The Love Detective Page 4

  ‘Of course it’s not safe,’ she laughs. ‘This is India! Come on, get in!’

  I falter, then, putting aside my fears, I start trying to shoehorn my hand luggage into the back. Only, whilst my Samsonite carry-on might have been made to fit into the plane’s overhead lockers, the designers obviously haven’t given thought to the space in a tuk-tuk.

  ‘Damn, it won’t fit, we’ll have to get a cab instead,’ I say regretfully, whilst feeling secretly thrilled by the prospect. I take back my earlier David Attenborough fears. An air-conditioned cab seems like a much better option.

  But I hadn’t bargained on the driver’s determination not to lose a fare. Before I know it, he’s jumped out of the front seat and is shoving my luggage on the roof.

  ‘Is it going to be OK on there?’ I ask, somewhat anxiously, as he ties it on with a bit of string.

  ‘No problem,’ he beams, shooting me a blindingly white smile and swinging back behind the wheel. He motions for me to get in.

  ‘Because there are a few breakables,’ I continue, clambering onto the back seat behind my sister, who’s already hopped inside with the ease of someone for whom climbing into a tuk-tuk is now like jumping on a bus, ‘and I’m just a bit concerned—’

  The driver slams his foot on the gas and I’m catapulted forwards as the tuk-tuk accelerates off.

  ‘Ouch . . . oomf . . . sorry,’ I jabber, bashing my leg as I lose my balance and crash headfirst onto my sister’s lap.

  ‘Will you stop worrying!’ laughs Amy, as I resurface. ‘You’re on holiday!’

  ‘I know I’m on holiday,’ I nod, lurching onto the back seat and clinging on for dear life as we career around a corner. ‘It’s just . . . you know me . . . I don’t want my camera to break . . .’

  ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me you don’t have insurance?’ Amy gives a little snort of disbelief.

  I colour. I’m renowned for being prudent. I have insurance for insurance.

  ‘I’m just being careful, that’s all,’ I say, a little stiffly. ‘If you were a bit more careful, I wouldn’t always be having to . . . ow!’ We bounce over a pothole and hit our heads. I hear my luggage bang up and down on the roof.

  Amy stifles a giggle. ‘Well anyway, you’re going to be too busy doing yoga to be worrying about anything for a week,’ she replies.

  ‘Oh I don’t think so.’ Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘I’m terrible at yoga. You know me, I can’t even touch my toes.’

  ‘You will be able to after a week at Rising Bliss, it’s one of the best yoga retreats in Goa.’

  ‘A yoga retreat?’’ My laughter trails off and I peer at her uncertainly. ‘But I thought we were staying in a resort.’

  ‘Resort, retreat, what’s the difference?’ She gives a tinkly little laugh and for the first time I notice something glinting underneath her fringe.

  ‘What’s that?’ I ask, pointing to a little sparkly thing between her eyebrows.

  ‘My bindi,’ she shrugs nonchalantly.

  ‘Your bindi?’ This, from a girl who left Heathrow six months ago wearing skinny jeans and a Scouse brow and with her beloved hair straighteners carefully packed in her hand luggage.

  ‘I can get you one if you like,’ she offers.

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t think it would suit me.’

  ‘You need to chill out a bit, Rubes, let go of your negativity, open your chakras.’

  Oh god help us, my little sister’s gone all hippy on me.

  ‘My chakras are already open, thanks very much,’ I say, a little huffily.

  ‘Wait till you meet Shine, he’ll sort you out.’

  ‘Who’s Shine?’ I ask. ‘And, by the way, I don’t need sorting out.’

  ‘He’s the yoga instructor. He’s amazing,’ she gushes, going all limp-eyed.

  ‘Oh-oh, someone’s got a crush,’ I tease, in big sisterly fashion.

  But now it’s her turn to get all tetchy. ‘Don’t be a teenager,’ she says huffily, and changes the subject. ‘So how are Mum and Dad?’

  ‘Good, they’re driving down to France next week with the caravan,’ I nod, remembering the conversation I’d had with them at Heathrow this morning. Well, I call it a conversation, but it was mostly Mum running through a list of all the terrible things that can happen in India, from rabid dog attacks to tourists having their kidneys stolen. It ended with her saying if I needed a holiday, why didn’t I go with them to Brittany instead? Thankfully my flight started boarding and I was saved from answering. ‘It’s their anniversary at the end of the month,’ I add. ‘Thirty-five years. They’re going out for dinner with a few friends, I said we’d join them.’

  I’m expecting Amy to be all enthusiastic – being the baby of the family, she’s close to our parents. But instead she seems to hesitate.

  ‘Um . . . well, I’m not sure when I’m flying back . . . I can’t remember the date . . .’

  This is nothing new; despite Amy being able to carbon date a three-thousand-year-old Egyptian mummy with ease, when it comes to the modern day, she’s useless with dates. I’m always having to remind her of birthdays and anniversaries and even then she forgets and I end up signing her name on all my cards.

  ‘It’s next Saturday, I checked with Mum, she’s got your flight details.’

  ‘Oh . . . right, of course.’

  ‘I’ve booked myself on the same return flight as you, so we can travel together,’ I say cheerfully. ‘I got the last seat so I was really lucky.’

  ‘You did?’ replies Amy, but she doesn’t look as pleased as I’d expected. In fact, if I didn’t know her better, I’d think something was troubling her.

  But this is Amy we’re talking about. Nothing ever troubles her and, as if to prove me right, her face quickly relaxes back into her characteristic grin.

  ‘Brill,’ she enthuses, ‘Can’t wait!’

  Chapter 5

  Oh god. Are we nearly there yet?

  We’ve been on our way now for about forty-five minutes, bumping along narrow dusty roads through towns and villages, narrowly avoiding wild pigs, goats, stray dogs, even people. And I’m not liking this. I’m really not liking it at all.

  Oh, who am I kidding? I’m absolutely terrified.

  Gripping my sister’s hand so tightly I’m probably going to cut off her circulation, I try to steady my thudding heart. I’m all for new experiences, but driving in India is something else. Forget pedestrian crossings, pavements, even traffic sticking to their side of the road, it’s like a game of fairground dodgems. Cars, tuk-tuks, motorbikes, trucks, all swerving around each other, in one constantly flowing insanity. It’s a miracle everything doesn’t collapse into one big pile-up, I wince, as we narrowly miss another crash.

  And then there are the horns. Everyone has their hand on one, our driver included; there’s constant honking and blasting at everyone and everything to get out of the way. It’s like being in the loudest club I’ve ever been in, and then multiplying it by a thousand. My eardrums are pounding. My nerves are shredded. My eyes are . . .

  Argh . . .

  As the tuk-tuk swerves violently to avoid a couple of cows, I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. There are cows everywhere. I read a bit of my guidebook on the plane and it explained how, because they are sacred to Hindus, cows are allowed to roam freely. Not having to stay stuck in a field, they can stand anywhere they want, go anywhere they want, do anything they want. It’s as if they’ve been given a VIP all-access pass. Unlike in the West, where they’re just walking beefburgers, here they’re worshipped, revered, untouchable.

  Opening my eyes I see a couple of tourists taking their photograph . . .

  . . . and a great big truck heading towards us – Fuck!

  Finally, after the hair-raising, white-knuckle ride, we pull up outside where I’m staying for a week. At least, I presume it’s where we’re staying. My eyes are still screwed tightly shut in fear as the driver turns off the engine on the tuk-tuk and suddenly, there’s silence.

  ‘Rube
s, we’re here,’ prods Amy, elbowing me sharply in the ribs. I open my eyes and clamber out after her. The brightness hits me. The sun has risen during our journey from the airport and I blink rapidly. After the British winter and months of it getting dark at 3 p.m., I’m unused to bright light and hastily rummage for the cheap pair of sunnies I bought at the airport.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ she asks impatiently, hopping up and down on one leg, just like she used to do when she was a kid.

  Sticking them on, I take a deep breath and look out through a gap in the palm trees. I can see the glint of the ocean beyond, shimmering in the distance. My heart’s still racing after the journey, but all at once it’s as if the adrenaline just disappears and is replaced by a warm, calm feeling of joy.

  So what if it’s a yoga retreat, it’s also paradise.

  ‘I think it’s beautiful,’ I murmur, taking in the view.

  ‘I told you!’ she beams. ‘I knew you were going to love it here.’

  ‘See, we do agree on something,’ I smile, turning back to her. ‘Though I’m still not sure about that bindi,’ I tease.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure about those sunglasses.’ She pulls a face. ‘They’re like something Mum would wear.’

  ‘I was in a rush!’ I protest, clutching at them. ‘Are they that bad?’ Being ten years younger, my sister is my fashion stylist. She’s saved me from more than a few horrors, including a pair of furry boots that I thought were really nice but . . . well, anyway, the least said about those the better.

  ‘Worse.’ She pulls a face. ‘In fact, I’m not sure even Mum would wear them.’

  I glance at my reflection in the window of the tuk-tuk. Oh god, she’s right. They’re terrible. What was I thinking? I look like Elton John during his Rocket Man era.

  ‘But it’s the only pair I have,’ I wail.

  ‘I promise I won’t take any photographs and put them on Facebook,’ she grins.

  My sister is a Facebook fanatic; she’s forever tagging me in embarrassing photos. She can be very annoying like that.

  ‘Promise, promise?’ I demand.

  ‘Cross my heart . . . Elton,’ she teases, reading my mind.

  A giggle escapes. It’s impossible to stay annoyed at my sister. We both start laughing and, having grabbed my bags and paid the driver, we throw our arms around each other and walk inside.

  After the noise and madness of the journey from the airport, Rising Bliss is an oasis of calm and relaxation. In fact, if you looked up ‘bliss’ in the dictionary, I wouldn’t be surprised to see a photograph of this place instead of a definition, I decide, as we walk through the garden, which is filled with hammocks strung from palm trees and the scent of frangipani flowers, towards reception.

  Inside I discover the scent of incense, and the sounds of soft chanting, and Biju, the small, plump owner who, after checking me in, shows me to my room. The retreat has a main guesthouse perched on the cliff overlooking the ocean, but I’m staying in one of the individual huts, which are reached by a steep path leading down from the cliff top.

  ‘I trust everything is pleasing for you,’ puffs Biju, who’s insisted on carrying my suitcase and is sounding like a steam train as we finally reach the beach. Mopping his brow with a huge red handkerchief, he opens the door to a small hut tucked underneath a palm tree and ushers me and Amy inside.

  Being a yoga retreat, I’ve been expecting a single bunk and no-frills accommodation, but instead there’s a large double bed with pristine white sheets, across which are scattered a gorgeous arrangement of flower petals.

  Even better, it’s all mine, as Amy’s checked into the main guesthouse. As much as I love my sister, I still haven’t quite got over the shock of having to share my bedroom with her when she was born. Plus, she’s so untidy, you need a map just to locate her bed underneath all her clothes.

  ‘Wow, this is so lovely,’ I smile.

  There’s just one thing.

  ‘There’s no mosquito net,’ I say, looking up at the ceiling where one should be hanging.

  ‘Oh, you don’t need one here, you will be fine,’ smiles Biju, whose cherubic face boasts a big grin and an even bigger black moustache.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I say uncertainly, ‘it did say in my guidebook—’

  ‘Rubes, stop worrying,’ chastises Amy, ‘I don’t have any bites, look!’ As evidence she waggles her long bronzed limbs at me.

  ‘Hmm, it’s just, you know how mozzies love me . . .’

  ‘No mozzies!’ beams Biju, rolling up his sleeves to reveal two hairy forearms as he makes a noise like a mosquito. ‘Zzzzzzzzz. No!’ He looks delighted.

  ‘OK, well if you say so,’ I smile, reassured. ‘You should know.’

  Biju smiles even more broadly, his chest inflating at the compliment. ‘I will be at your service at reception,’ he says, giving a little wobble of his head, before leaving the beach hut.

  The beep of a text sounds and I automatically reach for my phone. But it’s not mine, it’s Amy’s.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I ask out of interest.

  ‘Just a friend,’ she says casually, but I notice her quickly texting back in a way that tells me it’s more than just any friend. ‘OK, well I’ll leave you to unpack.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Oh . . . um . . . I’ve just got a few errands to do,’ she says quickly. ‘Let’s meet down at the beach in half an hour.’

  ‘OK, great,’ I smile, giving her a hug goodbye. ‘See you soon.’

  She gives me a little wave and I watch as she hurries across the sand and disappears behind a palm tree. Yeah right, errands indeed. I wonder what she’s up to? And more importantly, knowing my little sister, should I be worried?

  Yes. I should.

  I should be very worried.

  But not about Amy.

  Fifteen minutes later I’ve finished unpacking and am facing the unfaceable.

  OK, Ruby, deep breaths.

  Standing in my room, I screw up all my courage. There are lots of ways people are brave. Rescuing children from dangerous riptides. Parachuting out of aeroplanes. Facing illness. Even getting a big hairy spider out of your bath commands a great deal of courage (well, for me anyway).

  But this has to be the scariest of all.

  Wearing a bikini.

  And worst, in the middle of January, when I’ve spent five months not seeing the sun, my legs haven’t been out of 60-denier opaque tights and my body has not been exposed to sunlight. I’m like a vampire, only without sexy Robert Pattinson to keep me company. Even worse, I have to walk outside, into the bright sunshine, around a lot of tanned, fit yoga bodies.

  Personally, I’d rather jump out of an aeroplane. Without a parachute.

  Pulling on my bikini bottoms which, as always, are never big enough, I then hoick the triangles over my boobs and tie them securely in place. OK, now for the mirror. Bracing myself, I gingerly open the door of the small wooden wardrobe. Hanging on the back is a full-length mirror and, screwing up one eye, I sort of tentatively squint through the other at my reflection.

  I’ve learned this trick from watching scary movies, or reading my book reviews, and trust me, this is much scarier.

  I catch a blurry glimpse of pale limbs, a jiggly bit above my bikini bottoms that I could have sworn wasn’t there last time, and inner thighs that prove Zumba twice a week is simply not enough.

  I wince, but remain stoic. But not brave enough to open both eyes, I decide, as I do a reluctant twirl so I can check out the back view. Oh dear. It’s all I can do not to jump cowering under my duvet.

  Only there’s not that option, as it’s thirty-five degrees and there isn’t a duvet.

  Is it just me, or does every female look at their bottom in a bikini and just despair?

  I mean, it should be up here . . .

  Grabbing my bum cheeks with both hands, I hoist it up a good few inches and instantly I’m transformed. The ripple effect at the back of my thighs is smoothed out. My bum looks pert.
I can even open both eyes and give a little nod of satisfaction. OK, so it’s not Gisele, but it ain’t bad – until I let go and it all just, well, ‘drops’ would be one way of putting it; ‘sags like rice pudding in a string bag’ would be another.

  But I have a secret weapon. The sarong. I bought one at the airport, along with my sunnies, and whereas those might have been a mistake, this purchase most definitely wasn’t.

  God love a sarong, I cheer, wrapping it around me like I’m auditioning to be an Egyptian mummy and covering up all the white jiggly bits. Correction: dry, scaly, white jiggly bits. Honestly, what central heating does to your skin should be illegal.

  Finishing tying the sarong tightly, I give myself a final check in the mirror. There, much better. And feeling a lot more cheered, I slip on a pair of flip-flops, grab my sun lotion and towel and head out onto the beach.

  It’s still early, but the small sandy cove is already a hive of activity. Several dedicated sunbathers with nutbrown limbs are stretched out on sun loungers, their oiled bodies glistening in the early morning sun like mahogany sideboards while, in the ocean, several guests from the resort are taking their morning swim.

  For a moment I watch them, their heads bobbing up and down on the waves, until a very fit-looking blonde woman jogs into my eye-line, and I follow her progress along the shore to where another holiday-maker is doing his morning stretches.

  Oh dear. My morning stretches involve bending down to put my slippers on and reaching for my coffee pot, but his are somewhat more advanced, I muse, feeling ever so slightly intimidated as I watch him do a handstand. I’m going to have to limber up a bit before I go to a yoga class.

  Dropping my towel, I try to touch my toes. And come to an abrupt halt by my knees. But of course that’s only because I’ve just been sitting on a plane for god knows how many hours and my hamstrings are tight. I’ll be fine once I’ve had time to relax, unwind, loosen up. I know, I’ll do a bit of swimming first: that will do the trick.