It’s Jack and it sounds as if he’s on the phone. His voice is slightly muffled and he’s saying something about being delayed in Agra and missing an appointment. What appointment? I feel my curiosity piqued. I wonder who he’s talking to?
Anyway, whoever it is, I’d best not interrupt him. That’s probably why he seemed so distracted earlier, I decide, turning away.
But not before I hear, ‘Ruby . . .’
I turn back. Hang on. Did he just say my name?
For a moment I stand frozen in the corridor, my head cocked, straining to hear. Is he talking about me? And if so, what’s he saying? I feel a hopeful flutter. Is it something nice? I wait, my curiosity ratcheting up a notch, but of course now I can’t hear a bloody thing. Maybe if I press my ear up against the door? . . . Nope. Still muffled. I know, there’s a glass in my room, maybe if I use that—
Oh my god, what am I doing?
All at once my common sense slaps me round the head. What is it about fancying someone that turns normal, sane women into secret agents? When we’re not Googling them and searching for them on LinkedIn, we’re snooping through pictures on their Facebook page.
And why stop there?
Why not just take complete leave of your senses and go into full stalker-mode and loiter outside their hotel room, eavesdropping on their personal conversations, huh?
Huh?
Quickly snatching my ear away from the door, I take stock of the situation. Who knows what Jack was saying, but if I carry on like this, the only thing he’ll be saying about me is that I’m bat-shit crazy! I mean seriously, there might as well be a policeman with a megaphone in my ear, blasting, ‘Put down your crush and step away from the door, Ruby.’
I give myself a shake. Right, come on, pull yourself together. It’s time to stop all this nonsense and behave like a normal person.
Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin and set off purposefully down the corridor.
Quickly. Before I completely lose the plot.
I go downstairs and walk through the courtyard towards reception. It’s very quiet and there’s hardly anyone around, just an older couple sitting on a sofa having a drink. I’m almost tempted to join them. I haven’t had an alcoholic drink since I left Goa and I could really do with one right now, though on second thoughts perhaps that’s not such a great idea. In my experience, alcohol + unrequited lust = making a complete fool of yourself. I’ve done quite enough of that already and I’m sober.
I keep walking. Ahead are the two large wooden doors leading out onto the street, and as I get closer I can hear music. Lifting the iron latch, I step outside and see the white Ambassador parked in a row of cars and Rocky leaning against the bonnet, talking to another driver.
‘Miss Ruby,’ he smiles, standing to attention.
‘Please, it’s Ruby,’ I insist, even though I know it’s futile. ‘What’s happening?’ I ask, gesturing towards the music drifting from the building opposite.
‘A wedding,’ he replies matter-of-factly.
Ah yes, of course. I should have guessed.
‘Much dancing,’ he grins, relaxing his stance and giving a little wiggle of his hips.
He looks so comical, I can’t help but start laughing.
He stops wiggling and looks at me thoughtfully. ‘You should laugh more,’ he says decisively, ‘it is good to laugh.’
‘Yes,’ I nod in agreement. ‘Only there just hasn’t been much to laugh about recently,’ I can’t help confessing.
‘But that is the beauty,’ he replies, his eyes shining. ‘Laughter doesn’t need a reason. It just feels good to laugh, like a scratch feels good.’ As if to prove his point, he gives his head a good scratch.
‘Does that feel good?’ I smile in amusement.
‘Yes, you should try it!’ he exclaims, and lets out a roar of laughter. ‘I laugh when I am sad. I laugh when I am angry. Because let me tell you,’ leaning closer, he lowers his voice as if sharing a secret, ‘it tricks the gods into thinking you are happy, and when you are happy, good things happen.’
Despite the cold night air I feel an unexpected warmth inside me. He makes it sound so simple, doesn’t he? And maybe it is, I reflect, turning the thought over in my head. Because somehow, being here right now, it feels like it could be that simple. It’s just back in my life in London, things seem a lot more complicated.
‘You should try it,’ he nods, with a grin.
‘Maybe I will,’ I smile, feeling a sudden bond between us. I really like Rocky. There’s a lot more to him than just a driver and tour guide. Underneath the smart clothes and polite demeanour, he’s got a wickedly mischievous sense of humour and his habit of giving sage advice, which at first I thought was amusing, has an awful lot of truth behind it.
‘So, you are by yourself?’ he’s asking now.
‘Yes, Jack’s on the telephone . . .’ I begin, then break off. I feel embarrassed just talking about it. ‘I mean, I think he is, I’m not sure.’
‘Are you hungry? Do you want me to drive you to a restaurant in the town?’
‘Oh, no thank you, I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m sure I can eat something here.’
‘It is no trouble,’ he protests. ‘It is my pleasure.’
‘No, really.’ Shaking my head, I glance back inside the courtyard. The couple that were drinking cocktails are now sharing a romantic candlelit meal together.
Actually, on second thoughts . . .
‘Are you hungry?’ I ask, glancing at Rocky.
‘A little,’ he nods, looking uncertain as to where this line of questioning is going. ‘But I am happy to drive you to a restaurant before I go to eat.’
‘Where do you have dinner?’
‘It is just a little place in the town,’ he replies dismissively.
‘Is it OK if I come with you?’
‘You want to eat with me?’ He looks astonished.
‘Yes. I mean . . . if you don’t mind,’ I add quickly.
‘No, not at all,’ he says hastily, ‘it would be a pleasure, except . . .’ he pauses, then looks abashed ‘ . . . except I am afraid this is not a fancy place; it is where all the local people eat.’
‘It sounds great,’ I say enthusiastically.
Rocky’s face breaks into a huge smile. ‘Excellent. In that case, I am honoured for you to be my guest.’
Chapter 20
Together we zigzag through the intricate maze of dusty roads, dodging cars and motorcycles, stray dogs and street hawkers. Darkness has fallen, but the town is still very much alive and I follow Rocky away from the busy tourist restaurants to a street corner on which there’s a man with a vast frying pan, filled to the brim with bubbling oil. He’s cooking something that smells delicious, but before I’ve got time to ask what it is, Rocky dives up a staircase next to a fabric shop.
Where on earth are we going? Doubtfully, I follow him, wondering if perhaps I should have stuck with the safer option of gate-crashing the romantic-meal-for-two at the haveli, when abruptly I’m led out into a large open-sided café. A wall of chatter hits me. Bright and noisy, with strip lighting and vivid blue painted walls, it’s crammed with long tables and benches, canteen-style, and packed with people.
All at once everyone turns in my direction, and I get lots of overtly curious looks, before the diners obviously decide that, actually, I’m not that interesting, and turn back to their food.
‘Gosh, it’s so busy,’ I gasp, taking in the scene. ‘We’ll never get a seat.’
‘It is always like this; there are always many people,’ nods Rocky, seemingly unfazed. He signals to a waiter who whisks us through the crowds and shows us to a a table.
At first I assume there’s been some mistake: the table is completely full, there’s no way we can fit on there. But without a word of complaint, just lots of friendly smiles, everyone shifts up and two spaces appear.
‘See, no problem,’ Rocky beams, as we sit down.
I think about the restau
rants in London, with their subdued lighting, dress codes and credit-card reservations. It’s funny, but whereas before they appeared so fashionable, now they just seem pretentious and unappealing, and I’m so glad I’m here instead.
‘I’m afraid there is no alcohol served,’ apologises Rocky as the waiter brings us water.
‘I’m fine with just water,’ I smile, glancing around for the food menus. It’s been a long time since lunch and I’m hungry.
‘Do you need anything?’ Rocky’s brow furrows.
‘Oh, I’m just looking for a menu,’ I smile, amused at how overprotective he’s being. ‘Will they bring us some?’
‘There is the menu,’ says Rocky, gesturing towards the blackboard on the wall.
I look at it. Everything is in Hindi, of course.
‘Don’t worry, I will order,’ smiles Rocky at my expression and, beckoning the waiter, proceeds to reel off a string of dishes. When he’s finished he turns to me and his expression falls solemn. ‘So, you have not found your sister yet?’
The familiar knot of worry tugs in my stomach. ‘No, not yet,’ I shake my head. ‘I keep ringing her phone, but there’s no answer. I just hope she’s OK.’
‘Do not worry,’ he says calmly. ‘She will be fine.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ I say with a grateful smile. I’ve been trying to push my fears to the back of my mind, but now they come back with a vengeance. As each day passes I’m getting more and more worried.
‘I know this,’ he says, waggling his finger authoritatively. ‘Everything is going to end well.’
‘But how can you be sure?’ I counter.
‘Show me your right hand,’ he says evenly.
I look at him uncertainly, then hesitantly reach my hand across the table. Slowly he turns it over, stretching it out in his smooth fingers, studying it.
‘Do you read palms?’ I ask, looking at Rocky with surprise.
He nods solemnly. ‘My grandfather taught me many years ago. I come from a long line of palm readers, we all have the gift of foresight.’
‘Gosh, really?’ I reply, intrigued. Though, to tell the truth, I don’t really believe in this stuff. The last person to read my palm was a fortune-teller at the local fair when I was fifteen. She said I’d be married at twenty to a man called Malcolm, have five sons and move to Papua New Guinea.
Some fortune that was. More of a misfortune.
Saying that, I’m in a different, more mystical part of the world, where time-old traditions are passed through generations, I remind myself. Having my palm read in India is a bit different to having it read in a muddy field in Yorkshire, by a woman sporting a headscarf, a pair of wellies and a broad Manchester accent.
Staring at my palm, Rocky nods gravely. ‘You are very lucky . . . very, very lucky indeed . . .’
It’s all still a lot of silly nonsense though.
‘You are going to live a very long life.’
I mean honestly. Next he’ll be saying I’m going to meet a tall, dark handsome stranger – my mind suddenly throws up an image of Jack; actually, thinking about it, I have met a tall dark handsome stranger.
‘But first I will tell you a little of your past, so you will believe me when I share with you your future,’ he continues solemnly.
Doubt niggles. In fairness, the woman in Yorkshire with the headscarf never said that.
‘You fell in love with a man but he broke your heart . . .’
I feel a jolt. ‘Well yes, that’s true,’ I reply, trying to be all normal and matter-of-fact. After all, what girl hasn’t had her heart broken by a man? It’s not exactly specific.
‘He had hair the colour of copper.’
I suddenly get goose bumps. Sam’s hair is red. He hated it and used to shave it off, but I thought it was sexy, like Damian Lewis from Homeland.
My heart starts thudding loudly in my ears, but I try to ignore it. Coincidence, that’s all it is. Beginner’s luck.
‘You will meet another man,’ he traces his finger down my love line, ‘but there will be some problem – look, see how the line breaks here?’
I peer at my hand. Gosh, he’s right, I’ve never noticed that before.
‘A break in this line signifies a setback, a difficulty to be overcome.’
‘What kind of difficulty?’
‘You have said no to him once.’
‘I have?’ I stare at him, agog.
‘Yes,’ nods Rocky, ‘most, very definitely.’
I wrack my brains. Who can it be? I haven’t exactly had men queuing up to ask me out recently. There was the guy at Tesco’s last summer who tried to chat me up over the cherry tomatoes . . . he was actually quite sweet, until he asked if he could take a picture of my feet. Apparently he found my ‘high arches very attractive.’
Oh god, I hope it’s not him.
Then again, the only other person I can think of is the rollerblader in the park who stopped to tell me I was wearing cute jeans. Though when I’d later told Rachel at the pub, her response had been, ‘Do you know what’s the hardest part about rollerblading for men?’ Fixing me with that steely lawyer gaze of hers, she’d replied drily, ‘Telling their parents they’re gay.’
‘I see a lion . . . a big lion . . .’
‘A lion?’ I zone back in with a jolt. Oh crap, they don’t have lions in India, do they? I suddenly have an image of being eaten by a lion . . . no, I’m being stupid, they only have tigers. I think.
‘But this lion is red.’
‘Huh?’ What on earth is he talking about?
Screwing up his forehead, Rocky stares long and hard at my palm. ‘There is a connection between this lion and the man you are meant to be with,’ he says after a few moments.
Don’t tell me he’s a lion tamer and I’m going to finally run away and join a circus.
‘I don’t understand,’ I frown, shaking my head in confusion.
‘Sometimes it is difficult to understand now, but everything will make sense one day,’ he says calmly.
I look at Rocky, trying to untangle it all in my brain, and abruptly I get a dose of realism. Oh please, what am I doing? This is nonsense. I can’t believe I’m nearly falling for this stuff.
‘Can you give me a name?’ I challenge. That’s the thing with psychics and fortune-tellers, they’re always so vague, their predictions could apply to anything or anyone.
‘A name?’ Rocky frowns.
‘Yes, his name,’ I repeat, only a little more insistently.
He pinches the bridge of his nose as if he’s thinking hard. There’s a long pause, and then:
‘Simon,’ he suddenly announces.
Only one of the most common names on the planet.
‘You don’t believe me,’ he says, at my expression.
‘No, no, it’s not that,’ I say quickly, crossing the fingers of my left hand under the table. I don’t want to offend him. ‘I’m just a little sceptical, that’s all . . .’
‘The lines on our palms are destiny’s imprint,’ he says firmly. ‘They are formed in our mother’s belly before we are born, there is no way to change them; this was always your journey.’
‘What? To come to India?’ I can’t help scoffing a little.
He fixes me with his steadfast gaze. ‘You are in India to find something,’ he continues, not letting go of my hand.
‘Well, yes, my sister,’ I nod, meeting his eyes. ‘I told you.’
Gosh, that’s so odd, but in this light I’d swear his eyes were blue.
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It is something else.’ Leaning closer he holds my palm tighter, and suddenly, out of nowhere, I get that weird sensation, the same one as when I first met him at the railway station in Delhi.
‘It will all become clear one day. Until then, you must have faith, Ruby.’
And it’s as though everything seems to recede away, the noise of the restaurant fading into the background, like someone has just turned the volume down low on the TV. All I can hear is Rocky’s
voice, soothing, chanting, hypnotising.
‘Faith, Ruby, you must have faith. You must trust in the universe . . .’
I feel light-headed, almost as if I’m going to faint. Everything is starting to spin. I close my eyes.
‘Please, be careful, the food is very hot.’
Abruptly I snap to and realise Rocky has let go of my hand. An array of dishes has arrived on the table.
‘How do you say in England? Tuck in!’ he beams.
It’s as if someone has just turned the volume back up. The noise is back. The dizziness has disappeared. Everything is back to normal. What on earth just happened? I glance at Rocky and notice the blue walls reflecting in his glasses. All at once I feel a bit silly. Honestly, Ruby, nothing happened, of course. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Reaching for my glass, I take a large sip of water. Next I’ll be believing Rocky really can read my palm.
Chapter 21
‘So what do you think of the food?’
Fifteen minutes later, even more dishes have arrived and Rocky is tucking in hungrily. I glance at the silver plates filled with lots of different ingredients in rich, colourful sauces. There’s so much of it!
‘Gosh, yes, it all looks delicious,’ I reply.
And very spicy.
I look back at my own plate, on which there are just a few untouched spoonfuls. Apprehension knots inside me. These dishes haven’t been cooked with namby-pamby Western taste buds in mind, they’ve been cooked for the locals.
‘You are not hungry?’ Looking up from his half-empty plate, Rocky glances at mine and raises his eyebrows.
‘No, it’s not that . . .’ Oh dear, I don’t know what I was thinking. It never crossed my mind to say anything when Rocky was ordering, I just presumed I’d be able to eat something, but now, sitting here, I realise I’m a world away from my bland lunch of plain white rice and a naan bread.
‘The thing is . . .’ I trail off. God, this is so embarrassing.
‘Is something wrong?’ Rocky frowns. ‘Do you not like this place?’
‘No, no, I love it here,’ I reassure him hastily, ‘it’s just . . .’ I hesitate, trying to think of how I can put it without offending him, what excuses I can make. Oh, what’s the point, I might as well just tell the truth. I can’t keep moving my food around my plate forever. ‘I’m really sorry but I can’t eat any of this food,’ I blurt out.