,’ I say, gesturing towards it.
He glances over and his brow suddenly clears. ‘Are you still going on about that bench?’
‘You know what I mean,’ I say huffily.
‘What is with you Brits and Princess Diana?’
‘Now if you want to follow me, we will take a closer look at what is considered to be the most beautiful building in the world,’ the guide continues.
I throw Jack a stern look. ‘Sshh,’ I hiss and, ignoring him, I turn back to the tour guide.
‘. . . a memorial to a love so powerful, that it has lasted hundred of years . . .’
As the guide speaks, I glance at the faces of the people around me – the couple from Japan, two old bearded men from Afghanistan, a bunch of young Italian boys, a family of Canadians. They’re not here because it’s a beautiful building, or because it’s hundreds of years old, but because of what it represents: the power of love. A love so great it could create all of this. Could attract all these people, from all over the world. Could stand the test of time.
That’s the something that gives this place its magic, I suddenly realise. Love.
Only you won’t find this kind of love in today’s world, I reflect, with a moment of sadness. It doesn’t exist. Forget love lasting centuries, these days you’re lucky if it lasts six months. And I’m not just talking about Sam and me. No one stays together any more. Celebrities change partners faster than I change my bedding. I only have to flick through a magazine to read about another newlywed couple breaking up once the honeymoon period is over. It’s just depressing. It makes you want to give up before you’ve even started.
Not that I’m thinking of starting again, I remind myself sharply. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. Or rather, in my case, the wedding dress. Which, to add insult to injury, I’m still paying off on my credit card. Honestly, modern-day love sucks. I’m happy to be single. Perfectly, one hundred per cent happy, thank you very much.
‘The Taj Mahal took twenty-three years and several thousand master craftsmen from all over the world to create. A gruesome legend exists that afterwards these craftsmen had their hands chopped off to prevent them from building anything so beautiful again. Fortunately, there is no historical evidence for this story . . .’
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn sideways to see Jack waving at me with just a stump, the sleeve of his sweatshirt flapping away where his hand should be.
‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ I whisper, pulling a face.
‘Oh, c’mon,’ he smiles, revealing the hand he’d hidden up his sweatshirt. ‘That wasn’t bad.’
‘No, it was terrible,’ I hiss, rolling my eyes. ‘Now will you stop fooling around, I want to listen, this is really interesting.’
‘Now, if you look closer at the ornamental gardens, you will see that they are laid out in a square which is divided into quarters by watercourses, each one offering a beautiful reflection . . .’
There’s a murmur of approval from the assembled group of people.
‘Classic Mughal design,’ nods Jack.
I glance at him in astonishment. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I know a little bit about buildings,’ he shrugs modestly.
‘What else do you know?’ I ask curiously.
He pauses to scratch the stubble on his chin. ‘Well, see the vaulted arch and the minarets on either side,’ he begins, pointing them out.
‘Uh-huh,’ I nod, my attention now fully caught.
‘These are repeated on each of the four faces of the building,’ he explains, ‘and each one is identical, so that wherever you stand your view will never change, which all adds to the feeling of timelessness.’
Listening to him, I’m taken aback by how knowledgeable he is. Just the way he’s talking, how he’s moving his hands, the way he’s so earnest and animated, I can’t believe this is the same Jack who always seems so flippant and dismissive about everything.
‘And not only is it perfectly symmetrical, but it’s built on a platform, so that the backdrop is only sky which, from a design point of view, is total genius—’ He suddenly breaks off, blushing. ‘Sorry, am I boring you?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘I can get a bit carried away, you should have told me to shut up.’
‘No, seriously, it’s fascinating,’ I reassure him, ‘though I thought you said you only knew a bit?’
He smiles ruefully. ‘OK, I’ve been busted. I’m an architect.’
‘Unfair advantage!’ I exclaim.
He bursts out laughing. ‘Well, the hand thing didn’t work, and I had to do something to get your attention.’
My attention?
‘Well, you certainly got it,’ I laugh, but out of nowhere, I feel my stomach flutter.
‘I did?’ he asks, his eyes meeting mine.
I suddenly realise he’s stopped laughing. ‘Absolutely,’ I reply cheerfully, trying to appear normal. ‘Talk about being full of surprises!’ God, what’s wrong with me? Why do I feel so nervous all of a sudden?
‘Do you like surprises?’
Is it me or has he just moved a hair’s breadth closer?
‘Erm . . .yes . . . I do . . .’ I nod vigorously, ‘though only if they’re good ones, of course.’
‘And am I a good one?’
My breath quickens. Is he flirting with me?
‘Oh look, we’re losing the group,’ I say briskly, pointing to the crowd of people and suddenly noticing they’ve moved on ahead of us.
‘So what do you reckon, shall we make a break for it?’ He raises an eyebrow, smiling.
Feeling all flustered, I hesitate, now suddenly at a loss how to respond. ‘Actually, um . . . I think I need to use the loo,’ I blurt out.
Good one, Ruby. As always, I can be totally relied on to completely ruin a moment.
‘Oh, OK,’ he nods, his smile slipping slightly. ‘All that water you’ve been drinking, huh?’ He gestures to the bottle of water I was given along with my ticket.
At the same time we both notice it’s unopened.
‘Well, see you in a minute.’ I quickly turn away and set off towards the toilets.
‘Hey, you forgot something.’
I turn to see him pull out a few sheets of toilet paper from his backpack and waggle them at me.
I stop dead in my tracks. In the last couple of days there have been so many shocks and surprises, so many new experiences and emotions, it’s not so much a steep learning curve that I’m on, it’s a bloody rollercoaster. Yet still, it has to be one of the most curious, and quite frankly, amazing things about life, that within just 4
8 hours you can go from complete strangers on a train, to sharing loo roll.
Talk about a whole new meaning to the words ‘comfort zone’.
‘Thanks,’ I say gratefully, running back and taking it from him.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he nods. ‘Oh, and Ruby?’
‘Yes?’
‘Try not to pee on your feet,’ he adds, his eyes flashing with amusement.
Oh god. There’s a comfort zone and then there’s me and my big mouth. I cringe, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment, and hurry off to seek refuge in the toilets.
I had to do something to get your attention.
Washing my hands five minutes later, I stare at myself in the mirror and roll the phrase around in my head. What does that mean exactly? It’s so vague and ambiguous. OK, so I know what it means literally. But why was he trying to get my attention? And what kind of attention are we talking about? The purely platonic kind of attention? Or could it be he was meaning a different kind of attention?
Well, obviously it was the first one, I think hurriedly, as we had that whole conversation in the car about just being friends. Except . . . I feel a nagging doubt. Except, in that case, what was happening out there then? Did I imagine it? Has it been so long I can’t even read the signals any more? In fact, were there any signals in the first place?
And, more importantly, what on earth am I doing wasting time even thinking about this? Letting out a gasp of frustration, I turn off the taps. The toilet attendant in the corner glances at me and I smile self-consciously and quickly hand her a few rupees for a paper towel. Honestly, what on earth’s got into me? I swear, it’s all the Taj Mahal’s fault. However hard you try to resist all this love stuff, it rubs off. Being here makes you think all kinds of crazy romantic things.
Like, for example, that Jack might fancy me and I might secretly want him to—
I catch myself. See! Totally bonkers. Forget mutual attraction, the only thing Jack and I share is loo roll.
Finishing drying my hands, I try to freshen up a bit. Thankfully I look slightly better than I did earlier and, in the absence of any make-up, I turn my attentions to my hair. Hmmm, now shall I leave it up or put it down? I wonder which Jack prefers—
Argh! I’m doing it again! Bloody Taj Mahal!
Leaving the toilets, I go back outside and head over to where I left Jack. Only the grounds have got even busier and for a moment it’s impossible to see him amongst the hundreds of tourists. Finally, after a few minutes, I spot our guide with his umbrella over by the fountains and I start making my way towards them . . . only, that’s funny, I can’t see Jack amongst the rest of the group. I scan the heads for his old fedora . . . Where is he?
A loud shriek of laughter pierces my thoughts, disturbing the respectful hush of the Taj Mahal, and I twirl around to see where it’s coming from. Then I spot her. Just a few feet away. A tall, skinny blonde with big boobs, laughing and joking as she poses for a photograph. A small crowd of tourists are staring. Not just because she’s obnoxiously loud, but because she’s also stunningly good-looking. And she knows it.
Wearing an old straw hat, white T-shirt and a gorgeous sparkly Indian skirt that shows off her tiny waist, she’s flashing a million-dollar smile and tossing her hair around like she’s in a shampoo advert. Automatically, I look to see who’s taking the picture. It’s probably her equally good-looking boyfriend.
My eyes land on a man, his face obscured behind one of those big, black swanky cameras.
Hang on a minute. Isn’t that . . .?
‘Oh, hey, Ruby!’
I stare open-mouthed as a familiar tousled head reappears grinning from behind the huge zoom lens.
‘Jack?’
‘Lemme see, lemme see,’ interrupts the blonde in a loud American accent, bounding across like an overexcited puppy.
It’s like watching Pamela Anderson in slow-mo. Transfixed, I watch as she slips a long, slim arm around Jack’s shoulder, presses her ample chest up against his back and reaches for the camera around his neck. Flicking a button, she peers into the viewfinder.
‘It’s awesome! You’re so super-smart!’ she coos.
‘Oh please, I just pointed and pressed the button,’ he shrugs.
‘Nonsense! You’re way too modest,’ she scolds teasingly, planting a kiss on his cheek.
Honestly, I’ve never seen such a display of blatant flirting, I think indignantly, looking at Jack, who’s no doubt totally embarrassed by this stranger’s antics.
Except, wait a minute. Is he blushing?
‘Um . . . Cindy, this is my friend Ruby . . .’ He tries to extricate himself.
The blonde reluctantly unlocks her lips from his stubble and swivels her eyes towards me. ‘Oh, hi,’ she says tightly, noticing me for the first time. She doesn’t look best pleased to see me. In fact, I’ve seen cats happier to see dogs.
‘Hi,’ I smile, feeling her eyes running up and down me like laser beams. I shift uncomfortably in my unflattering outfit of combat trousers and ancient grey hoody from Gap. Up until this moment, I hadn’t given much thought to what I’m wearing, primarily because this is the only outfit I have, and since arriving in Delhi my mind’s been focused on other things.
Until now.
Now, seeing myself through Cindy’s eyes, I’m suddenly brought up short. What must I look like? For the last forty-eight hours I’ve been sleeping and travelling in these clothes. I glance down at my trousers, they’re all crumpled, my hoody has an unidentifiable stain, and – god forbid – I look down at my feet and feel my toes literally curl.
What was I thinking? OK, so my feet were cold, but still. It’s like I’ve had a total style lobotomy. I don’t care how frozen my feet were. Even if they had frostbite. There is never, ever, a good enough excuse to wear socks with sandals.
‘Cindy’s from LA,’ Jack begins explaining for my benefit. ‘She asked me if I’d take her photograph.’
‘Well, you can always trust a fellow American to know what they’re doing,’ she teases.
‘Cool,’ I nod, glancing up from my red, striped woolly toes to take in Cindy, who not only looks even more stunning up close, but is effortlessly put together. I’ve never been able to do accessories; I always end up feeling like a badly decorated Christmas tree. But she makes it look so easy, with silver jewellery, strings of beads, embroidered scarves, even that straw hat . . .
Hang on.
I suddenly realise she’s wearing Jack’s fedora and do a double take. I feel a curious stab of possessiveness. I’ve never seen him without that fedora. He never takes it off. Not for anyone.
Still, I’m being ridiculous. Who cares about a silly old hat, for goodness’ sake?
‘You know there’s a self-timer,’ I can’t help adding peevishly.
Cindy’s smile freezes slightly. ‘Yes, but it is so much easier to ask someone,’ she says, smiling coyly at Jack, ‘especially awesome photographers like this guy.’
‘Aw, please,’ he protests.
Yup, he’s definitely blushing.
‘Seriously, you’re better than some of the professional photographers I work with,’ she flirts.
‘Why, are you an actress?’ I blurt, before I can stop myself.
She gives a little tinkly laugh, as if that’s the funniest thing in the world. ‘No,’ she says, casually shaking out her hair. ‘I’m a bikini model.’
For a split second I feel myself reel. She’s. A. Bikini. Model.
‘That’s nice,’ I nod, without missing a beat.
I see Jack’s jaw drop.
He catches me looking at him. ‘Um . . . Cindy’s travelling with her parents,’ he proffers, quickly pulling himself together.
‘I don’t usually travel with my folks,’ she adds hurriedly, ‘but they’re getting a little older now, and although I had a crazy schedule I said to myself, “No, Cindy, they’ve looked after you, now it’s your turn to look after them,” and so I cancelled everything. Like, literally everything,’ she says, turning to J
ack, her expression serious. ‘Yoga, acupuncture, therapy, even a colonic!’
‘A colonic?’ I repeat.
‘I know, right?’ she nods earnestly, seemingly misinterpreting my incredulity, ‘but when it comes to my folks, my health comes second. It was way more important for me to be a good daughter. I just had to come along to make sure they’re OK.’ She turns to Jack and smiles bravely.
‘That’s really nice of you,’ he nods.
I glance at Jack in disbelief. I can’t believe he’s falling for this stuff.
‘Well, I think it’s really important to be selfless and do things for others, put them first, don’t you?’
Oh please. Next she’ll be saying she wants world peace.
‘We’re on a tour of the Golden Triangle, but they went back to the hotel early. Sightseeing can get very tiring for them.’
‘We’re actually just in the middle of a tour ourselves, aren’t we, Jack?’ I say pointedly, gesturing towards our guide.
‘Yeah, right, we should get going,’ nods Jack, snapping out of some kind of daze. Unlooping the camera from around his neck, he passes it back to her.
‘Well, if you feel like meeting for a drink later, we’re staying in town,’ she says, handing him back his hat, ‘and my parents like to go to bed early,’ she adds pointedly.
‘A drink sounds great,’ grins Jack, replacing his fedora.
‘But we have to get on the road,’ I remind him with a regretful smile.
Which is a shame, as obviously I would have loved to have met Cindy and her big boobs for a nightcap.
‘Yeah, Ruby’s right,’ he nods, ‘we have to get going.’
‘Oh, OK. Well if you change your mind, give me a call,’ she shrugs, brazenly grabbing his iPhone out of his pocket and punching in her number. Then, giving a little wave, she tosses her blonde mane over her shoulder and trots off down the path, hair bouncing, sparkly skirt swishing, like a supermodel on a catwalk.
Then it’s just the two of us again.
‘She was very pretty,’ I note, trying to sound all nonchalant. Well, I don’t want him thinking I’m bothered or anything.
‘Was she?’ he feigns surprise. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
The Love Detective Page 15