The Love Detective (30 page)

A catchy Bollywood tune blasts out loudly and, despite feeling upset, his exuberance makes me smile. Seeing my expression he boogies over. ‘You want to dance?’ he grins, holding out his hand.

‘Oh, no . . . no,’ I protest, hurriedly making excuses. ‘I have two left feet.’

‘No way! I have two right feet!’ he declares with mock-seriousness, ‘so together we make a perfect pair!’

I laugh and his face explodes into a grin. ‘I’m Billy,’ he says, stretching out his hand.

‘Ruby,’ I smile, shaking it. ‘Is Billy your real name?’ I ask curiously.

‘No,’ he laughs, ‘but my real name is very difficult for tourists to pronounce.’

‘Try me,’ I challenge him. After my success with the names of Indian food, I’m feeling a lot braver.

‘Really?’ he asks.

‘Really,’ I nod confidently, folding my arms.

‘OK, well it’s . . .’ and then he proceeds to rattle off the longest string of vowels and consonants I’ve ever heard.

Actually, on second thoughts . . .

‘I think I’ll stick with Billy,’ I say with an apologetic smile, and he laughs delightedly.

‘So is this your first time on holiday in Pushkar?’ he asks, turning the music back down so we can have a conversation without yelling.

‘Yes, I arrived last night,’ I nod, ‘though I’m not really on holiday.’ I break off as I realise that if anyone is going to have seen Amy in Pushkar, it’s going to be Billy, as the place is teeming with tourists. ‘You haven’t seen a girl with blonde hair, about this tall, skinny as a rail . . . ?’ I ask hopefully, trying to describe her.

‘Is she with a handsome Indian man, a yoga instructor?’

My heart leaps. ‘Oh my god, yes, that’s her!’ I exclaim, excitedly. ‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know,’ he shakes his head. ‘I have not seen her.’

‘But . . .’ I say confusedly, my smile collapsing.

‘I only know this, because you are the second person to ask.’

‘I
am?
’ I feel a jerk of surprise.

‘Yes,’ he nods, ‘a woman came in earlier, asking questions about them. She said it was very important that she find them, she said it was urgent.’

The news that someone else is trying to find Amy and Shine is as unexpected as it’s alarming. ‘Who was she?’ I ask urgently.

‘She didn’t say,’ he shrugs, shaking his head, ‘but she wasn’t from around here. She was wearing city clothes and in a very expensive car. A dark grey Mercedes with tinted windows.’

Dark grey Mercedes?
I’m suddenly transported back to the small back street in Goa where I saw Shine and that woman . . . she was in a dark grey Mercedes. It must be the same person. I quickly reel off a description of her and Billy nods his head vigorously.

‘Yes, yes that’s her,’ he says, adamantly. ‘Why? Who is she?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head in bewilderment. Unless of course, she’s the wronged girlfriend and has found out he’s eloped with Amy and is trying to stop the wedding. Or, even worse, what if she’s the wronged wife?

Newspaper headlines flash across my brain:

WIFE KILLS CHEATING HUSBAND . . . WOMAN ARRESTED AFTER MURDERING PARTNER AND NEW GIRLFRIEND . . . NO FURY LIKE A WOMAN SCORNED: TRAGEDY AFTER THE DISCOVERY OF AFFAIR WITH MISTRESS.

Fuck. Women who find out their partners are unfaithful do all kinds of crazy things. Well, unless you’re me, of course, I think grimly. I was so sensible – the craziest thing I did was cancel his subscription to
Cycling Weekly
. The least I could have done is cut off some shirtsleeves, or stuff frozen prawns up his exhaust pipe, or
something
. God, I really am a total wuss.

‘But you know the blonde girl?’ asks Billy, his voice interrupting my thoughts.

‘Yes, she’s my sister,’ I explain, a knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach. Now it’s not just about me finding Amy, it’s about me finding her
first
.

Seeing my worried expression, he pats my arm reassuringly. ‘Have you got a photograph?’ he suggests helpfully. ‘Maybe if I showed my friends, someone will have seen her.’

Which is a great idea, except—

‘Only on my phone, and the battery is dead,’ I say glumly, waving it at him, ‘and I can’t find anywhere that sells a charger.’

‘Let me see it.’ He gestures for my phone.

‘It’s hopeless, no one has one, I’ve tried everywhere,’ I continue as I pass it to him, futilely.

Unexpectedly, his face brightens. ‘It’s the same as mine, look!’ he exclaims, pulling out his own phone from the pocket of his jeans and waving it at me excitedly. It’s a perfect match. ‘You can use my charger!’

‘Oh wow, really?’ What a total stroke of luck.

‘Yes, one hundred per cent! I’ll go get it, I live close to here.’

‘Are you sure? I don’t want to be any trouble,’ I begin to protest, but he bats away my objections with delighted exuberance.

‘No, of course, it’s no problem, beautiful,’ he grins. ‘Wait here, I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ and before I can protest further, he dashes off through the café, jumps on a battered old moped parked outside and disappears in a high-pitched roar and cloud of dust.

Leaving me sitting here with my coffee. I take a sip of the hot, frothy liquid – god, it’s delicious – and glance idly around me. The café is still packed and my eyes drift from person to person. I love people-watching; it’s one of my favourite pastimes, only this time there’s not much to watch as everyone is focused on their computer screens.

Call me a philistine, but I just don’t get all this social networking. For starters it’s hardly social, is it? Glancing around at everyone, I can’t help noticing that no one is speaking to each other; instead they’re all busy tweeting, IM’ing, and Facebooking. I joined Facebook when it started, but to be honest I barely use my account. I’ve never understood why people put their whole lives on there. Or why, instead of posting status updates telling people what an amazing time they’re having, they aren’t out there
living
that amazing time.

But then I guess it must just be me. I mean, Amy was obsessed with Facebook. She’s forever updating her page, posting photos, tagging – I freeze, mid-thought. Of course! How can I have been so stupid?

Urgently, I look around me. Most people are on their own iPads and laptops, but there are a couple of communal desktop computers . . . and someone’s leaving! I leap off my stool and jump on it with such speed the person vacating mumbles something about me ‘jumping in his grave’. I mutter my apologies and grab the mouse. Facebook is already open from the previous user and I quickly enter my login details.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. Amy might be ignoring me, but there’s no way she’ll be able to ignore her beloved Facebook. There’s a good chance she’ll have posted something about her whereabouts.

As my page loads, I’m about to flick onto Amy’s when I see I have a couple of messages. Like I said, I rarely go on here, and I quickly click on them. The first is a friend request from Vijay, the guy with the headphones whom I met on the train. I hit confirm, then open the next one. It’s a message telling me I’ve been tagged in a picture. What picture? As it opens up, I gasp out loud. It’s the photograph Amy took of me in my Elton John-style sunglasses! I feel an immediate sense of outrage. I can’t believe it; she promised! Though she’s right, I do look bloody terrible . . . I click to comment and start typing.
Amy! Where the bloody hell are—

Suddenly the screen goes black.

What the . . . ?

I jab at the keyboard and am about to check the power cord when I hear a loud groan from the shaven-headed guy sitting at the desktop next to me.

‘Bloody power cut,’ he swears from behind his computer screen.

‘Excuse me?’ I frown, but he’s already gathered his things and is heading out of the café.

It’s then I realise the radio has fallen silent. Frustration bites. I can’t believe my bad luck.

The loud buzzing of a moped distracts me and I glance over to see Billy is back.

‘I have it!’ he announces as he bounds towards me, waving his charger in the air like a trophy, a triumphant smile on his face.

‘It’s no good, the power’s out,’ I smile ruefully.

His forehead creases up and he glances at his watch. ‘It’s that time already?’

I look at him for an explanation and he shrugs. ‘The generator has been switched off, it happens twice a day for two hours.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. In winter it is OK, but in the summer when it is fifty degrees and the fans stop working . . .’ He rolls his eyes. ‘It gets very hot, especially for the children and old people.’

‘Gosh, yes,’ I nod, trying to imagine being in fifty degrees without even a fan, but not succeeding. ‘So what will you do now?’ I gesture towards the espresso machine, now standing defunct. ‘You can’t make coffee . . . and if the Internet connection is down . . .’

Around us, I notice the tables are quickly vacating.

‘I close the café and show my new friend around town,’ he says and, holding out his arm to link with mine, he flashes me the biggest smile. ‘Come, let me show you the real Pushkar.’

Chapter 27

Imagine visiting a stately home and going on the official tour. Shuffling around with all the other tourists, taking pictures of all the same things, visiting only the rooms that are open to the public, listening to the authorised history . . .

Now imagine being able to go behind the scenes with someone who was actually born and lives there. Exploring all the secret passages and places, discovering things that other tourists never get to see, getting to hear the real lowdown – an enthralling mix of insider knowledge, fascinating personal experiences and hilarious anecdotes . . .

That’s what it’s like being with Billy.

For the next couple of hours, he takes it upon himself to be my personal tour guide and throws himself into the role with more enthusiasm and delight than I’ve ever experienced from a stranger. And yet, almost instantly, Billy feels nothing like a stranger. He feels like someone I’ve known for years and hope to know for many more.

He has an amazing ability, as a few special people do, of being able to take me completely out of myself, and for the next few hours I get to forget all about being upset and angry, about trying to find Amy and fighting with Jack, and instead get to totally immerse myself in a whole new set of experiences.

‘Legend has it that the lake appeared when the god Lord Brahma dropped a lotus flower from the sky,’ he explains, as he takes me down to the holy lake. ‘
Push
means lotus flower, and
kar
means hand.’ Pausing at the top of the steps to take in the view, he stretches out his hand before him. ‘Look how the lake is surrounded by over fifty ghats
;
this is where people come to bathe and offer prayers.’

I nod wordlessly. It really is beautiful here, and the air hums with the distant sounds of temple bells ringing and prayers being chanted.

‘Come, follow me.’

It’s teeming with a colourful mix of Pushkar locals, Western tourists and Hindu pilgrims, but he finds a quiet spot and, instructing me to take off my shoes so we can get closer, we sit together on the smooth stone steps, gazing out across the water.

There, with solemn reverence, he explains all about the performing of
puja
(prayers) at the lake. Billy, like so many Indian people I’ve met on my trip, is both deeply spiritual and respectful of age-old traditions, whilst at the same time fully embracing everything modern contemporary life has to offer.

They seem at odds, but somehow he manages to find a place for it all to coexist quite happily. Switching his mobile phone to silent and tucking it into the pocket of his skinny jeans, he enthuses about his daily ritual of offering blessings, before warning me to be careful of the bogus priests who target the tourists for money.

‘They will offer to do
puja
for your family and in return you will receive your Pushkar passport,’ he says, ‘but be careful as they will try to trick you into paying for a prayer for each member of your family.’

‘What’s a Pushkar passport?’ I ask curiously.

‘A piece of red thread that they tie around your wrist,’ he says, showing me his, ‘and look, I have more,’ he grins, pulling several pieces of red thread out of his pockets. ‘Here, let me tie one around your wrist too, and then they won’t bother you; they will see it and leave you alone.’

I laugh, but shake my head in refusal. ‘That’s faking it,’ I smile, ‘it wouldn’t feel right. I want to do it properly.’

‘Really?’ He looks both surprised and delighted.

‘Absolutely,’ I nod, then glancing around the lake, point towards an old man wearing robes and a large turban. He looks just how I imagine a devout priest to look. ‘What about him?’ I say, pointing towards him. ‘Will he do
puja
for me?’

Billy falls about laughing. ‘Oh no, Ruby,’ he exclaims, shaking his head, ‘he’s the local pot-head!’