The Love Detective (27 page)

‘So I was thinking of doing a spot of sightseeing and going to the fort here in Agra, seeing as there won’t be time to visit the one in Jaipur,’ he adds in explanation. ‘Apparently it opens at sunrise, so if you fancy coming along . . .’

With the events of last night, my feelings for Jack have taken a back seat, but now they rear their head again. ‘That sounds interesting,’ I reply casually, my disappointment at not leaving replaced by a flicker of excitement.

‘OK great,’ smiles Jack. ‘I told Cindy we’d leave in about five minutes—’

‘Cindy?’

At that precise moment I hear a door slam closed and look up onto the balcony to see her emerging from Jack’s room. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. They must have spent the night together.

Well, what did I expect?
Of course
they spent the night together, Ruby. Did you really expect they wouldn’t? Did you really think you stood a chance?

As I watch Cindy bouncing towards us like a Victoria’s Secrets Angel, I swallow hard, pushing down my feelings of rejection. I can’t let Jack see I’m hurt and upset. I have to act normally.

‘Hi, handsome!’ she beams, planting a large kiss on his cheek. ‘Oh, and hi, Ruby,’ she adds, spotting me. ‘You look great.’

‘Er, thanks,’ I reply, taken aback by her compliment.

‘There’s nothing like having a favourite outfit,’ she smiles sweetly.

I flinch slightly but don’t react.

‘So, we all ready? I’m so excited!’ she whoops. ‘This is going to be awesome!’

‘Actually, on second thoughts, I’ve just remembered something I need to do,’ I fib quickly. ‘Damn! Silly me, head like a sieve.’ I make a show of slapping my head, but Jack doesn’t look convinced.

‘What have you got to do?’ he asks, his brow furrowing.

‘Erm . . . just a few errands,’ I say vaguely. I desperately need to find some new clothes, but I’m not saying that in front of Cindy and giving her the satisfaction of knowing I’m well aware of what a state I look. ‘You two go ahead without me.’

‘OK,’ beams Cindy, without the need for any further persuasion. Looking thrilled, she loops a long slender arm through Jack’s.

He frowns. ‘But if it’s only a few errands, it won’t take long,’ he reasons. ‘We can wait, can’t we, Cindy?’

Cindy gives a lip-glossed pout. ‘Well, I suppose so,’ she says reluctantly, ‘but it does get really busy – we should go early to avoid the crowds.’

I bite my tongue. Isn’t this is the same person who thought the famous Amber Fort was a ‘kinda boring old castle-y thingy’?

‘You should go.’ I force a bright smile. ‘I can always catch up with you,’ I add, with absolutely no intention of doing so.

‘Well OK, as long as you’re sure,’ says Jack uncertainly, after a pause.

‘Absolutely,’ I nod, glancing at Cindy, who’s holding on to Jack in the same way women clutch on to their designer handbags, as if someone’s going to try and steal him away from her.

‘Bye, have fun,’ she trills, in a tinkly, singsong voice.

‘Yes, you too,’ I say, waving them off with a cheery smile, which collapses like a soufflé as soon as they disappear out of sight. Still, it’s my own fault for being so naive and foolish. I should never have listened to Diana; she was just being loyal. And anyway, so what if he slept with Cindy? As I said, it’s not as if I
like
him. It’s just my pride that’s hurt, I tell myself firmly, not my feelings.

Yet, for some reason, that doesn’t make me feel any better.

For a moment I stand there, feeling deflated, then glance at my watch. It’s still early; they won’t be back for a while. What am I going to do for a couple of hours?

Exactly what I was going to do, I decide. Go buy some clothes.

And not just because I urgently need some. But because it doesn’t matter where in the world you are, or how different things are, there are some things in life that will always remain the same. When you need cheering up, there’s only one thing for it.

Shopping.

I’ve heard about the famous local bazaar and so, armed with a map from reception, I go off to explore. Despite it still being early, Agra is awake and already bustling with activity. Whoever said New York is the city that never sleeps has obviously never been to India, I muse, as I walk around the narrow, dusty streets, teeming with people and rickshaws.

It’s funny how quickly I’ve become acclimatised to the noise and mayhem of India. Like the dust underneath my fingernails, I no longer notice it. It’s almost hard now to recollect that initial shock to the senses when I first arrived. It’s as if India gives you a new set of eyes, allowing you to see through the dust and the pollution, past the mayhem and the poverty, to the true beauty and magic beyond.

I pause for a few moments to watch a group of boys playing a makeshift game of cricket at the side of the road. Using sticks as improvised stumps and a piece of wood as a bat, their faces are filled with concentration as they bowl and bat, their shrieks of frustration and jubilation filling the air as one team bowls the other out.

One boy sees me watching and waves, his smile lighting up his face, and I wave back, wishing I had a camera so I could take a picture, yet at the same time knowing I don’t need a photograph. I won’t forget that face, or that smile.

Leaving them to their game of cricket, I continue walking, and it’s not long before I come across the labyrinth of lanes overflowing with dozens of markets that make up one great big bazaar. Forget the famous Portobello Road market in London, this place puts it to shame, selling everything from exotic spices to pashminas to electrical goods to intricately carved marble work.

Turning a corner, I leave one market selling only spices and enter yet another filled with row upon row of stalls selling nothing but clothing. I feel a wave of happy relief. I’ve spent years wailing ‘I have nothing to wear,’ but now I really
don’t
have anything to wear. I’ve spent the last two nights hand-washing my underwear.

Eagerly, I pounce on the first stall. OK, so I need socks, underwear, a change of clothes, ooh, and look at that jacket . . .

Reaching for it, I quickly take it off the coat hanger and try it on. Wow, it’s so lovely and warm!

‘Welcome.’ The stallholder appears from the back of the shop. A big man, he has an even bigger beard. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Hi, yes,’ I smile broadly. ‘How much is this jacket?’

Taking a calculator, he punches in some numbers and passes it to me. I look at the display. OK, so that’s . . . I do a quick calculation in my head . . . ‘
How much?
’

‘It is a very fine jacket,’ says the stallholder gravely.

‘Um . . . yes, I know,’ I nod hastily, not wanting to offend him, ‘it just seems rather expensive . . .’ I break off.

Of course! I’m such a dummy, I nearly forgot. I’m supposed to haggle!

Haggling, I’ve learned, is a way of life in India, but until now I haven’t been bold enough to try it. I haven’t got the skills or the confidence and so in Goa I just paid the asking price. But I’ve decided: if I can learn to eat Indian food, I can try my hand at haggling. So I did a quick bit of reading up on it before I set off. According to the guidebook I found in reception, all I need to do is follow a few simple rules:

Rule number one: Never make it too obvious you like something.

I catch sight of myself in the jacket in the stallholder’s mirror. Oh dear, I don’t think I’ve got off to a very good start. Does actually wearing the item class as making it too obvious?

Rule number two: Don’t buy the first thing you see. You can often find the same or similar items on other stalls. Look around and check out the prices.

Right OK, I can do that.

‘Thank you, but I’m going to think about it,’ I say politely, hanging the jacket back up.

‘You don’t like it?’ he frowns.

Oh no, I’ve insulted him. ‘Yes,’ I say hastily, before quickly remembering. ‘I mean,
maybe
,’ I correct myself. Actually, this isn’t as easy as it sounds. ‘But I’m going to take a wander around,’ I add, doing my best to sound nonchalant.

Throwing him what I hope is a confident smile, I slowly mosey over to the stall next door, only I can see immediately that they don’t have any jackets like that one. That jacket was really nice.

‘How much do you want to pay?’ demands the stallholder, following me with the jacket. He thrusts it at me with a flourish. ‘Give me a good price.’

Rule number three: Begin by offering half the asking price. The seller will not accept this but it’s a good starting point.

I gesture to his calculator and as he hands it to me, I hesitate. I’m not sure I’ve got the nerve for this. I look at the stallholder. He strokes his beard and stares back at me. I stare back nervously. It’s a Mexican stand-off, India stallholder-style. Plucking up courage, I punch in a number and hand it back to him.

There’s a loud explosion as he snorts violently. ‘No, this is impossible,’ he thunders, throwing his hands in the air.

Startled, I jump a mile. Oh god, this was a terrible idea, I’m not cut out for this. I’m a chicken.

Plus, I really like that jacket.

Rule number four: Be prepared to walk away. You’ll find that most sellers will lower their final price if you’re prepared to leave empty-handed.

‘Goodbye Mohamed,’ I smile, giving the stallholder a wave.

‘Goodbye Ruby,’ he beams, tucking my wad of rupees in his pocket.

Fifteen minutes and two cups of chai later, I’ve learned all about Mohamed’s family, met his lovely wife, and seen pictures of all his ten children, who go down in size like Russian dolls. And we’ve struck a deal for the jacket. OK, so it wasn’t anywhere near half price and no doubt I could find one a lot cheaper somewhere else later on, but you know what? I don’t care. I can’t haggle, I’m rubbish at it.

Plus, when I realised the few rupees I was haggling over were the equivalent of the cost of a cappuccino at Starbucks, it all seemed a bit ridiculous.

‘You look very good,’ nods Mohamed approvingly. ‘It is an excellent jacket, it will keep you very warm.’

‘Thanks. I love it,’ I smile broadly. ‘And thank you for the tea.’

‘It is my most double welcome,’ he nods cheerfully, giving the end of his beard a twirl. ‘Come back soon and drink tea with me again.’

Smiling happily, I leave my new friend and continue on through the maze of stalls. The sprawling bazaar has everything you could possibly need, be it new clothes or your sandals fixing by a little man with a sewing machine, who deftly and quickly stitches the straps tighter to stop them slipping off my feet. I soon find myself loaded down with much-needed basics such as underwear and toiletries, a pair of jeans and trainers – which have neither the designer label or the price tag, and the only T-shirt I can find that doesn’t have a picture of the Taj Mahal on the front.

I even manage to find a stall selling make-up, around which are clustered dozens of Indian women, in the exact same way their British counterparts cluster around the cosmetics counters at Selfridges, where I buy a lipstick and some kohl for my eyes.

And I would probably have bought a whole lot more if I hadn’t been distracted by the most gorgeous fragrance. Following my nostrils, I find an old man with dozens of glass decanters filled with perfumed oils. Musk. Sandalwood. Amber. He patiently dabs them on my wrist, each one more divine than the next.

I leave with several little bottles and, feeling much more cheered up with all my purchases, glance at my watch. I should probably start heading back now, I decide, turning around to find my path blocked by a pair of hands.

‘
Mehndi
,’
urges a woman, her palms outstretched.

‘I’m sorry?’ I reply, not understanding.

‘Henna,’ she says, gesturing to her hands.

I glance down at them, and it’s then I notice she has the most amazingly decorated hands. Elaborate swirls and intricate designs of dots and flowers form a beautiful pattern all over her palms and fingers. ‘Henna,’ she repeats, reaching for mine. She holds out a small bottle.

‘Oh, no thank you,’ I smile, shaking my head, ‘I have to go.’

‘Very pretty,’ she continues, still holding my hands in hers.

Caught, I take another look at them. They
are
gorgeous. ‘OK,’ I nod, before I can stop myself, and as she ushers me to sit down, I feel a flutter of anticipation and excitement. I’m never going to have a bikini body, but I am going to have beautiful hands.

An hour or so later, I arrive back at the
haveli
to find Jack waiting by the car with Rocky, who’s under the bonnet.

‘Perfect timing,’ Jack smiles, ‘I just got back from the fort.’

‘How was it?’ I ask casually. Now the initial shock has worn off, I’m totally cool about everything.

‘Pretty impressive,’ he nods, ‘it’s one of the finest Mughal forts in India. It’s a shame you couldn’t come.’

I try to look regretful. ‘I know, what a pity, but I had to do a few errands.’