The Love Detective Page 5

  Kicking off my flip-flops, I trot down to the water’s edge. No one’s looking, so I drop the sarong and step into the ocean. It’s like walking into a warm bath, and I stretch out my hands and let my fingertips glide over the sparkling water.

  Wow, this is bliss. What an amazing way to start the day. I think about my usual morning routine in London, but already that feels a million miles away and, closing my eyes, I tip my face to the sun, feeling its warmth on my face. My agent was so right. As always. I should have known to listen to Diana. I feel so much better already.

  Stretching out my arms I dive into the waves and start swimming further out, relishing the feeling of water and sunshine on my skin, until after a few minutes I stop and turn back to look at the shore. Bobbing up and down in the warm waves, it seems a long way away, but I can see a couple of figures walking along the seashore. I squint, trying to bring them into focus. From the outline it looks like my sister. And is that a man she’s with?

  I peer harder, but they’re too far away. Plus, I have salt in my eyes, making everything all bleary. For a few moments I tread water, watching their blurry shapes bending close, then I begin to swim back.

  As I near the shore they come into focus. Yup, I was right, it’s Amy and she’s deep in conversation with an Indian man. An extremely handsome Indian man, I can’t help noticing.

  ‘Amy!’ I call, as I walk out of the waves.

  At the sound of her name she looks up, startled. ‘Oh, Rubes, hi,’ she says, and they break apart quickly. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘I was just having a swim, did you finish your errands?’

  For a moment Amy looks at me blankly. ‘Oh . . . yes . . . my errands,’ she nods, seeming to suddenly remember, ‘yes, they’re all finished.’

  ‘Good,’ I nod, wringing out my wet hair and brushing away the water that’s trickling into my eyes.

  There’s a pause, and I wait expectantly to be introduced to the handsome man standing next to her.

  ‘And then, would you believe it, but by total coincidence, look who I bumped into!’ she exclaims.

  Yeah right. I’ve seen better acting in a pantomime.

  ‘Who?’ I prompt.

  ‘Oh! Right, yes . . . silly me, I haven’t introduced you,’ she says, all flustered. ‘This is Shine, the yoga teacher I was telling you about.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you,’ he says in a perfect English accent, extending his hand.

  ‘Likewise,’ I smile, shaking his hand. He’s wearing a white shirt, hanging open, and I catch a glimpse of his muscular torso. He doesn’t just have a six-pack, he has an eight-pack. I’m both impressed and embarrassed. There’s him with his amazing body and here’s me with my wobbly bits, I cringe, thinking about my sarong lying only yards away and wishing I could teleport it.

  ‘So I’m excited to hear you’re coming to my sunset yoga class later,’ he smiles, interrupting my thoughts.

  ‘Um, I am?’ I look at my sister.

  Who’s gazing dreamily at Shine. ‘Absolutely,’ she nods. ‘His class is amazing.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he smiles, and they exchange a look.

  Oh-oh. There’s something going on here, and it’s a lot more than a few sun salutations.

  ‘Super,’ I say, feeling rather green and hairy.

  They both turn back to me, as if suddenly remembering I’m there.

  ‘Wonderful, well see you later then,’ he flashes me a handsome smile, before turning to Amy and giving a little bow of his head. ‘Namaste.’

  ‘Namaste,’ she chimes back, all doe-eyed.

  He strides off up the beach, his white shirt billowing in the breeze.

  ‘So come on, spill the beans,’ I demand, as soon as he’s out of earshot.

  Still gazing dreamily after him, she gives a little startled jump. ‘What?’ She looks cornered.

  ‘I might have saltwater in my eyes, but I’m not that blind.’

  She blushes, despite her suntan. ‘We’re just good friends,’ she protests.

  ‘That’s what everyone says,’ I counter, giving her a long look.

  She avoids my gaze and tosses her hair over her shoulder. ‘We bond on a spiritual level,’ she replies haughtily.

  ‘Oh come on,’ I tease, ‘I saw his six-pack!’

  ‘Really? I hadn’t noticed,’ she replies innocently.

  ‘You fibber!’ I laugh.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she says, all agitated. ‘And I’m not going to stand here all day, I’m going to breakfast. Coming?’ And without waiting for my answer, she turns on her heel and stalks up the beach.

  Chapter 6

  Breakfast is a feast of fresh fruit, banana pancakes and masala omelettes, which are made of a mixture of delicate spices and the most delicious things I think I’ve ever tasted. Most of the other guests seem to be couples, though there are a group of guys from Manchester; I hear one of them talking loudly about a silent rave he’d been to on the beach, where everyone wore headphones.

  Which, considering the volume of his voice, is probably what the people at the neighbouring table wish they were wearing.

  But that’s most likely because it’s just so quiet here. Anything would seem loud against the backdrop of birdcalls and gentle ocean waves, I reflect, as I go for a walk with Amy along the beach afterwards. After the noise and fast pace of London, Goa is like a shifting down of gears to a much more relaxed pace of life. With the warm sand between our toes, we pass fishermen bringing in their nets, wide-smiled stallholders inviting us to ‘just look’ and beachfront cafés with names like ‘chill-out zone’ right on the water’s edge, where it would be impossible to do anything else but chill out.

  As usual, Amy snaps back like an elastic band to her normal chatty self, and the next couple of hours are spent catching up on the gossip from home and hearing about her trip.

  ‘It’s been incredible, Rubes,’ she enthuses. ‘I’ve seen so many things and met so many people! Like this great group of South Africans I met in my hostel in Bangkok . . . we had so much fun . . . you’d love Thailand . . . all the temples, and monks in orange robes, and this huge, giant Buddha that’s made entirely out of gold . . .’

  I look across at my sister as she gesticulates wildly, her face shining with enthusiasm, and feel a sudden beat of pride. My little sister’s all grown up. It feels like only yesterday that she was so homesick on a school trip, she clung to my hand and refused to get on the minibus. And now look at her! Travelling to far-flung places like Thailand and seeing all these amazing cultural sights.

  ‘And we went to this wicked full-moon party in Koh Phangan . . .’

  ‘A full-moon party?’ Of course, it’s my sister, there had to be a party in there somewhere.

  ‘Yeh, it was totally crazy,’ she laughs, then pauses. ‘Actually, on second thoughts, I’m not sure you’d love that bit.’

  ‘Hey, I like parties!’ I protest indignantly. Honestly, Amy thinks anyone over thirty should be in an old people’s home.

  ‘Not twenty-four-hour ones with rave music,’ she points out.

  I pull a face. ‘OK, perhaps not,’ I agree, ‘but I seem to remember you’re the one who can’t handle a party.’

  ‘Huh?’ She frowns.

  ‘Jamie Richardson’s sixteenth birthday party?’ I prompt.

  She lets out a loud groan. ‘Oh god, I’d forgotten all about that!’

  ‘I haven’t,’ I tease, laughing at her cringing. ‘And I’m not sure Detective Sergeant Harrison has either.’

  At the mention of his name she lets out a loud shriek.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when he rang the house to tell us you’d been arrested,’ I continue.

  She clutches at her face. ‘Oh Rubes, it was awful!’

  ‘I know! I had to come get you,’ I remind her.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault!’ she protests, ‘I was only fifteen, I’d never drunk alcohol before, but someone gave me a glass of cider . . .’
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  I raise my eyebrows.

  ‘Well OK, a few glasses of cider,’ she concedes, ‘but how was I to know the neighbours would call the police about the music—’

  ‘And you’d get arrested for underage drinking and causing affray,’ I finish.

  She blushes bright red. ‘Oh god, I was so scared about Mum and Dad finding out, I knew they’d kill me!’

  ‘So did I,’ I smile, ‘which is why I never told them it was the police on the phone, but said it was you, calling for a lift home and not to worry, I’d pick you up.’

  ‘You saved my life,’ she says with a grateful smile.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,’ I grin, ‘though remember when we nearly got caught out when I bumped into Detective Sergeant Harrison with Mum in the supermarket and he asked after you—’

  ‘And you told Mum it was because he’d come into school to give a talk on women’s self-defence and how to keep safe and defend oneself against an attacker,’ continues Amy, picking up the story, ‘and I was a star pupil—’

  ‘And that evening Dad asked you to give him a demonstration,’ I giggle, remembering, ‘and you hit him with an umbrella—’

  ‘Right where I shouldn’t,’ she gasps, and breaks into a fit of laughter.

  ‘And Mum had to give him a pack of frozen peas,’ I guffaw loudly, wiping away the tears of mirth from my eyes.

  ‘Poor Dad . . . I felt terrible,’ she wails, between fits of laughing.

  ‘Not as bad as he did,’ I burst out, and we both dissolve into heaps of laughter, as people walk past us, shooting us funny looks.

  Finally, after a few moments, we manage to get control of ourselves again.

  ‘Honestly, what would I do without you?’ grins Amy, wiping her face with her sarong. Her kohl eyeliner has bled and smudged down her cheeks, making her look like a panda.

  ‘I dread to think,’ I grin, leaning over to help her. ‘Here, you’ve missed a bit.’

  Digging out a tissue from my purse, I rub it away as she stands there patiently, like I used to do when she was a little kid and got chocolate on her face.

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘Thanks Rubes.’

  I smile. She might have travelled halfway across the world and be all grown up now, but she’ll forever be my little sister. And, linking arms, we set off to walk back.

  After we return to Rising Bliss, Amy goes off to meet some backpacker friends and I take a snooze in a hammock. Then I relax on the beach a bit. Goa’s laid-back vibe is infectious, and whereas normally in London I’d be rushing around doing a million different things, the rest of the day slips by in a delightful haze of doing nothing.

  Until I notice the sun starting to sink lower in the sky and realise it’s time for the sunset yoga class.

  OK, so I wouldn’t say I’m scared, just more – how can I put it? – trepidatious.

  ‘You’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ reassures Amy, as she cajoles me into my baggy sweatpants and T-shirt. ‘Shine is an amazing teacher, he works with all levels.’

  I shoot her a look. She’s wearing shorts and a white vest that show off perfectly toned limbs. Seriously, sometimes I wonder if Amy and I really are sisters, or if Mum brought the wrong baby home from the hospital.

  ‘There’s levels, and then there’s me,’ I reply.

  ‘Oh c’mon Rubes, you can’t be that bad!’ she admonishes.

  ‘I’m worse,’ I reply, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. Not only do I look like a shapeless baggy thing, but I hadn’t realised how strong the sun was and, despite my SPF 50, my face is bright red. I couldn’t look less like the people you get on the cover of those yoga magazines.

  ‘Ready?’ I zone back in to see Amy waiting by the door, a bundle of energy and eagerness.

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ I say, forcing a bright smile in an attempt to hide my nerves. Which I know is a bit ridiculous. I mean, come on, it’s only yoga.

  ‘Trust me, you’ll feel tons better after you’ve done a few vinyasas.’

  I feel a beat of alarm.

  ‘A few what?’

  But she’s already set off briskly flip-flopping across the sand and, quickly grabbing my towel, I follow her.

  Outside the sun has sunk lower towards the ocean, transforming the sky into vibrant streaks of pomegranate pink, blood-red and orange. It really is beautiful, like flames dancing on the horizon and, distracted, I stop to stare at it for a few moments. Until I realise Amy has charged far ahead and I have to race after her.

  Which means I’m already sweating by the time I arrive at the class, which is on a large wooden deck with a spectacular bamboo and palm leaf roof, built right in front of the ocean. It’s a bit different to the one yoga class I went to at my local sports centre. Oil lamps are burning and incense drifts through the large open space, which is already filled with brightly coloured mats laid out across the floor, on which people are doing lots of stretching.

  I grab a mat and look for Amy who, to my horror, has gone straight to the front of the class and is already limbering up. Oh god, this is going to be embarrassing. I was at least hoping I could hide away at the back, preferably in a darkened corner, where no one could see me, but this way I’m going to be on full show.

  But it’s no good, Amy turns and, spotting me, beckons me over.

  ‘Hey Rubes, over here,’ she calls loudly. Amy’s voice has always been on the foghorn side. Something to do with a perforated eardrum she got from standing too close to the fireworks. Apparently she thought the rockets were real rockets, and would take her to the moon if she caught one in her mittened hands. Well, that’s the kind of thing you think if you’re seven years old. And Amy.

  I can’t pretend not to have heard her, the whole class has, so I start picking my way through the lithe, yoga-honed bodies. On closer inspection everyone looks terrifyingly good, as if they came out of the womb in the lotus position. There’s a few model types, with their hair tied back and skyscraper limbs; lots of men with beards (not the geography teacher sort, but the fashionable media sort) and those rich, hippy trustafarian types with ankle tattoos and expensive yoga clothes who look as if they live in Notting Hill or Manhattan.

  And then there’s me.

  I can almost feel my chakras tie themselves up into a knot. There’s intimidating, and then there’s a yoga class in Goa. Finally reaching the front, I squeeze in between Amy and a man who’s so bendy he could be a contortionist in the circus. My anxiety ratchets up another few notches. I glance at Amy. Honestly, this is tantamount to sibling cruelty.

  But she doesn’t notice, she’s too focused on staring over at the entrance, like a meerkat. Along with everyone else, I realise, following their gazes until mine lands on Shine, who appears from the beach and walks onto the deck.

  It’s like watching a rock star walking on stage.

  Bare-chested, with his shoulder-length hair hanging loose, he strides barefoot across the room. He’s wearing only a pair of white drawstring trousers and his muscles literally ripple like a racehorse’s. The breeze from the ocean, which acts like a wind machine on his flowing tresses, blows them off his face like something from a slow-motion music video.

  Every female in the room is transfixed, and secretly wanting to be with him. Every male is envious, and secretly wanting to be him. He’s like the Adam Levine of yoga.

  ‘Namaste,’ he intones, pressing his hands together and doing a perfect bow.

  ‘Namaste,’ the class chimes back.

  Taking a length of material from his wrist, he expertly ties his hair up into a neat, black bun and, taking a deep breath, fixes the class with his penetrating gaze. ‘This class will be about honouring yourself and your practice . . . connecting to our divine essence . . . awakening our true inner energies . . . and transforming and enlightening our beings . . .’

  That’s another reason I’m rubbish at yoga. I’m never quite sure what they’re actually saying. Still, it sounds really good, and he’s got a lovely calming voic
e.

  ‘. . . in this ever-unfolding mystery of life and love . . .’

  Oh, well I get that bit, I muse, nodding along with everyone else. I couldn’t agree more. Love’s a total mystery.

  ‘So we’ll start by doing a short vinyasa in praise for the sun.’

  Oh-oh. It’s that vinyasa business again.

  I shoot Amy an urgent look but she’s totally absorbed by Shine, who’s dropped down onto his mat and is beginning a sequence of effortless moves, while all the time instructing in his soothing tones:

  ‘Surya Namaskar, the Sun Salutation, is a flowing sequence of twelve poses. Each movement is synchronised with the breath. It is the motion of the breath which drives these postures. Inhale deeply as you extend and exhale as you contract . . .’

  He makes it look so easy with his flexible limbs and upper body strength, and I try to follow. I really do. With crunching knees I attempt to wrestle my limbs into one pose, then sort of half-collapse into another. But it’s hopeless, it’s like my body doesn’t want to get into these poses.

  I have a sudden image of trying to put the ironing board down, grappling with its stiff board and rigid legs as it refuses to bend. Oh my god, that’s me! I am my ironing board! I’m not wearing a flowery cover, but I might as well be for all the flexibility in my back and hamstrings . . .

  ‘. . . all the time focusing on pranayama . . .’

  What? On all fours I look frantically at Amy.

  ‘It’s ancient Sanskrit,’ she whispers in explanation.

  Which makes things a lot clearer because, of course, I’m fluent in Sanskrit.

  ‘. . . and now moving into Parivrtta Trikonasana . . .’

  I watch Amy twisting her body into a triangle with apparent ease and try to copy her. Big mistake. She was the one who did gymnastics at school, not me.

  I feel a sharp pain in my lower back. ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Are you OK?’ she hisses, looking startled.

  ‘Yes . . . fine,’ I grimace. God, how embarrassing. I catch several people glancing over with concerned expressions.

  ‘Great,’ she beams, ‘I knew you’d love this class once you’d warmed up.’