The Love Detective (24 page)

‘See, no problem,’ Rocky beams, as we sit down.

I think about the restaurants 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
mis
fortune.

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.

Rocky looks at me, confounded. ‘I’m afraid I do not understand.’

‘It’s completely my fault,’ I apologise. ‘I should have said something when you were ordering. You see, I’m not an adventurous eater, I can’t eat spicy Indian food.’ I can hear myself gabbling as I try to explain. Oh god, this is awful. Rocky has been kind enough to bring me to his local restaurant, I don’t want him to think I’m being rude. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m really rubbish, maybe I can order some plain rice instead?’

‘Nonsense,’ he shakes his head.

‘No really.’

‘Of course you can eat Indian food,’ he says firmly, ‘I will teach you.’

I stop protesting and stare at him. ‘
Teach me?
’

Until this moment it’s never occurred to me that I could
learn
how to eat Indian food, in the same way you can learn how to swim, or speak French.

‘This is
paneer
,’ he says, pointing to the first dish, which contains small, bite-sized cubes in a rich sauce. ‘It is a kind of cheese.’

‘Cheese?’ I look at him in surprise. I would never have guessed. Somehow it seems suddenly less scary.

‘Yes, and we use this in
Malai Kofta
,’ he points to another dish, which looks like meatballs. ‘Please, repeat after me.’

‘Malai . . . Kofta
,’ I stumble over the pronunciation, feeling self-conscious. Actually, it reminds me a lot of trying to learn French. My accent was always horrible.

‘This is vegetables and the paneer, deep-fried, it is very good,’ he smiles, patting his tiny pot belly. ‘
Chana Masala
,’ he says, pointing to another dish.

‘Chana . . . Masala
,’ I repeat clumsily, only this time I secretly enjoy the sensation of hearing myself trying to say the unfamiliar words.

‘This is chickpeas with onions, tomatoes, dried mango root and spices . . .’

‘Oh, but you see, that’s my problem, it’s the spices—’ I begin vocalising my fears, but he won’t let me finish.

‘And here is dhal, my favourite. It is made of lentils and it is
very
spicy . . .’

I open my mouth in protestation, but he waggles his finger sternly, silencing me.

‘And so you must eat it with the raita.’ He points to a bowl of creamy-looking yoghurt, then to pile of flatbread, ‘and the chapatti.’

I nod, captivated by my lesson.

‘Now watch.’

Spooning various dishes onto his large silver plate, Rocky proceeds to mix it together with his fingers. I watch, fascinated, and it’s then I realise no one is using cutlery to eat. ‘Use only your right hand,’ he says, crushing and mashing the mixture together, before scooping it up and pushing into his mouth, using his thumb. ‘Now your turn,’ he instructs.