The Love Detective (9 page)

‘You’re not supposed to put umbrellas up inside,’ she cautions, coming in and sitting down cross-legged on the bed.

‘Superstitious rubbish,’ I pooh-pooh, giving it a last admiring glance, before wrapping it back up. ‘I don’t believe in all that.’

‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ she shrugs. Pushing her sunglasses onto her head, she casts an eye around the clothes-strewn landscape. ‘So, ready to go back to London?’

‘Almost . . .’ I smile, looking up from my packing. ‘It’s been a lovely break, just what my agent ordered, but I suppose it’s time to get back to reality . . .’ It’s true, it’s been a relaxing few days and physically I look and feel so much better than I did when I arrived, though mentally not much has changed. From the outside I might look different, but on the inside I feel pretty much the same as I did before I left London.

Still, what did I expect? A life-changing experience? It was just a week’s holiday, after all. I couldn’t expect miracles. Just a suntan and some souvenirs.

Speaking of which . . .

‘I’ve just got to finish this last bit of packing.’

Putting down the umbrella, I try to shoehorn a set of wooden coasters and a hammock into my bag. Maybe I have gone a
little
overboard on the souvenir shopping. Do Mum and Dad really need more coasters? Even if they are really beautifully carved. And am I really going to use a hammock in London? OK, I’ve got a garden, but don’t you need sunshine as well?

Then there are the three pashminas I bought for Rachel, Harriet and Milly, that turned into six as I couldn’t make up my mind which they’d like best . . . actually, no, make it seven, I realise, spotting another one hidden under a large pile of incense sticks.

I stare at them for a moment. Crikey, did I buy all that? That’s a lot of Nag Champa. Mrs Flannegan is going to think I’ve turned into a hippy.

‘What about you?’ Deciding to deal with my souvenirs later, I look up and shoot Amy a smile. ‘Excited to be going home?’

There’s a pause. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say excited . . .’

‘No, you’re probably more nervous,’ I smile encouragingly, ‘what with the new job and everything.’

‘Yes,’ she nods, fidgeting with her hair. She seems worried, but that’s understandable, it’s a huge deal for her.

‘You’ll be brilliant, don’t worry,’ I quickly try to reassure her. ‘You’re so talented, Amy, that’s why they hired you! And we’re all so proud of you, me, and Mum and Dad – we know how hard you’ve worked for this.’

‘I just don’t want to let anyone down—’ she begins, but I don’t let her finish.

‘You’re not going to let anyone down!’ I admonish. ‘Amy, you could
never
let anyone down!’

She throws me a thankful look. ‘Thanks Rubes.’

‘Hey, what are big sisters for?’ I say, giving her arm a quick squeeze, before turning back to my packing. ‘So, what time shall we get the cab for?’ My buttocks have only just recovered from the tuk-tuk ride a week ago, so this time I’ve insisted on taking a taxi to the airport.

‘Well actually, here’s the thing . . .’

I pause from squeezing the fifth pashmina into my suitcase. Whenever my sister says ‘here’s the thing’, it usually translates from Amy-speak into ‘here’s the problem.’

‘What thing?’ I say suspiciously.

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she reassures me quickly. ‘It’s just that I want to say goodbye to a few people, just some of my backpacker friends, so I thought it’s probably easier if I meet you at the airport.’

‘But it seems silly to pay for two cabs when we can share one,’ I frown.

‘Biju offered to give me a lift,’ she replies. ‘So it’s no problem, and I just thought I could leave now while you finish your packing. I’ve done mine already, I didn’t have that much.’ She glances at my overstuffed suitcase with a worried expression, ‘And it looks like you might be a while.’

‘Well, OK I suppose so . . .’ I shrug. She has got a point. After all, there’s no reason in her hanging around whilst I try and beat my Samsonite wheelie into submission.

‘And there’s another thing . . .’

I raise my eyebrows.

‘Could you lend me some cash?’ She shoots me an apologetic look. ‘I’ll give you it back, I promise. It’s just my debit card won’t work any more.’

I roll my eyes, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve bailed my sister out because her debit card won’t work, or it’s been eaten, or she’s lost it. Of course, it’s always the card’s fault, and never because she’s useless with money and has spent all of it.

‘Look in my wallet,’ I say, gesturing to my bag next to her. ‘Just leave me enough for the taxi.’

‘Thanks sis, I knew I could count on you!’ She takes a bundle of rupees then, jumping up from the bed, gives me a big hug.

‘This is just a loan,’ I warn, hugging her back. ‘To add to the other loans.’

‘I know,’ she nods, then, breaking away, turns to the door. ‘Bye Rubes.’

‘Bye Amy – oh, hang on.’ But she’s already gone rushing off up the beach. Standing at the doorway, I yell after her, ‘Just don’t be late!’

For a moment, she stops running and turns. ‘I won’t!’ she yells back. Then she’s gone, disappearing up the steep path that leads to the guesthouse and I go back inside and return to my packing.

Now how on earth am I going to pack that umbrella?

Chapter 8

It’s not until much later that I realise we never arranged what time to meet.

But that’s OK, I’m sure it’s fine.

I manage to brush this troublesome thought to one side until I reach Goa International Airport. After all, it’s not rocket science, is it? Everyone knows you should get to the airport two hours before your flight.

Even Amy
.

Still, just to be on the safe side, I send her a text telling her. Followed up by another, reminding her which airline we’re flying with, the flight time and number. Another saying I’ll meet her at their check-in desk. And another asking her to confirm she’s received all my texts.

She doesn’t reply to any of them.

An hour later and I’m still waiting in departures. Checking my mobile phone for the umpteenth time, I let out a gasp of frustration.
Where the hell is she?
Glancing up from the blank screen, I scan my eyes across the crowds of people at the airport. Any minute now she’s going to come dashing towards me, an apologetic smile on her face, one of her excuses spilling out of her mouth.

OK, I’m going to count to ten.

No, twenty. Make it twenty.

I start counting. One, two, three . . . maybe I’m going too fast, I’ll slow down . . . ten
elephant
, eleven
elephant
. . . No need to panic. Amy’s always late. She’ll turn up. Just stay calm. Be patient. Keep counting.
Niiiinnnneeettteeenn
. . . I’m like a record on the wrong speed . . .
Eleeeepppphhhaaannnttt
. . . I take a deep breath . . .
Tweeeennnntttttyyyyy
. . .

I stare at the concourse. No Amy.

Shit.

Hot with annoyance, I scroll down my list of contacts to call her. Honestly, she is so irresponsible! She is always late! In fact, I feel like I’ve spent my whole life waiting for her. She was even late being born, too – three weeks overdue, apparently. Poor Mum was the size of a barrel.

The number connects and starts ringing. Irritation stabs. This call is probably going to cost me a fortune. God knows how much I’ll be charged, but I don’t have any choice, do I? If she doesn’t turn up soon we’re going to miss the plane.

Argh!
No answer!
I listen impatiently to the ringing tone. Why doesn’t she ever answer her bloody phone, for Chrissakes? Just for once. Pick up your bloody phone . . .

‘
Hi, this is Amy, I’m away travelling so can’t get to the phone right now . . .
’

As her voicemail message clicks on, I hang up and stuff my phone in my pocket. Impatience gives way to unease. I’m actually getting worried now. I hope nothing’s happened to her. The journey to the airport was pretty nerve-wracking, even in a cab. What if there was some kind of accident? What if—

Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have let her go off on her own. I should have insisted she came with me.

‘
This is a last call for the flight to London Heathrow. Any remaining passengers need to make their way to check-in immediately.
’

As an announcement sounds over the loudspeaker, I zone back in and turn around to look over at the check-in desk.

I do a double take. Hang on, where is everyone?

Before there was a long queue of people waiting to check in, a whole crowd milling around with suitcases and passports, but now they’ve all disappeared. There’s just an empty space where they once were.

Surely everyone can’t have gone through security, can they?

Can they?

I check my watch and my panic level moves from amber to code red.

It’s that time
already
?

‘Excuse me.’ Grabbing hold of my suitcase, I quickly wheel it over to the check-in attendant sitting behind the desk.

She looks up from her paperwork, as if surprised to still see a passenger. This is not good. Inside I can feel code red starting to flash. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ she enquires politely.

‘I hope so,’ I reply, giving her a big smile. I once read an article about how the power of a smile can break down religious boundaries, open doors of opportunity, and change people’s lives. Personally, I’m just hoping it can hold up a plane for a few minutes. ‘I’m flying to London but I’m waiting for my sister—’

I mean, compared to religious boundaries, what’s a little delay?

‘The check-in is closing,’ she exclaims sharply.

OK, maybe a smile isn’t
that
powerful.

‘I need your passport,’ she continues, her hand shooting out towards me.

‘But I’m just waiting for someone,’ I hear myself bleating.

‘There is no time to wait!’ she almost yells at me. ‘You need to check in your bags and go to the gate immediately!’

I stare at her, frozen. For probably the first time in my sensible, practical, organised life, I have no idea what to do. I can’t miss the plane, but I can’t leave without Amy. And now my flashing code red has started sounding that loud foghorn alarm noise inside my head, like in a scene from one of those blockbusting Matt Damon action movies when the nuclear bomb is about to be detonated and all these men in suits are running around in front of computer monitors yelling and screaming . . .

Actually, that’s not a bad idea . . .

I’m stopped by my phone, which suddenly springs to life and starts ringing.

Amy
.

I snatch it desperately to my ear.

‘Rubes, it’s me.’

As I hear her voice, relief washes over me. ‘Oh thank God you’re OK! I’ve been worried sick,’ I gasp, before turning back to the check-in attendant. ‘Sorry, excuse me, just a sec.’ I step quickly to one side out of earshot, then, ‘
Where the fuck are you?
’ I screech into my handset, any thoughts of big sisterly love flying out of the window. ‘You’re going to miss the plane!’

‘I know,’ she replies matter-of-factly.

‘What do you mean, you
know
?’ I fire back. ‘I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour, you promised you wouldn’t be late—’

‘I’m not late—’

‘Amy, I’m not going to argue with you,’ I snap. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m with Shine.’

‘Shine?’ I exclaim. ‘What are you doing with Shine?’ For a split second I almost think she’s going to tell me she’s doing yoga.

‘He’s driving—’ she begins, but I cut her off.

‘But I thought Biju was driving you to the airport?’ I’m standing on tiptoes, looking for her.

‘I’m not coming, Rubes.’

‘What?’ My phone must be going funny, I must have misheard her. Snatching it away from my ear, I stare at it – no, it looks perfectly normal – then quickly press it back. ‘What do you mean, you’re not coming? You’re late!’

‘Rubes, you’re not listening. I’m not getting on the flight.’

‘But I don’t understand . . .’ Confusion is whirling.

‘I’m not coming back to London.’

There’s a pause as I’m momentarily lost for words. ‘Have you gone mad?’ I gasp, finding my voice.

‘No, I’m not mad . . . I’m in love!’ Her words come out in a sudden rush.

‘In love!’ I echo in disbelief. ‘With who?’

‘Shine,’ she gushes, her voice bursting with excitement.

The surprises are coming thick and fast. ‘You mean the yoga instructor?’ I say, astonished.

But no sooner has his name come out of my mouth than it’s suddenly all falling into place: the way they were when I first saw them on the beach; the text messages on her phone; her excuses that she was always doing yoga. I suddenly feel like a complete idiot. Of course! How could I have been so blind?