The Love Detective (13 page)

Ha! See what you have to say about that.

I wait for the realisation, the embarrassment, the grovelling apology—

‘That’s a thirteen,’ he replies matter-of-factly.

What?

‘A little smudged maybe, but it’s still thirteen.’

As he hands me back the ticket, I stare at it incredulously. I feel a sickening thud as I realise he’s right. The number’s all smudged. I read it wrong. It’s not 18 at all. It’s 13.

‘Unlucky for some,’ I hear him say, and look up to see the corners of his mouth turning up slightly, in the most irritatingly superior smile.

I have to grit my teeth. ‘Right. OK,’ I say, in a staccato voice. ‘Sorry.’

‘I think that’s you over there.’ He motions to the other side of the carriage where, underneath a fixed upper berth, there appears to be two single seats opposite each other. One of them is occupied by a young Indian guy wearing badly fitting earphones, out of which is blasting tinny music. ‘You’ve got the lower berth. Kind of a bummer, as you can’t go to sleep until he wants to.’

I look back at him in confusion.

‘The side berths are different to the rest. They’re narrower, so the bottom two seats are only converted into the lower berth at night, which is when he climbs on top . . .’ He breaks off and I swear I see a flash of amusement in his eyes. ‘I meant, onto the top berth, of course.’

‘Of course,’ I reply hotly, my face burning. Gathering up my things, I start pushing them roughly into my bag and get up from the berth. ‘Excuse me,’ I say sharply, not waiting for him to stand aside so I can get by.

‘Hey!’ he cries, as I wheel my suitcase over his foot.

Purely by accident, of course.

‘I might be a lady but it’s pretty obvious you’re no gentleman,’ I mutter, stalking past him.

‘It’s been a long day, I need to sleep,’ he says unapologetically, moving swiftly into my berth without the merest hint of shame at turfing me out.

And to even
think
at one point I was envisaging thoughts of an ice-cold gin and tonic and Adrien Brody.

‘Any decent man wouldn’t make a girl move, they’d just swap seats,’ I retort, plonking myself down on my hard plastic seat as he makes a big show of stretching out fully
on my blanket
.

‘Are you kidding me?’ he says, punching the pillow.

God, I hate how men do that. Why do they always feel the need to beat up defenceless pillows?

Ignoring him, I stare resolutely out of my tinted window.

‘You want me to give up my seat for thirty-one hours? Are you serious?’

Er, hang on. What did he just say?

Propped uncomfortably upright, in a seat that does not recline, I swivel my gaze sharply across at him.

‘What are you talking about?’ I demand.

‘The ride to Delhi,’ he replies, folding his arms lazily behind his head. ‘Over a thousand kilometres, and thirty-one hours . . . didn’t you read that in your guidebook?’ He motions to it lying on the side.

‘It only covers Goa,’ I reply hotly.

‘Shame,’ he shrugs.

I look away, determined to ignore him. He’s just trying to wind me up and annoy me, that’s all. But I can feel anxiety starting to prickle. ‘I don’t understand, I thought this was an express train,’ I say, stiffly turning back to him.

‘It is. This is India,’ he says, looking at me as if I’m stupid.

Suddenly it hits me.
It’s not a wind-up.

My thoughts start spiralling. Oh my god, this cannot be happening. This
cannot
be happening.

‘If I was you I’d get some sleep,’ he yawns and tapping the brim of his old fedora, pushes it down over his eyes.

I stare at him speechlessly, the horror of his words slowly sinking in, then suddenly I hear a slight snoring and realise he’s fallen asleep.

Asleep!
 While I’m sitting here, bolt upright!

I’m distracted by a blast of jangly music and turn back to see my travelling companion turning up the volume so it blasts out of his headphones. After the stress of the day I almost feel like crying. How did my relaxing week’s holiday turn into this? One minute I was lazing on a beach, drinking out of coconuts with a straw, and now I’m trapped on this train for thirty-one hours.

I shift in my seat, trying to get comfy, then give up. Oh god, it’s hopeless. And turning to look out of the window, I watch the station disappearing into the distance as the train slowly creaks its way on its long journey northwards.

Chapter 11

Saying that, thirty-one hours isn’t
that
long.

As the station gives way to the outskirts of the city and we move into the open countryside, I do a few calculations in my head. After all, let’s face it, it’s easy to kill time, isn’t it? I only have to pop into Zara and an hour disappears. Or turn on the telly and
whoosh
, a whole evening has gone, just like that.

And I can’t even
look
at a DVD boxed-set of
Downton Abbey
without losing an entire day. In fact, on a recent trip to Mum and Dad’s, an entire weekend vanished into thin air because I discovered they had series two and three. Seriously, David Blaine’s got nothing on Cousin Matthew when it comes to magic tricks.

In which case this journey isn’t going to be a problem at all. There’s lots I can do to pass the time – like, for example, I need to give myself a manicure, I realise, looking down at my fingernails and noticing what a mess they are.

And that’s only for starters . . .

Feeling all cheered up, I dig out my nail file and get to work. At this rate I’ll be in Delhi before I know it!

I had no idea how much fun killing time was.

After finishing my manicure – in which I get to apply two careful coats, not my usual rushed one –
and
let them dry properly, instead of smudging them as I’m too impatient to wait, I send my sister a few texts telling her I’m on the train (to which she doesn’t reply, but then I’m not surprised; just because she’s eloping, why should she change the habit of a lifetime?), order some food from a man who comes round with a small list, all of which is in Hindi, and none of which I understand, and spend ages sorting out all the junk in my wallet.

Honestly, I have no idea who half these business cards belong to, I muse, rifling through a huge stack of various colours and fonts. I stare at ‘Deborah Seymour,
Conservatories Are Us
’ in Times New Roman and wrack my brain for some recognition. Nope, nothing.

I screw up Deborah. I’m sure she’s a really nice person. I probably met her at a party and thought ooh, she’s lovely, and she gave me her card and I promised to ring.

And now here I am, scrunching her up like an old chocolate wrapper.

Feeling a twinge of guilt, I’m distracted by a baby’s giggling laughter and glance across the aisle where a large, boisterous family has spilled out of their compartment. Sitting cross-legged in the corridor, three generations are passing around food, playing cards, and jiggling a baby who looks like a beautiful, kohl-eyed doll on their knees. I watch as she reaches out a chubby, gold-bangled fist, trying to eat a pistachio shell that has scattered from the large mound on the berth next door.

‘How old is she?’ I ask, breaking into a smile. Babies have a wonderful way of doing that to people, whatever the circumstances.

‘Nearly one year,’ the mum replies proudly, her face lighting up.

‘She’s very beautiful,’ I nod, pulling a silly face as her daughter stares back at me with huge brown eyes, framed with the kind of eyelashes no lash-building mascara could ever hope to achieve. She smiles at me shyly, then buries her head in the bright blue folds of her mother’s sari.

‘She is very shy,’ laughs the mum, jiggling her daughter encouragingly.

She glances at me from underneath her eyelashes and I pretend to hide behind my hands, then reappear. She giggles loudly, then buries her face again, and together we play peek-a-boo, me hiding behind my hands, her hiding inside her mother’s sari, both lost in the game until it’s time for her to be fed.

As she’s passed to her grandmother to be given her bottle, I turn back to gaze out of the window. I wonder what time it is? It’s probably getting really late. I must have been on the train for hours already.

I glance at my watch.

What?

Quarter to?
That’s all?

I’ve been on here for . . . I do a quick calculation . . .

Forty-five minutes?

I stare at my watch in disbelief, then look around me. A lot of people have already fallen asleep. Opposite me, the young Indian guy has fallen asleep in his seat, mouth open, headphones blasting, whilst across the aisle the man shelling pistachio nuts is snoring loudly.

And then there’s
him
.

The American.

Sleeping like a baby on my berth.

Irritation stabs. OK, so I know it’s not
really
my berth, but everyone knows possession is nine-tenths of the law, I think crossly.

Feeling myself shooting little envious darts towards him, I force myself to look away. I need to just ignore him. Rise above it. Who cares about a silly man, or some silly berth? It’s not important.
He’s
not important.

Closing my eyes, I listen to the rhythmic clack-clacking of the train as it trundles along the rail tracks and feel the gentle side-to-side rocking of the carriage. It’s been a long day and it’s only now the exhaustion hits me and I realise how tired I am. I let out a yawn, feeling the tension inside of me beginning to unwind.

And as I start to relax and grow more sleepy, I feel my annoyance fading away . . . feel the romantic dreamer inside of me slip past the practical realist who stands guard on my daydreams, like a jailer jangling his keys . . . and feel myself escaping out into my imagination . . .

Who doesn’t dream about going on a train journey across India? Travelling across one of the most mystical countries in the world? Experiencing the sights, the scenery,
the magic
. It’s the stuff of countless movies and novels. The subject of TV documentaries that I’ve watched from the comfortable mundanity of my living room sofa, whilst cradling a mug of tea in my hands and thinking ‘one day’.

But then ‘one day’ becomes another day, and another, and busy life takes over, and it’s not until you’re sitting on an overcrowded bus, or pushing a trolley around a supermarket, or brushing your teeth late at night that your mind drifts off.

Like letting go of a balloon, it floats away from careers and relationships and responsibilities, from the everyday thoughts of paying bills, meeting deadlines and what you’re going to have for dinner. And for the briefest, most fleeting of moments you have a fantasy of going on an adventure, of escaping normal life and leaving behind the daily routine.

Of seeing a different world, where no one knows you who are and where you can be anyone you ever wanted to be. Of forgetting the past and losing yourself in new experiences and endless possibilities. Of feeling like you’re really living and not just flatlining through life.

Just for a moment. Who doesn’t ever dream of that?

I must have dozed off for a little while, and when I wake up I’m stiff and cold. I give a little shiver. Gosh, that air conditioning is rather strong, isn’t it? It felt lovely and cool before, but now I’m actually a bit chilly. Reaching for the blanket that was folded up on my chair, I try and snuggle underneath it, but I just can’t get warm. In fact, I’ve even got goose bumps, I realise, glancing at my arms underneath my sweatshirt.

I give up. It’s hopeless. I need to stretch my legs and warm up.

Abandoning the blanket, I get up and make my way along the corridor, stepping over various arms and legs, until I reach the end of the carriage where I slide open the door.

A burst of hot air hits me. It’s like walking into an oven. Several men are standing outside in the space between the two carriages, smoking cigarettes, chatting in Hindi, or just hanging out, watching the world go by.

I join them. Leaning by the open door, my hair flaps around my face, blown about by the sweltering breeze. Tying it into a ponytail, I turn to gaze at the receding landscape. At the verdant, lush rice fields, bright shiny palm trees, makeshift houses painted in multi-colours, and half-naked children who run alongside the train, waving and laughing, trying to keep up and falling behind, huge smiles breaking across their faces as I wave back.

As I capture the sight of the children’s faces, their smiles blurring into one as I pass by, it’s like being dipped in melted happiness.

This is what it’s all about. This is what they mean when they talk about train travel in India being magical. It’s not about luxury cabins and being served gin and tonics. It’s about those random moments when our lives touch other people’s, however briefly. About a fleeting moment in time when a bunch of village children wave to a stranger on a train and she waves back, and for a split second their lives cross over.