The Love Detective

by Alexandra Potter

  Rocky looks at me, confounded. ‘I’m afraid I do not understand.’

  ‘It’s completely my fault,’ I apologise. ‘I should have said something when you were ordering. You see, I’m not an adventurous eater, I can’t eat spicy Indian food.’ I can hear myself gabbling as I try to explain. Oh god, this is awful. Rocky has been kind enough to bring me to his local restaurant, I don’t want him to think I’m being rude. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m really rubbish, maybe I can order some plain rice instead?’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he shakes his head.

  ‘No really.’

  ‘Of course you can eat Indian food,’ he says firmly, ‘I will teach you.’

  I stop protesting and stare at him. ‘Teach me?’

  Until this moment it’s never occurred to me that I could learn how to eat Indian food, in the same way you can learn how to swim, or speak French.

  ‘This is paneer,’ he says, pointing to the first dish, which contains small, bite-sized cubes in a rich sauce. ‘It is a kind of cheese.’

  ‘Cheese?’ I look at him in surprise. I would never have guessed. Somehow it seems suddenly less scary.

  ‘Yes, and we use this in Malai Kofta,’ he points to another dish, which looks like meatballs. ‘Please, repeat after me.’

  ‘Malai . . . Kofta,’ I stumble over the pronunciation, feeling self-conscious. Actually, it reminds me a lot of trying to learn French. My accent was always horrible.

  ‘This is vegetables and the paneer, deep-fried, it is very good,’ he smiles, patting his tiny pot belly. ‘Chana Masala,’ he says, pointing to another dish.

  ‘Chana . . . Masala,’ I repeat clumsily, only this time I secretly enjoy the sensation of hearing myself trying to say the unfamiliar words.

  ‘This is chickpeas with onions, tomatoes, dried mango root and spices . . .’

  ‘Oh, but you see, that’s my problem, it’s the spices—’ I begin vocalising my fears, but he won’t let me finish.

  ‘And here is dhal, my favourite. It is made of lentils and it is very spicy . . .’

  I open my mouth in protestation, but he waggles his finger sternly, silencing me.

  ‘And so you must eat it with the raita.’ He points to a bowl of creamy-looking yoghurt, then to pile of flatbread, ‘and the chapatti.’

  I nod, captivated by my lesson.

  ‘Now watch.’

  Spooning various dishes onto his large silver plate, Rocky proceeds to mix it together with his fingers. I watch, fascinated, and it’s then I realise no one is using cutlery to eat. ‘Use only your right hand,’ he says, crushing and mashing the mixture together, before scooping it up and pushing into his mouth, using his thumb. ‘Now your turn,’ he instructs.

  I peer at the slivers of bright red chilli, glistening in the spicy dhal, and blanch.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he cajoles, ‘eat a little with the raita.’

  I take a deep breath and do as he says, spooning a little of the dhal on my plate and mixing it with the creamy yoghurt.

  ‘It is very important to eat both together,’ he nods. ‘This is the secret.’

  Gingerly I scoop up the mixture with my fingers and place it in my mouth, bracing myself for the familiar fiery burning.

  ‘It’s good?’

  As the different spices converge in my mouth, tingling all my different taste buds, I feel a split second of regret. That ‘oh-no-what-I-have-done?’ feeling you get when you know you’ve just made a big mistake. It was very sweet of Rocky to try and teach me how to eat spicy Indian food, and for a moment I almost believed he could, he seemed so sure, so insistent. But I can’t change just like that, I’m a lost cause, it’s impossible.

  But hang on a minute.

  Abruptly I realise: there’s no burning. No watering eyes. No desperate grab for my glass of water. Just lots of delicate spices and the combination of sweet and savoury flavours melting in my mouth.

  ‘Oh wow, it’s delicious!’ I gasp, still with my mouth full. ‘Oops, sorry,’ I quickly mumble, covering my mouth.

  Rocky bursts out laughing. ‘See! What did I tell you?’ he beams, tearing off a piece of chapatti and passing it to me.

  I take it from him and tear off a piece myself, using it to scoop up another mouthful. It tastes even more amazing the second time.

  ‘More?’ Rocky offers me the dhal, only this time I’m not scared and, taking a large scoop, I add the raita.

  ‘Thanks,’ I smile, and as Rocky turns back to his food I take a moment to glance around me and take in my surroundings. Here I am, sitting in a crowded restaurant, eating Indian food with my hands. Who would ever have thought it? Talk about a whole new experience. I never would have done this in London.

  Only I’m not in London now. I’m in India, and everything is totally different.

  Tearing off a piece of a chapatti, I eagerly scoop up another mouthful.

  Me included.

  Afterwards, it’s with a full belly and a sense of satisfaction that I walk back to the haveli with Rocky. After thanking him profusely, he bids me goodnight and I head happily into the courtyard to look for Jack, bursting with my news. I’ve had such a great evening, I can’t wait to tell him all about it. He won’t be able to believe it!

  Ahead I can see a few more people sitting having drinks, and imagine Jack and me doing the same. Over a couple of cold Kingfisher beers I can regale him with stories of how I braved the spicy dhal and won. Or the Chana Masala and how delicious it was. Or how I know all the different types of bread. For example, here are just a few off the top of my head: chapatti, parathas, pooris . . . I feel a flush of pride. Seriously, he’s going to be so impressed.

  Eagerly, I turn to head upstairs to knock on his door and invite him for a drink, when I see a flash of straw in the corner of my eye. Hang on, is that Jack’s fedora? I glance sideways, trying to see past a large potted fern to one of the big leather sofas. He’s got his back to me, but yes, that’s definitely him, I realise, unable to stop the big smile breaking across my face. I cannot wait to see his face when I tell him.

  I start to hurry over, then stop dead.

  He’s not alone.

  Having moved a few steps, the fronds of the potted plant have shifted to one side and suddenly I get a clear view of the attractive blonde sitting next to him. Cindy.

  For a brief moment I stand there, watching them, all the anticipation, excitement and happiness of the evening trickling away like sand through an hourglass. Deep in conversation, their heads bent low; their body language says it all. All at once I feel crushed. He must have called her. Old insecurities come rushing back and hit me in the solar plexus. And there was me thinking he’d be interested in hearing about my evening.

  God, I’m such a fool.

  And quickly turning away before either of them spots me, I hurry up to my room.

  Chapter 22

  Anyway, whatever, I don’t care. It’s better this way.

  Five minutes later I’m sitting cross-legged on my four-poster bed, wrapped up in a blanket and brandishing my mobile. I need to focus on finding my sister, not fantasising about Jack. Unfolding the piece of paper I found in Amy’s room, I determinedly dial the number. Things are complicated enough without adding some ridiculous infatuation to the mix. As if I don’t have enough problems.

  I wait for the call to connect.

  I mean, honestly. Me and Jack? It was a stupid idea. Even if anything had happened, which it wouldn’t have done, it would have only ended in disaster.

  On the other end of the line, the phone starts ringing.

  No, it’s much better that he gets together with Cindy. Much better.

  I let the phone ring for a good five minutes, before I finally give up. Hanging up, I lean back against my pillow. The room is quiet, and glancing around me I take in the unfamiliar surroundings, feeling a weariness descend upon me.

  What am I doing here? I mean, seriously, what am I doing here?

  As I ask myself the question, every single nagging doubt
and fear that I’ve been trying to ignore over the last few days rises to the surface. Let’s face it, I’m never going to find Amy at this rate. It’s just hopeless. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I’m a novelist, I spend my days sitting at home at my laptop in my fluffy slippers, drinking cold coffee and procrastinating. I don’t go gallivanting off across India on a whim, losing sisters and falling for handsome strangers. I write about stuff like that, I don’t do it!

  As the floodgates open, I feel suddenly overwhelmed. I’m completely out of my depth here. It’s one thing daydreaming about having an adventure when you’re sitting safely on your sofa, but it’s quite another when you’re plunged into the middle of one without even a spare pair of knickers. Nothing is going right. I used to be this tidy, organised, sensible person who made lists and had a routine. And now look at me! I’m a complete mess. My sister’s still missing. I’ve had all my stuff stolen. I’m lying to my parents. Everything is a disaster.

  And just to add the icing to this cake of calamity, I’m having wildly inappropriate thoughts about Jack and making a total fool of myself.

  Trust me, adventures are totally overrated.

  Filled with gloom, I stare at the ceiling fan, watching it whirr around and around, along with the thoughts in my head. All the earlier joy I’d felt at eating Indian food with Rocky has worn off and reality is biting. Coming here was a big mistake. I want my old life back. OK, so it might not have turned out exactly how I’d hoped in the love department, but it’s safe and predictable and I have a whole drawer full of clean underwear. I should just admit defeat and go home.

  As the thought strikes, I greet it with a feeling of inevitability. I’ll tell Jack tomorrow morning. I’ll get a train or a bus back to Delhi and from there I can get a flight back to London. As for Amy . . . well, I did my best. My best just wasn’t good enough.

  For a few moments I lie there, until my thoughts are distracted by the sounds of faint burbling. What’s that? I feel a vibration underneath my thigh and suddenly realise I’m sitting on my phone. Oh my god! It’s ringing! Stirred from my stupor, I start frantically rummaging underneath the blanket. I snatch it up. Please god let it be Amy!

  ‘So how was India?’

  It’s Diana, my agent.

  Disappointment stabs the hope in my chest like a balloon, and the air escapes from my lungs with a heavy sigh. Where do I begin? ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Oh my god, I’ve always wanted to go there,’ she continues her rapid-fire dialogue. Diana is famous for her ruthless editing and she approaches telephone conversations like manuscripts, striking through polite introductions and hesitant answers with a verbal marker pen. ‘Was it just totally amazing?’

  I can hear Diana walking down the street, her stiletto heels hitting the concrete pavement, the bustling, urban sounds of twenty-first century New York in the background. It’s so surreal. Sitting here on my antique four-poster bed, wrapped up in a hand-embroidered blanket and the still quietness of a 300-year-old haveli, I don’t just feel like I’m in a different country, I feel like I’ve travelled back in time. ‘Yes, it’s amazing,’ I agree.

  ‘So when did you get back?’

  ‘Well that’s the thing . . .’ I reply. ‘I’m not . . . Back, that is.’

  There’s a loud honking of horns. ‘Hey! Watch where you’re driving, mister! It’s my right of way!’ yells Diane above the din. ‘I swear, one of these days me and that crosstown bus are gonna come to blows. Every time I leave the goddam office it’s . . . Wait – what do you mean you’re not back? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m still in India,’ I shout, holding the phone away from my ear slightly so I’m not deafened.

  ‘What are you doing still in India?’ she exclaims. ‘I told you to take a vacation, not move there!’ She breaks off and I hear her take a sharp intake of breath. For a split second I think there’s been an accident with that crosstown bus, then, ‘Oh Jeez, you haven’t gone all Eat, Pray, Love on me, have you?’

  Despite everything, I can’t stop myself smiling. I can almost see her shuddering on East 56th and Lexington. ‘No, don’t worry,’ I reassure her quickly. ‘It’s just a bit complicated.’

  ‘Oh my god, that means you’ve met a guy!’

  ‘What? No!’ I protest hurriedly. I haven’t had a chance to tell her about Amy yet, or what happened to me on the train, or anything. I don’t even want to mention Jack. He’s not important.

  ‘Seriously? There’s no guy?’

  I don’t think I’ve heard her sound this disappointed since she lost out in a bidding war for an erotic bonkbuster about a female vampire and a wizard. Apparently the sadomasochistic sex scenes involving a giant head of garlic and a magic wand were quite something.

  ‘Well, yes, there is,’ I admit reluctantly, ‘but it’s not about that—’

  ‘It’s always about a guy,’ she counters.

  ‘No, it’s about my little sister,’ I correct her firmly. ‘I was with her in Goa, you see, and she met this yoga instructor and they eloped to Rajasthan, so I ran after her. Well, I didn’t run, I got on a train . . .’ As I start running through everything that’s happened in the last couple of days, I suddenly realise it’s more than I’ve done in the last twelve months. ‘But I had all my things stolen, so this American guy said I could hitch a ride with him, which is why I’ve been in a car for two days, travelling across India trying to find her.’

  ‘So what’s he like?’

  I stare at my phone in disbelief. Is she not listening to a word I’ve been saying? ‘Look, I don’t want to talk about Jack—’

  ‘Great name,’ she says approvingly.

  ‘You think so?’ I reply, distracted for a moment to reflect upon it, before suddenly catching myself. ‘Honestly, I really don’t want to talk about him—’

  ‘Oh my god, this is great!’ she exclaims, ignoring my pleas. ‘You like someone!’

  ‘I don’t like him, like him,’ I correct, quickly putting her straight. ‘I fancy him, it’s different.’

  ‘Is it?’ she replies dubiously.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say firmly.

  ‘How so?’ she demands. ‘Please explain, I’m American, we don’t do this fancying business.’

  ‘I’m attracted to him but I don’t want a relationship with him,’ I say simply. ‘It’s purely a physical thing. This isn’t about his personality; in fact I don’t even like his personality most of the time. And I’m not remotely interested in getting to know him and spending time with him—’

  ‘Didn’t you just say you’ve spent two days in a car with him?’ she points out.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I bristle. ‘There’s no romance.’

  ‘I don’t know. Travelling across India with a dark handsome stranger sounds pretty romantic from where I’m standing,’ she says archly.

  ‘It’s lust. Not love,’ I say firmly. ‘Like I said, I don’t believe in all that.’

  ‘Well, in that case, you need to get yourself some lust,’ she says decisively.

  ‘I can’t do that!’ I gasp.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not that kind of girl,’ I protest, albeit a little hypocritically, considering I’ve been having sexual fantasies about Jack all day. Still, having fantasies are one thing, doing something about them is entirely different.

  ‘When was the last time you had sex?’

  I balk. I have a very close relationship with my agent – in fact, to be honest, it’s more personal than professional. Even so, this is a little too personal. ‘It’s been a while,’ I say vaguely.

  ‘A while!’ she snorts. ‘There must be cobwebs down there!’

  I recoil in shock. I’ve always loved Diana’s honesty, but there’s honesty and . . . cobwebs? ‘Eww,’ I cringe, burying my face in my blanket.

  ‘Well seriously, you need to use it or lose it!’

  Worry pricks. I venture gingerly out from the safety of my blanket. ‘You can’t lose it . . . can you?’

  ‘Muscl
es atrophy,’ she warns me darkly.

  There’s a pause as I digest this information. Then:

  ‘I still can’t,’ I say resolutely.

  ‘This is the twenty-first century, of course you can!’ she cries. ‘There’s nothing wrong with having no-strings-attached sex. Think of it like going to the gym. You’re just exercising different muscles.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand, he’s with a girl.’

  ‘What girl?’ she demands.

  ‘Another tourist we met. He’s sitting with her in the bar downstairs.’

  ‘So what?’ she snorts dismissively. ‘You get yourself down there!’

  ‘She’s a bikini model.’

  There’s dead silence on the other end of the line. All I can hear is traffic honking in the background, though to be honest it might as well be tumbleweed blowing. For the first time ever, my unflappable agent has been rendered speechless.

  ‘A bikini model?’ she repeats finally in a hushed voice.

  It would appear these are three words that will strike fear into any woman. Even my scary agent Diana.

  ‘Plus-size?’ she adds hopefully.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ I reply flatly.

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to dazzle him with your sparkling wit and personality,’ she encourages, quickly recovering.

  ‘Thanks Diana,’ I say gratefully.

  ‘Either that or get him completely drunk and pounce on him.’

  I raise a smile underneath my blanket.

  ‘That’s what I did with Eric, my first husband. It took three whisky sours and a very dirty martini . . .’ She breaks off and laughs throatily. Diana has one of the filthiest laughs I’ve ever heard. ‘I’m not kidding, what have you got to lose?’

  ‘My self-respect?’

  ‘Totally overrated,’ she fires back.

  I raise another smile.

  ‘OK, well look sweetie, I’ve got to go into a meeting, but remember I’m your agent, you need to do as I say.’