The Love Detective

by Alexandra Potter

  He turns over. I can feel his breath, warm against my cheek. Even though our bodies aren’t touching, just the presence of him next to me is electrifying. I swallow hard. It sounds so loud in the quiet and I try to steady myself. I shouldn’t be thinking like this. What about his one-night stand with Cindy? I try to focus, but all thoughts of Cindy have flown out of the window. It’s as if she doesn’t exist – no one else exists. It’s just the two of us now: me and Jack and no one else.

  My heart is hammering so loudly I’m sure Jack can hear it. It’s been such a long time since I’ve shared my bed with a man, I feel like a tightly wound spring. We’re here, together, alone, out in the desert, in the middle of Rajasthan . . . the setting is so wildly erotic, I feel like something’s going to happen, I can tell he feels like something’s going to happen—

  ‘Ruby?’ His voice is almost a whisper.

  ‘Yes?’ Mine is barely audible.

  I’m aware of his body moving closer. Even though we’re not touching, I’m heady with desire. I hold my breath; the air hangs, suspended in that moment before something happens . . .

  Suddenly there’s a commotion outside and a figure appears through the tent flap.

  ‘Rocky?’ I gasp, as he stands silhouetted by the moon in the doorway. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Jack jerks himself up on his elbows.

  ‘Yes, yes, everything is wonderful,’ he beams happily, ‘but I must ask you something . . .’ He breaks off and I notice him sway unsteadily on his feet. ‘There is no room in Mohan’s tent . . . He has some local men who helped with the car . . .’

  As we both realise where this is leading, there’s a palpable sense of something sinking. I think it’s both our hearts.

  ‘Of course . . .’

  ‘You must sleep here.’

  We both speak at the same time, our words toppling over each other in our eagerness to make Rocky feel welcome. And our haste to show the other person there’s no sense of disappointment; that there were never any thoughts entertained of any other kind, whatsoever.

  ‘There are extra blankets,’ Jack is saying now.

  ‘And here’s a cushion,’ I add.

  ‘Oh thank you . . . you are so kind . . . thank you.’ Thanking us profusely, Rocky stumbles into the tent.

  I listen to him staggering around, tripping over things. And I thought I was clumsy. I hear a loud hiccup and suddenly, without any warning, he lurches forwards and lands like a dead weight, slap bang in the middle of us.

  I let out a gasp. ‘What the—?’

  ‘I think someone’s had one too many beers,’ says Jack, flicking on his torch and shining it on Rocky, who’s lying flat on his back, completely passed out. I don’t know about a match-maker, he’s a total passion killer.

  We look at each other, not knowing what to do, both knowing there’s nothing we can do. Apart from try to get some sleep. Jack shrugs then switches off the torch. We both settle back down.

  At least it’s quiet, I try to console myself, I’ll be able to get some sleep.

  For a few moments it’s silent, then Rocky’s breath starts to deepen, growing gradually louder and louder until – with one large inhale – there’s a rattling snore.

  Oh no. Please no.

  I wait on tenterhooks as he exhales . . . then there’s another rattling snore. Louder, this time than the last.

  Argh. Grabbing my cushion, I pull it round my ears. It’s going to be a long night and, sadly, I realise, not in the way I’d hoped.

  Chapter 31

  Last night I had a sex dream.

  Usually I just have ones about finding myself naked in the town centre, or sitting my exams without having done any swotting or, worst of all, the one where my teeth fall out. And not just fall out, but get stuck in sandwiches, or crumble away as I’m trying to talk and the whole time I’m valiantly trying to stuff them back in . . .

  Apparently they’re all classic anxiety dreams. I obviously have a lot of anxiety. Which isn’t surprising. I mean, I don’t need an expert in dream analysis to tell me that if I spend the whole night having my teeth fall out, I’m going to wake up feeling anxious.

  But not this morning. This morning I wake up feeling vaguely excited and hover in that lovely woozy place between sleeping and being fully conscious. Images and feelings waft back to me. Tangled sheets . . . naked limbs . . . desire . . . A delicious shiver tingles up my spine as the emotions wash over me like waves. Kissing . . . stroking . . . being spooned by a warm body behind me . . .

  Wait a minute.

  That’s not a dream. I am being spooned by a warm body behind me.

  Stirred from slumber, my heart goes from nought to about sixty in less than a second. I feel a sudden thrill. And pleasure. It feels nice, really nice. I get a flashback of Jack last night taking off his clothes, and feel ridiculously horny. I try to lie very still, I don’t want to wake him, but it’s hard to resist. Ever so slightly, I wiggle my bum into him a bit more. There, that’s better, now I can feel his warm breath on my ear.

  With his body next to mine, I stay like that for a moment, relishing the closeness. Then, without making a noise, and feeling like a child sneaking a peek at their Christmas presents, I surreptitiously peep over my shoulder . . .

  And come face-to-face with Rocky, who’s sound asleep.

  Oh my god! I take a sharp intake of breath. I’m spooning Rocky! Or is he spooning me? And does it matter who is spooning whom?

  We’re all spooning each other!

  With horror I look past Rocky’s shoulder, and spot Jack, blissfully curled up behind him, his arms entwined around Rocky’s waist.

  ‘Jack! Wake up!’ I bark, jumping upright out of bed.

  Rocky rolls over and lets out a loud moan.

  ‘Uh . . . wassup?’ Blearily opening his eyes, Jack takes a moment to focus, and then when he does: ‘Jesus! I thought that was you!’

  ‘And I thought that was you!’

  Jerking bolt upright, Jack stares at me in disbelief, then together we both swivel our eyes to look at Rocky, who’s lying there, blissfully sleeping like a baby. Well, that is if babies have tufts of white hair, spectacles askew and mouths that hang wide open, drooling.

  Jack digs Rocky roughly in the ribs and he lets out a loud snort that only serves to fire up the snoring again, rather like giving a motorbike a kick-start. He elbows him even harder.

  ‘Huh?’ Rocky’s eyes flicker open, roll into the back of his head then, seeming to think better of it, come back again. Finally they focus on us. ‘Miss Ruby . . . Boss . . .’ he croaks in a raspy voice.

  ‘Do you think he’s ill?’ I whisper, shooting a panicked look at Jack.

  ‘Ill?’ frowns Jack. ‘No, he’s hungover!’ He points at the empty whisky bottle on the side and gives him another shove with his elbow.

  Rocky starts coughing loudly, clutching his head and rolling around.

  ‘Oh god, he sounds terrible!’ I gasp.

  ‘And I’m sure he feels terrible,’ says Jack, grimly.

  ‘My head, my head,’ Rocky moans, wobbling into an upright position of sorts and pressing the heels of his palms onto his forehead.

  ‘Would you like some water?’ I suggest, grabbing a spare bottle.

  Rocky doesn’t reply; instead he lets out a noise that sounds like a wounded animal, then flops back down onto the blankets.

  ‘Oh dear.’ I shoot Jack a look. ‘What are we going to do?’

  Climbing out of bed, Jack reaches for his clothes and I see he’s only wearing shorts. I catch a flash of his body. Strong thighs. Muscular, tanned chest. Flexing biceps. I quickly avert my eyes.

  ‘Rocky, listen, it’s me. Jack.’

  I look back to see he’s crouched down next to him. His earlier annoyance has disappeared and there’s a concerned expression on his face. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

  There’s silence, but for the sounds of faint moaning. ‘A new head, boss,’ Rocky groans, lifting his barely an inch
off the cushion, before it collapses back down again.

  ‘’Fraid I can’t get you one of those,’ smiles Jack good-naturedly.

  Rocky smiles weakly, then suddenly clutches his stomach.

  ‘Oh no,’ I gasp, recognising the warning signs, ‘I think he’s going to be—’

  Too late. A loud retching noise fills the air as Rocky throws himself over the side of the mattress.

  ‘I guess a bucket might have been more handy,’ winces Jack.

  Hand clamped across my mouth, I stare in horror. ‘Poor Rocky, he’s so ill,’ I mumble, behind the parapet of my fingers. ‘He’s probably not used to drinking.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ nods Jack, raising his eyebrows.

  As Rocky finishes being sick, he rolls back onto the mattress and closes his eyes. In the distance there’s the sound of a cock crowing.

  ‘What time is it?’ asks Jack, turning to me.

  I glance at my watch and see the time: five thirty a.m. ‘We need to leave!’ I cry, suddenly panicked. ‘We need to get to Udaipur before the shop opens.’

  We both turn to look at Rocky, who’s now fallen fast asleep again.

  ‘OK, well, first things first, let me find out if the tyre’s fixed,’ says Jack calmly, taking control of the situation. ‘Wait here a minute, I’ll be right back.’

  He disappears out of the tent, and I pull a spare blanket around my shoulders to stave off the early morning cold, then busy myself trying to tidy up around Rocky. A few times I try to wake him to make him drink water, but apart from a few sips, he lies comatose.

  Jack returns a few minutes later with a big thumbs-up. ‘All fixed, you’ll be pleased to know,’ he grins.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness.’ I feel a rush of relief. For a moment there I thought we might get stuck in the desert after all.

  ‘Yeah, the boys from the local village did a good job; the car’s back on the road and ready to go.’

  ‘Great,’ I beam. ‘And I’m all done in here,’ I gesture to the folded blankets.

  ‘Which leaves . . .’ Trailing off, Jack motions towards a snoring Rocky.

  ‘I don’t think he’s fit to drive,’ I venture.

  Jack grins, despite the situation. ‘A slight understatement,’ he nods, ‘though I’m not sure you can get a DUI here . . . “Driving under the influence”,’ he explains, seeing my puzzled look.

  ‘So what shall we do?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s only one thing we can do.’

  Fifteen minutes and lots of huffing and puffing later, Rocky is stretched out on the back seat of the Ambassador, still fast asleep.

  ‘Phew, well, at least that bit’s done,’ says Jack, closing the passenger door.

  I nod, still winded from having to lug Rocky out of the tent. Mohan had kindly offered to help, but to be honest he looked to be in the same fragile state as Rocky. ‘Great,’ I pant, catching my breath. ‘The sun has risen but it’s still early and if we get going now, we should be there before the shop opens.’

  ‘OK, well let’s go,’ nods Jack.

  Waving our thank-yous and goodbyes, we turn and reach for the door handle. And crash into each other.

  ‘Wrong side, they drive on the left here,’ I laugh. I feel a buzz of happiness. Finally, after all this time and all these setbacks, I’ve made it. I’ve found my sister, and in only a few hours I’ll be with her in Udaipur. ‘This is the passenger side.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ nods Jack.

  I realise his fingers are still curled tightly around the door handle. How odd.

  ‘The driver’s side is that side,’ I clarify. Well, it is early; he’s obviously getting mixed up.

  ‘I know,’ he nods again.

  All at once, I feel a doubt start to creep in around the edges.

  ‘What do you mean, you know?’ I ask, frowning, though for some reason I already know I’m not going to want the answer to this question.

  ‘You’re driving,’ he replies.

  I knew I wouldn’t want the answer.

  As his words register, I stare at him in disbelief. ‘What do you mean I’m . . .’ I break off. ‘Oh ha-ha, this is one of your jokes,’ I smile, suddenly getting it. ‘You know how terrified I am of the roads, you thought you’d pull my leg.’ Playfully shoving him away, I push the button on the handle to release the door and tug it open.

  Only Jack doesn’t move. In fact, he’s still holding stubbornly onto the door handle. Actually, make that hanging on to the door handle.

  ‘I don’t drive a stick.’

  I look at him blankly. ‘A stick?’

  ‘I’m American,’ he says simply. ‘We drive automatics.’

  ‘You mean, this isn’t a joke?’ Anxiety knots.

  Jack shakes his head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘You don’t know how to change gears?’

  Jacks shakes his head again.

  ‘Or use the clutch?’

  And again.

  I feel my mouth go dry. This is my worst nightmare. My biggest fear: I’m going to have to drive.

  ‘Oh fuck.’

  There’s a famous book entitled Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. It’s an international bestseller and over twenty-five years has sold millions of copies, changing millions of people’s lives. Personally I’ve never read it and now I will probably never need to as I’m feeling the fear and doing it anyway and I’m absolutely terrified.

  Ten minutes later and we’re on the road. Such an innocuous phrase – ‘we’re on the road’. It sounds so casual and harmless, as if one should be having a jolly old time on a day trip down to the coast, driving along playing I-spy and eating sausage rolls. Not white-knuckling the steering wheel, rigid with fear, eyes staring straight ahead, dodging camels and trucks and rickshaws.

  And stray dogs that run out in front of you, causing you to swerve, slam on the brakes and your heart to jump into your mouth as the gears crunch and scream.

  ‘Argh, where’s second?’ I screech, along with the gears.

  ‘Um . . . after first?’ suggests Jack, from the safety of the passenger seat.

  Well, I say safety, but judging by these roads and my driving, that’s open to debate.

  I shoot him a look. ‘Listen, smarty-pants—’

  ‘Look out!’ he yells, as I take my eyes off the road for a second and a bus appears from nowhere.

  I pull down sharply on the steering wheel and veer out of its path.

  ‘Argghh . . .’ we both shriek loudly as it hurtles past us, its horn blasting.

  ‘Jeez, Ruby!’ Clinging onto his seat, Jack turns to me, ashen-faced. ‘The roads here are crazy, maybe you should try slowing down.’

  ‘I can’t slow down,’ I say determinedly, above the whirr of the engine. ‘I’ve got to get to Udaipur before the shop opens. There’s no time to lose.’

  I stare fixedly ahead at the road, my jaw clenched tightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel Jack still looking at me. ‘Great manoeuvre, by the way,’ he nods approvingly, after a few moments.

  ‘Thanks,’ I shrug and, feeling a faint swell of pride, I press my foot back on the accelerator and we race on ahead.

  But it’s not just the roads; the car itself is also taking a bit of getting used to. Compared to driving my parent’s zippy new Renault, the thirty-year-old Ambassador feels heavy and solid – apparently its nickname is ‘The White Elephant’ – but it’s also surprisingly fast and powerful. In fact, the accelerator seems to have a mind of its own, as does the horn, which makes me jump out of my skin every time I have to use it. Oh my god, this is awful. My nerves are frayed. I don’t know if I can do this.

  And yet, as we speed along the highway, the engine roaring loudly, the desire to get to Udaipur to save my sister propelling me forwards, something odd starts to happen. It’s as if a strange sort of transformation begins to come over me. Gradually my fears start to recede. I start feeling less jumpy. Not as scared. More in control. I feel my confidence growing . . .

  Fast-forward to three hours
later, and the terrified scaredy-cat who had to cover her eyes and clung to the back seat of the tuk-tuk on the ride from Goa Airport is long gone. Now I’m behind the wheel in the driver’s seat, my eyes wide open and my hand permanently on the horn. Changing gears and revving hard, I’m swerving in and out of traffic, overtaking tuk-tuks and careering around cows like I’ve been doing this for years. Jenson Button, eat your heart out!

  Finally, after several hours’ driving, we arrive on the outskirts of Udaipur. As we race into town, the little white car negotiating the tiny streets, we catch our first glimpse of the shimmering lake that stretches out before us. After the long, dusty drive, it’s like a mirage. Beautiful.

  Wow.

  But we don’t have time to stop and take in the view; I have to find the shop and my sister and, armed with the address, we take off down a small side street.

  ‘According to Google maps it should be first left,’ instructs Jack, peering at his iPhone.

  I swing a hard left and I hear a groan from the back seat as Rocky is thrown sideways. It’s the first noise I’ve heard from him the whole journey, so I take it as a good sign, rather than a cause for concern, and keep driving.

  We pass lots of little shops that are starting to open, shopkeepers sweeping steps, dusting off their awnings and putting out their wares. We slow down as we weave through the crooked maze of higgledy-piggledy streets and race across the bridge.

  ‘OK, now take a right,’ instructs Jack.

  I do as I’m told. I have to say, we make rather a good team, him reading the map, me driving. It makes a nice change, this role reversal. Turning in to the small narrow street, I see the shop sign straight ahead.

  ‘Bingo!’ I exclaim, thrilled. I pull up quickly. ‘Good job with the directions.’

  ‘Good job driving,’ says Jack, impressed.

  Smiling, I turn off the engine and throw him the keys. ‘I’ve done the driving, you can take care of him,’ I gesture to the back seat. ‘I’m going to get my sister.’

  Leaving Jack to take care of Rocky in the car, I take the steps in one leap and push open the door. The shop is already open, and as I enter it’s like walking into an Aladdin’s cave of shimmering golds and reds, vibrant pinks, sapphire blues and luminous emerald greens. Walls are lined with roll upon roll of fabric, stacked from floor to ceiling in an array of dazzling colours, whilst hanging from racks are a glittering display of exquisitely embellished ready-made garments.