The Love Detective

by Alexandra Potter

  We turn to each other and as Jack looks at me, I look back at him.

  And suddenly, out of the blue, it’s like we’ve crossed some invisible line. Something’s changed between us. I’ve looked at Jack hundreds of times before, only this time he seems different.

  Or is it me that’s different?

  ‘Come on,’ he says, gesturing towards the tour, ‘let’s go.’

  I hesitate, thrown off-balance.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ I manage, my heart thumping.

  Quickly gathering myself together, we set off towards the tour guide.

  But I’m not fine. I feel unsettled. Nervous, almost. Like pushing a heavy door that’s been closed for a long time, something inside me has shifted to reveal long-forgotten emotions. As if the Taj Mahal has somehow opened a chink in my heart. Not much, just enough to let something, or someone, in.

  Or, to put it another, much less poetic, way.

  I suddenly fancy the pants off Jack.

  Chapter 18

  So now not only have I lost my sister and all my belongings, I’ve also completely lost my mind. Me? Have the hots for Jack? I don’t even like Jack that much. And yet for the rest of the tour he’s all I can think about.

  It’s completely insane. It’s like he’s hijacked my brain.

  How did I not notice his arms before? I wonder in amazement, unable to take my eyes off his flexing biceps as he folds them and thereby missing a very important ancient carving. Or the way his bum looks in those faded jeans? I ask myself, hanging back to check it out as we walk down the marble steps and I nearly go flying as I miss a step.

  At one point, when the guide is talking about the fountains, I even find myself gazing at the sprinkling water and imagining the two of us in the shower together.

  Naked. Wet. Soaping each other up—

  Oh my god, what has happened to me? I’ve turned into some kind of raging nympho! In my defence, it’s been a while, but even so, I’m acting like some kind of hormonal teenager. I need to get a grip. I’m here at one of the Seven Wonders of the World. I should be consumed with highbrow, intellectual thoughts about history and culture and architecture, not fixated by thoughts of Jack with no clothes on.

  I mean, just look at this amazing view!

  I lean against the balcony and stare out at the stunning scenery. It’s incredible. Really incredible.

  On the terrace below me, Jack walks across my eye-line and starts taking photographs. My eyes remain studiously fixed on the view. I’m not going to look at him. I am not going to look him. I am not—

  I look at him. Correction: I stare at him. In fact, I cannot take my eyes off him. I take in his broad shoulders, the strength of his back beneath his flimsy T-shirt, the way his body narrows in a V-shape to his hips . . .

  My breath quickens. It’s like a switch has been flicked inside me and every part of my physical being has suddenly sprung to life. Including bits I’d completely forgotten about, I realise, feeling my groin ache. God, it’s been so long. It’s like that part of me has been asleep and now, unexpectedly, it’s woken up and my mind is suddenly filled with fantasies about having sex with Jack.

  And not soft-lighting-and-scented-candle sex, but rough-and-ready, throw-you-over-the kitchen-table-and-rip-your-clothes-off sex.

  My legs wobble beneath me and, closing my eyes, I place my hand on the cool marble to steady myself.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Hearing Jack’s voice behind me, I come to. I turn around quickly to see him standing on the balcony, looking at me curiously. ‘Um . . . yes,’ I nod, all hot and flustered.

  ‘You looked flushed.’

  As he speaks I stare at his mouth and think about kissing him. ‘Is it me, or is it really hot in here?’ Hastily, I start fanning myself with my leaflet.

  ‘I’m actually a bit chilly,’ he says, frowning. ‘I hope you’re not coming down with something.’

  Did he just say going down on someone?

  ‘Yes . . . um . . . I mean no,’ I manage, my voice coming out all weird and strangled.

  Oh god, this is awful. It’s like my brain is turning everything into some kind of sexual innuendo. Like watching the news with X-rated subtitles.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I nod vigorously. I know. I’ll just focus on the most unsexy things I can think of, that’ll do the trick. Right, yes. Good idea.

  He regards me for a second, then checks his watch. ‘Good,’ he nods. ‘Because I came to tell you we should go. It’s getting late.’

  My old maths teacher. Frozen peas. Cutting your toenails. Watching someone on the Tube pick their nose.

  See? It really works. As we reach the car, I’m feeling so much better. On the walk back I haven’t had one sexual fantasy about Jack whatsoever. I feel almost normal again.

  Brussels sprouts. Flesh-coloured tights. Cleaning the loo. Watching someone on the Tube eat whatever they’ve just picked out of their nose.

  I just have to keep focusing on things that are so unsexy that it’s physically impossible to think sexy thoughts.

  Bad breath. Combovers. My big, comfy ‘period’ knickers (so-called because they remain hidden in my drawer and only come out once a month. I have several well-worn pairs, each with perished elastic, and each so baggy I look like I’m wearing a nappy. In fact, they are so ugly and unsexy that if anyone ever saw them I would have to kill them to ensure the shameful secret never got out. That’s how unsexy they are).

  ‘What are period knickers?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Startled, I look at Jack.

  ‘You just murmured something about “period knickers”?’

  I did?

  Fuck. That’s a habit of mine. Talking to myself. It comes with being a writer; I spend all day by myself, walking around having conversations with characters in my head. At least, I think they’re in my head, but Mrs Flannegan once waved at me in the street and asked me who I was talking to. I had to pretend I had one of those Bluetooth earpieces in and was on the phone, so she didn’t think I’d gone totally loopy.

  Like Jack does, I realise, looking at him and wondering how on earth I’m going to get out of this one. Somehow I don’t think the Bluetooth thing is going to work this time.

  ‘Boss! Miss Ruby! You are back!’

  Oh, thank god. Saved by Rocky.

  As his familiar figure springs from the car, I feel a rush of relief.

  ‘Was it not the most romantic place you have ever been in the whole wide world?’ he asks, a broad grin on his face.

  ‘It was awesome.’

  ‘Incredible.’

  Both nodding enthusiastically, we shuffle onto the back seat whilst Rocky climbs back into the front. ‘I have heard from my passengers that Paris in France is also very romantic and in Italy there is the most beautiful place called Venice with boats like in Alleppey in Southern India . . .’ Starting the engine, he pulls out into the traffic.

  ‘They’re called gondolas,’ I reply helpfully.

  ‘And in England there is Birmingham . . .’

  Birmingham?

  ‘This is also very romantic, yes?’ he asks, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Um, well . . . I’m not sure it’s particularly famous for that,’ I say uncertainly.

  ‘But even so, I cannot believe there is anything like the Taj Mahal,’ he continues, unfazed, flicking his eyes back to the road. ‘It is a very special place.’

  ‘Yes, very,’ I nod.

  ‘You cannot go there and not be touched by the hand of love, no, you cannot.’ Rocky gives a firm shake of his head. ‘Even American presidents, like your Mr Bill Clinton.’

  ‘Really?’ Jack raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ he says, nodding vigorously. ‘He said that there were two kinds of people in the world. Those who have seen the Taj Mahal and love it and those who have not seen it and love it.’

  Jack smiles. ‘Well, our former president’s never
wrong.’

  ‘Miss Ruby, do you agree?’ prompts Rocky.

  ‘Um, yes,’ I nod again. Gosh, he’s very persistent, isn’t he?

  ‘I have taken many, many people here and when they go they are friends and when they return they are to be married . . .’ There’s a heavy pause as Rocky breaks off and looks pointedly at both me and Jack in the rear-view mirror.

  Suddenly the penny drops with a loud thud.

  Oh god, of course. He’s trying to match-make. That explains why he insisted on us sitting together on the back seat and going to see the Taj Mahal. My cheeks flame and beside me I feel Jack shift awkwardly. Oh, how embarrassing. Could he be more obvious?

  ‘So, what route are we taking?’ asks Jack gruffly, not-so-subtly changing the subject.

  ‘It is already dusk. Soon it will be dark and I’m afraid it is too dangerous to drive in the dark, boss.’

  ‘It is?’ I feel a stab of alarm. Up until now I’ve been doing pretty well with the driving. Make no mistake, the roads are still terrifying, but I’ve felt quite safe with Rocky at the wheel. But now my anxiety comes back with a vengeance. If a driver with over twenty years’ experience says it’s dangerous . . . Automatically, I reach for my seatbelt, but it’s wedged underneath the seat and, when I tug on it, it comes free and I realise it’s not attached to anything . . . Well, let’s just say I’m out of my comfort zone.

  ‘Many drivers take drugs to stay awake, there are many bad accidents, many crashes,’ he says gravely, pointing out a mangled bus in a ditch at the side of the road. Its front is completely smashed in and the windows are broken. I give a little shudder.

  ‘So what are you saying? That we need to stay here tonight?’ Jack frowns.

  ‘Yes, boss. It is much safer this way.’

  There’s a moment’s silence as Jack takes this on board and thinks about it, then he gives a shrug. ‘OK, well if you think that’s better.’

  ‘There is a saying in India, it is much better to be safe than sorry,’ replies Rocky gravely.

  ‘We have that saying in England too,’ I smile.

  ‘You do? Splendid,’ he beams widely. ‘Then we are all in agreement. We will stay the night here in Agra and leave in the morning.’

  Fortunately Rocky knows a good, cheap place to stay in town. For a budget traveller in England, that would mean a bland room at a motel, but here nothing is bland. Nothing is ordinary. Everything, I’m fast learning, is extraordinary.

  As he takes us to a gorgeous old haveli, which used to be a private mansion but has now been turned into a hotel, it’s like stepping back in time. We’re greeted by ornately carved doors, antique furniture and beautiful hand-painted frescos on the walls and, after checking in, we make our way through the courtyard to our separate rooms. However, Jack’s mood seems to have changed. On the drive here he didn’t say much and kept looking at his iPhone as if he was distracted. I wonder what’s wrong?

  ‘Well, at least I get to take a shower,’ I say, making an attempt at small talk as we climb the stairs.

  ‘You mean a cold shower.’ Turning to me, he raises his eyebrows pointedly.

  Alone with him in the dimly lit corridor, I feel my chest tighten. He’s telling me I need to take a cold shower?

  I’m suddenly gripped with paranoia. Oh god, has he realised I fancy him? Is that what this is all about? My mind starts to race. That must be why he’s gone all quiet. I must have made it really obvious. Embarrassment sweeps over me. I know, I’ll just deny it.

  ‘No . . . I don’t think so . . . not at all,’ I croak, shaking my head vigorously.

  ‘Really?’ Jack looks surprised.

  I feel a twinge of indignation. OK, so he’s sexy, but it’s a tiny bit arrogant to think I can’t resist him. I do have some self-control. ‘Absolutely not,’ I continue, emboldened.

  ‘Wow, you’re pretty optimistic,’ he replies as we reach our rooms.

  ‘I wouldn’t say I’m optimistic,’ I bristle.

  ‘I would,’ he shrugs. Unlocking his door he pushes it open and walks inside.

  Watching him disappear into his room, I feel my pride rush to the surface. Right, that’s it; I need to clear this up. Enough of this schoolgirl-crush business, I need to be grown-up about this.

  Still standing in the doorway, I screw up my courage. ‘Look Jack, I think we need to talk,’ I begin, my voice all forced and wavery. God, this is excruciating. We need to talk? That’s far too heavy. It’s like asking ‘where do we stand?’ after a first date. I need to be more casual. More relaxed.

  I start again. ‘Please let me assure you a cold shower is not necessary.’ Oh god, and now I sound like Mr Carson in Downton Abbey. Why don’t I just add ‘m’lord’ and be done with it?

  Swallowing hard, I blunder on. ‘What I mean is, you’re perfectly safe; just because I find you really attractive, it doesn’t mean I’m going to try and jump your bones—’

  ‘I can never get any hot water, can you?’ he says, his head reappearing around the door.

  I stare at him blankly. What’s he doing talking about hot water? Hasn’t he been listening to a word I’ve just said?

  ‘Those water heaters in the bathroom never work, it always runs freezing after about two minutes, so I’ve been having to take cold showers . . .’ He trails off and pulls a face. ‘I really hope you’re right about there being a hot shower. I haven’t had one since I arrived.’

  Oh god. I am such an idiot.

  ‘Sorry, what were you saying about being safe?’

  I completely got the wrong end of the stick. ‘Oh . . . um, nothing . . .’ Waves of mortification are washing over me. How much of my speech did he hear? Any of it? All of it? ‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to your . . . er shower,’ I say, turning and bashing my toe against the doorframe.

  Fuck. These stupid sandals. It throbs painfully as I start trying to unlock the door. Oh god, and now the key won’t go in.

  ‘Need a hand?’

  ‘No, I’m fine!’ I protest shrilly, jangling it around desperately. Finally it turns. Flinging open the door, I charge inside and close it behind me.

  Then slump thankfully against it.

  Who knew fancying someone could be so stressful? I should have stuck with my resolve of swearing off men. My heart’s racing, my head’s all over the place, I’m all jumpy. I’m like a nervous wreck.

  I’m distracted by sounds on the other side of the paper-thin wall of a shower being turned on. An image of Jack, naked, flashes through my head. I feel a tug of desire and frustration. Oh my god, there I go again.

  Seriously, I can’t cope with all these feelings!

  Chapter 19

  As it turns out, I get my cold shower anyway.

  Correction: nearly die of hypothermia.

  This region of India might have the most beautiful palaces and lavish fortresses, amazingly colourful cities and gorgeous havelis, glittering tribal costumes and stunning jewellery of anywhere in the world.

  Constant hot water, however, is proving a little trickier to find.

  For ten minutes I stand shivering in my towel, waiting for the water to warm up and deliberating over whether or not my hair really does need washing. Which is something of a rhetorical question, considering there’s less grease on a fish-and-chip wrapper. Every so often I stick my hand underneath the icy spray and try not to scream.

  There’s cold, and then there’s cold. I’m not kidding, even those swimmers you see on New Year’s Day, jumping in frozen seas in bathing suits, would balk at getting under that shower.

  Because it’s not just the temperature of the water. It’s a combination of the temperature outside, which plunges down to freezing once the sun goes down, and the marble floors of these old havelis, which were designed to keep guests cool in the heat of the summer, but are like ice cubes underfoot in the winter.

  Hopping on one foot, then another, I briefly wonder whether I can take a shower in my woolly socks. Fashion faux pas or no fashion faux pas, I’m not sure I c
an bear to take them off. I have goose bumps the size of marbles.

  And, of course, the haveli being over two hundred years old, there’s no such thing as central heating here. Instead of radiators, there are beautiful old tapestries on the walls. Which are stunning, truly they are.

  It’s just hard to admire them when my teeth are chattering.

  In the end I screw up all my courage and dive underneath the shower and for a brief, glorious moment I’m rewarded by a hot jet of water. Oh the joy. Watching myself turning a lovely shade of lobster pink, I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven. There are only a few things in life that can feel this good: 1) An ice-cold gin and tonic on a hot summer’s day 2) finding those shoes you’ve really wanted marked down to 50 per cent off in the sale and there’s one pair left in your size, and 3) a paparazzi shot of a supermodel in a bikini with what looks distinctly like cellulite.

  But a hot shower when you’re tired, dirty and cold has to come tops.

  Conversely, there are only a few things that can feel as bad as a shower suddenly turning freezing cold when you’ve only been in it for a few minutes.

  I shriek loudly, and leap out again.

  Especially when you realise you’ve still got to rinse the shampoo out of your hair.

  Oh fuck.

  It takes until the time I’m dressed for the feeling to start returning to my head. Still, at least I finally have clean hair, I console myself, wincing as my frozen scalp starts to thaw. Finishing towelling it dry, I pull it into a damp ponytail. And there’s something about having clean hair that makes you feel loads better. All I need now are some clean clothes, I muse, reluctantly pulling on my hoody. I’ve managed to get the stain out, but still. First thing tomorrow, I must try and buy something else to wear.

  Locking up my room, I go to knock on Jack’s door to see if he wants to eat dinner, only there’s no answer. He must have gone out. Feeling disappointed, I turn to leave, then pause. On second thoughts, maybe he’s fallen asleep. I hang back to see if I can hear any faint snoring coming from inside. No, nothing. Oh, wait . . . I think I can hear a voice.

  ‘I’m really sorry . . . yes . . . it was unavoidable.’