The Love Detective

by Alexandra Potter

  Right OK, I can do that.

  ‘Thank you, but I’m going to think about it,’ I say politely, hanging the jacket back up.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ he frowns.

  Oh no, I’ve insulted him. ‘Yes,’ I say hastily, before quickly remembering. ‘I mean, maybe,’ I correct myself. Actually, this isn’t as easy as it sounds. ‘But I’m going to take a wander around,’ I add, doing my best to sound nonchalant.

  Throwing him what I hope is a confident smile, I slowly mosey over to the stall next door, only I can see immediately that they don’t have any jackets like that one. That jacket was really nice.

  ‘How much do you want to pay?’ demands the stallholder, following me with the jacket. He thrusts it at me with a flourish. ‘Give me a good price.’

  Rule number three: Begin by offering half the asking price. The seller will not accept this but it’s a good starting point.

  I gesture to his calculator and as he hands it to me, I hesitate. I’m not sure I’ve got the nerve for this. I look at the stallholder. He strokes his beard and stares back at me. I stare back nervously. It’s a Mexican stand-off, India stallholder-style. Plucking up courage, I punch in a number and hand it back to him.

  There’s a loud explosion as he snorts violently. ‘No, this is impossible,’ he thunders, throwing his hands in the air.

  Startled, I jump a mile. Oh god, this was a terrible idea, I’m not cut out for this. I’m a chicken.

  Plus, I really like that jacket.

  Rule number four: Be prepared to walk away. You’ll find that most sellers will lower their final price if you’re prepared to leave empty-handed.

  ‘Goodbye Mohamed,’ I smile, giving the stallholder a wave.

  ‘Goodbye Ruby,’ he beams, tucking my wad of rupees in his pocket.

  Fifteen minutes and two cups of chai later, I’ve learned all about Mohamed’s family, met his lovely wife, and seen pictures of all his ten children, who go down in size like Russian dolls. And we’ve struck a deal for the jacket. OK, so it wasn’t anywhere near half price and no doubt I could find one a lot cheaper somewhere else later on, but you know what? I don’t care. I can’t haggle, I’m rubbish at it.

  Plus, when I realised the few rupees I was haggling over were the equivalent of the cost of a cappuccino at Starbucks, it all seemed a bit ridiculous.

  ‘You look very good,’ nods Mohamed approvingly. ‘It is an excellent jacket, it will keep you very warm.’

  ‘Thanks. I love it,’ I smile broadly. ‘And thank you for the tea.’

  ‘It is my most double welcome,’ he nods cheerfully, giving the end of his beard a twirl. ‘Come back soon and drink tea with me again.’

  Smiling happily, I leave my new friend and continue on through the maze of stalls. The sprawling bazaar has everything you could possibly need, be it new clothes or your sandals fixing by a little man with a sewing machine, who deftly and quickly stitches the straps tighter to stop them slipping off my feet. I soon find myself loaded down with much-needed basics such as underwear and toiletries, a pair of jeans and trainers – which have neither the designer label or the price tag, and the only T-shirt I can find that doesn’t have a picture of the Taj Mahal on the front.

  I even manage to find a stall selling make-up, around which are clustered dozens of Indian women, in the exact same way their British counterparts cluster around the cosmetics counters at Selfridges, where I buy a lipstick and some kohl for my eyes.

  And I would probably have bought a whole lot more if I hadn’t been distracted by the most gorgeous fragrance. Following my nostrils, I find an old man with dozens of glass decanters filled with perfumed oils. Musk. Sandalwood. Amber. He patiently dabs them on my wrist, each one more divine than the next.

  I leave with several little bottles and, feeling much more cheered up with all my purchases, glance at my watch. I should probably start heading back now, I decide, turning around to find my path blocked by a pair of hands.

  ‘Mehndi,’ urges a woman, her palms outstretched.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I reply, not understanding.

  ‘Henna,’ she says, gesturing to her hands.

  I glance down at them, and it’s then I notice she has the most amazingly decorated hands. Elaborate swirls and intricate designs of dots and flowers form a beautiful pattern all over her palms and fingers. ‘Henna,’ she repeats, reaching for mine. She holds out a small bottle.

  ‘Oh, no thank you,’ I smile, shaking my head, ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Very pretty,’ she continues, still holding my hands in hers.

  Caught, I take another look at them. They are gorgeous. ‘OK,’ I nod, before I can stop myself, and as she ushers me to sit down, I feel a flutter of anticipation and excitement. I’m never going to have a bikini body, but I am going to have beautiful hands.

  An hour or so later, I arrive back at the haveli to find Jack waiting by the car with Rocky, who’s under the bonnet.

  ‘Perfect timing,’ Jack smiles, ‘I just got back from the fort.’

  ‘How was it?’ I ask casually. Now the initial shock has worn off, I’m totally cool about everything.

  ‘Pretty impressive,’ he nods, ‘it’s one of the finest Mughal forts in India. It’s a shame you couldn’t come.’

  I try to look regretful. ‘I know, what a pity, but I had to do a few errands.’

  ‘Like shopping?’ He raises his eyebrows at the bulging assortment of bags I’m carrying in the crooks of my elbows.

  ‘Oh, these?’ I say with surprise, as if I didn’t know how they’d got there. ‘It’s just a few basics,’ I shrug dismissively. Why is it women always feel they have to fib to men about how much they’ve bought?

  ‘What happened to your hands?’ he frowns.

  ‘Henna,’ I reply, holding up my palms and showing them off proudly. Painted in an intricate pattern, they’re still covered in the henna paste. ‘I just have to wait for it to dry. Apparently it takes a few hours, but then you wash it off and underneath you have this gorgeous design.’

  Thwack.

  The car bonnet suddenly slams shut and we both turn to see Rocky revealed. ‘OK boss,’ he nods, wiping his hands on an oily rag. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘We’re leaving right now?’ I ask, feeling a rattle of excitement and anticipation. Suddenly the idea of finding Amy seems much closer to a reality.

  ‘Yes, we are leaving,’ smiles Rocky.

  ‘Great,’ smiles Jack, then turns to me. ‘You got everything?’

  I hesitate. Damn. I really wanted to get changed into some clean clothes before we set off but I can’t, as my hands haven’t dried yet. ‘Um, yes. Thanks,’ I smile, as he helps unhook my purchases from my arms and deposit them in the boot. At least there’s one advantage of having your bags stolen: no packing.

  ‘Cool,’ he nods, slamming it shut and sliding onto the back seat.

  I slide in next to him. ‘So, er, has Cindy gone?’ I ask nonchalantly.

  I said I was cool with it, I didn’t say I wasn’t human.

  ‘Yeah, she left on her tour,’ he replies, equally nonchalantly.

  As Rocky starts up the engine, we both turn to look out of our windows.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ says Jack, glancing across at me.

  ‘Oh, um . . . no reason,’ I say casually.

  He gives me a long hard look, then shrugs. ‘All right,’ he says, glancing away again.

  After a few seconds, Jack puts in his earphones and starts listening to music and I turn back to gaze out of my window. The car rumbles out onto the open road and, as the outskirts of town give way to countryside, I feel a sudden sense of optimism. Of moving forwards and leaving things behind.

  Finally, I feel as though things are starting to go right.

  Chapter 24

  The next thing I know, I’m being woken by the sound of a door slamming. ‘Uh . . . what . . . where are we . . . ?’ I say groggily, peering out of the window. City walls, painted a bright flamingo pink, swim before me and
I try lifting my head. Ow. I’ve got a crick in my neck from the way I’ve been sleeping.

  ‘Jaipur, the capital city of Rajasthan.’

  It’s Rocky’s voice. Blearily I open my eyes to see the car is parked up at the side of the road, and Rocky is in the front seat, a newspaper spread out over the steering wheel. Slowly turning my head, I glance sideways. The back seat is empty. ‘Where’s Jack?’ I ask, letting out a yawn.

  ‘He had to go to the men’s room,’ he says, still engrossed in his paper.

  At the mention of the toilet, I feel my bladder twinge. I need to go too. I hesitate, struck by a thought: damn, we only have one loo roll and Jack will have taken it. Followed by another one: how on earth could Diana think this car journey was even remotely romantic. Followed by: oh no, look, it’s here!

  Discovering our shared loo roll wedged down the side of the seat, I pull it out triumphantly. Brilliant. That’s a relief. Though it’s also a bit odd, I wonder why he left it? I stop that train of thought before it goes any further. I really don’t need to go there.

  ‘I’m just going to go to the ladies’ room,’ I tell Rocky, spotting a petrol station across the road. The twinge has now intensified. How is it that you can switch from not needing to go, to suddenly bursting? Wincing, I quickly reach for the door handle.

  ‘Do you need me to accompany you?’ he offers, looking up from the paper, but I’m already out of the door.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say quickly, ‘I won’t be a mo—’

  By the time I’ve made it across the road I’m ready to burst. Thankfully there is a toilet and it’s empty. I dash inside. It’s a tiny cubicle and the light’s broken, but it’s a real loo and they even have paper. Oh, I’m so happy. I can sit down and everything. I feel a beat of relief . . . and amazement at how in just over a week, things I’ve taken for granted my whole life now feel like such a luxury. Which makes me wonder . . . if such a little thing as loo paper can seem like a luxury, just how many other things do I take for granted?

  A few minutes later, I head back outside. After the smaller towns we’ve driven through, Jaipur feels like a city. Fast and furious, it’s a melting pot of old and new. Neon signs hang from ancient buildings. Women in traditional saris and headscarves mingle with girls in skinny jeans and designer sunglasses. Old men on bicycle-rickshaws share the road with shiny, expensive four-wheel drives driven by men with mobile phones glued to their ears.

  On the way back to the car, I stop to buy a few things for the journey from a little hole-in-the-wall, which has a sign pinned up declaring proudly, ‘Small Shop, But Many Things’. It’s not wrong. Every available inch is piled high with a million different items; in fact, everything I’ll probably ever need is in that tiny shop.

  So it feels like a bit of a shame to just ask for a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits.

  ‘Is that all?’ asks the vendor, looking disappointed. ‘I have many things.’

  I smile apologetically and add a couple more packets of biscuits to try and make it up to him, before turning to cross back to the car.

  Which is when I see Jack.

  He’s much further along the road and for a moment I’m not sure if it’s him or not, but no, it’s definitely him. He’s standing outside a shop, shaking the hand of a smartly dressed man. I pause to watch him, curious. What’s he doing? I thought he’d gone to the men’s room? I try to read the sign above the store, but the sun is shining in my eyes and without my sunglasses or a free hand to shade them, it’s difficult to make it out. I squint in the brightness until finally I manage to decipher the letters:

  Jaipur Fine Jewellery

  What’s he doing in a jeweller’s? As the thought strikes, it’s as if the audio-tape in my head rewinds back to the phone conversation I overheard last night and someone presses ‘play’. He was talking about missing an appointment in Jaipur, about rescheduling, it was just before he mentioned me . . . Abruptly my train of thought stalls.

  Ruby.

  I feel a flash of embarrassment.

  Of course. Jaipur is famous for its incredible jewels. Jack wasn’t talking about me at all; that wasn’t my name he mentioned. He was talking about a ruby, the gemstone.

  Suddenly it dawns on me that I know very little about Jack. OK, so he told me he was an architect, but that’s about it. When I asked him why he was in India, he just said something about a promise. I watch as he shakes hands with the man in the business suit, my curiosity piqued.

  Thinking about it now, there’s a lot that doesn’t add up. Why would he be travelling alone in India? Something tells me he’s not on holiday, and with his expensive gold watch and cashmere jumper, he’s not just some backpacker. And what was he doing on the train? If he can afford his own driver, he can afford an internal flight, so why wouldn’t he just fly to Delhi? The train journey was over thirty hours, plus he seems to be in a rush to get to Udaipur. Which begs the question, why? What’s in Udaipur? Why does he need to go there?

  No sooner have these questions flashed through my mind, than my imagination starts running wild. Oh my god, what if he’s some kind of jewel smuggler? What if he’s trading in precious gemstones and that’s why he was on the train, as he can’t go through airport security? What if he’s involved in some kind of international crime ring and now I’m implicated as an accomplice because I’m travelling with him? What if—

  Oh for god’s sake, Ruby, you’ve watched too many thrillers.

  Sharply, I grab hold of my imagination by the scruff of its neck. Calm down and don’t be so ridiculous. You’re getting completely carried away. There has to be a perfectly rational explanation.

  And I’m sure as hell going to find out.

  ‘Buy anything nice?’

  A few minutes later Jack opens the car door and slides onto the back seat next to me.

  ‘Sorry?’ He looks at me blankly.

  ‘I saw you coming out of the jeweller’s.’

  Well, there’s no point beating about the bush, is there?

  ‘You did?’ There’s a moment’s silence as he seems to absorb this. ‘It’s my mom’s birthday. I wanted to buy her some earrings,’ he says, after a pause.

  Which is a perfectly good reason to be in a jeweller’s.

  So why do I think he’s not telling the truth?

  ‘That’s nice,’ I smile, and then something inside me can’t resist asking, ‘Can I see them?’

  Jack seems to stiffen. ‘No, I’m, er, getting them shipped directly,’ he says quickly, ‘it’s much easier that way.’

  I knew it. He’s definitely lying.

  Taking a deep breath, I swallow hard. Right, that’s it. I’m just going to have it out with him. I might have an overactive imagination, but I’m not going to end up in some Indian jail as his unwitting accomplice. I’ve seen Midnight Express! OK, I know, so that’s Turkey and drug smuggling, but still, if Jack’s doing something illegal, I want to know about it.

  Squaring my shoulders, I turn my whole body towards him so we’re face-to-face.

  ‘Now, look, Jack,’ I begin gravely.

  ‘Holy Moly!’ he gasps. ‘What happened to your face?’

  Oh please. Like I’m going to fall for such an obvious attempt at changing the subject. ‘Why, what’s wrong with my face?’ I ask drily. Folding my arms, I challenge him with a look. I know my beauty routine is off, but I can’t look that bad, as earlier I put on a bit of eyeliner and some of that new moisturiser I bought at the market.

  ‘Maybe you should take a look in the mirror,’ suggests Jack.

  I roll my eyes impatiently. ‘Honestly, this is so ridiculous.’ Angling my body, I take a look in the rear-view mirror.

  And get the shock of my life.

  ‘Oh my god,’ I gasp with horror. One side of my face is completely covered by a huge black swirly pattern.

  ‘You look like you’ve had a tattoo,’ quips Jack.

  I shoot him a scowl. How can he joke at a time like this? ‘But how . . . ?’ I gasp, then catch si
ght of my hands, covered in henna, and all at once it falls into place – waking up to find myself leaning against the window, my chin resting on my elbow, my face all smushed up against the palm of my hand . . .

  ‘Miss Ruby, why do you have henna on your face?’ Hearing the commotion, Rocky has looked up from his newspaper and turned around in his driver’s seat. He stares at me, aghast.

  ‘I’m sure it will wash off,’ I say hastily, trying to reassure both him and myself.

  ‘No, I am afraid this is impossible,’ warns Rocky, shaking his head feverishly. He looks almost scared.

  ‘Really?’ I look to Jack for reassurance, but I can tell he’s finding this extremely amusing.

  ‘You gotta be kidding,’ he says, shaking his head, ‘that stuff stains for days.’

  What? I clutch my face in alarm. It’s all gone horribly wrong. After the whole Cindy episode, I just wanted to give myself a boost and look pretty and nice and now . . . now I look like I’ve had a facial tattoo? I feel like bursting into tears. ‘No, really, I’m sure,’ I fluster, digging around frantically in my pockets, ‘I just need a tissue.’

  ‘Here.’ Jack passes me the shared loo roll.

  ‘Don’t you dare laugh,’ I admonish, ‘this isn’t funny.’

  ‘I’m not laughing,’ he protests, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘Look, it could be worse.’

  ‘How it could be worse?’ I demand, frantically scrubbing at my cheek. I feel upset and furious with myself, and everyone. ‘Tell me! How?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’ll try and think of something,’ he tries to reassure me.

  Which only makes me even more annoyed.

  ‘Don’t bother!’ I snap, wishing I could flounce off and leave him and Rocky and everything behind. But I can’t. We’re on a road trip together. I’m stuck. We’re stuck. So I’m just going to have to be mature and grown-up about this, I tell myself firmly.

  ‘Just pretend I’m not here,’ I huff and, turning away from him, I stare determinedly out of the window.

  Or just be childish and ignore him. Whichever works best.