But there’s nothing from Amy.
I feel a clunk of disappointment. It was a long shot, but still. I pause for a moment, anxiety drum-rolling, then pull myself together. I don’t have time to worry right now, I need to email Mum and Dad. I’ve been putting off contacting them as I was hoping for a miracle, plus I didn’t want to bother them while they were caravanning in France, but they’ll be heading back now. I can’t put it off any longer. I start typing:
Having such a fantastic time, we’ve decided to extend our trip a few more days, Amy sends her love!
Crossing my fingers, I press send. I hate lying to them, but I can hardly tell them the truth, can I? Mum gets into a panic if she can’t find her Tesco Clubcard, so telling her Amy’s eloped to Rajasthan with a yoga instructor would probably give her a heart attack.
I also call Mrs Flannegan. It’s after midnight in London but I know she likes to stay up into the early hours. She picks up immediately, and after a somewhat confusing few moments trying to explain that no, I wasn’t ringing from next door and couldn’t just pop over because I was in Delhi (‘Deli? What you doing in a deli at this time of night? If you’re hungry I can make you a sandwich, I’ve got some lovely cheese and pickle’), I finally manage to explain and ask if she could look after Heathcliff a little longer.
‘Why of course dear, you should have just said,’ she chastises. ‘Heathcliff and Snoopy are getting on just wonderfully . . .’ Her voice is drowned out by a burst of barking and blood-curling miaows. ‘Oh, they do like to play,’ she chuckles, her laugh turning into a hacking cough, which adds to the mayhem.
Poor Heathcliff, I wince. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.
Feeling like a very bad mother, I hang up, then call both Amy and the number I found in her room. There’s no answer on either. I’m resigned, more than disappointed. Like I said, she never answers her phone in normal circumstances, so it’s hardly a surprise.
I leave a voicemail, telling her I’m in Delhi and to call me. There’s nothing else for it, I’ll just have to keep trying, I tell myself, hanging up and waiting for Jack and Rocky to appear. Which they do – Jack looking dishevelled with heavy bags under his eyes, striding down the corridor and yawning – and Rocky, immaculately dressed and ramrod straight, standing next to the little white car, which appears outside in the darkness like a ghost.
‘Morning,’ mumbles Jack, as he bundles himself onto the back seat.
‘Morning,’ I nod, sliding in next to him. It’s a lot smaller in the back than I remember, and as our thighs press up against each other we spring apart awkwardly.
‘Oops, sorry,’ I fluster, trying to rearrange myself into the corner. It feels suddenly very cosy on the back seat.
‘Actually, I think I’ll get in the front,’ says Jack, reaching for the door handle.
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible,’ says Rocky firmly from the driver’s seat. ‘Passengers must sit in the back.’
Ignoring him, Jack pushes on the door, but it won’t open.
‘It is for your own safety, boss,’ he continues solemnly.
‘Hang on, is this door locked?’ Jack rattles the handle.
‘It is better that you both travel in the back together. This way is much more comfortable and you will be happier. And if you are happy, I am happy.’
Jack mumbles something unintelligible under his breath, then slumps back against the seat. ‘Whatever you say,’ he surrenders, pushing his fedora down over his eyes. ‘Just wake me when it’s time for lunch.’
‘Yes, boss,’ says Rocky, beaming widely, and winking as he catches my eye in the rear-view mirror.
Hang on a minute, did I miss something? What was all that about? I peer at him doubtfully, but he’s already turned the ignition and is shifting gears.
So this is it. We’re off. As we pull out into the darkened street, I suddenly feel a clutch of trepidation. I’ve never done anything like this in my life. I hope I’m going to be OK. I get a flashback to my childhood and my parents telling me never to get into strange cars with strange men and feel a wave of panic. Oh fuck, it doesn’t get much stranger than this. No one knows where I am or who I’m with . . . wait a minute . . . I don’t really know where I am or who I’m with.
What if something happens to me? I know I need to find Amy, but still. I’m someone who likes to play it safe, and this is anything but safe. In fact, this is probably the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done in my whole, entire life!
It’s also, I realise, with a flutter in my stomach, the most bloody exciting.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, it’s daylight. Sunlight is streaming in through the window and I have to shield my eyes as I wind it down, letting in a blast of pollution and heat as I look out at the chaotic, traffic-choked roads.
‘Um, where are we?’ I ask, stretching myself out and tugging off my sweatshirt. I look across at Jack. He’s still fast asleep. At least, I think he is. I can’t see his face, it’s still hidden underneath his fedora, but I can hear faint snores.
‘Agra,’ announces Rocky, rather grandly.
‘Agra?’ I repeat in confusion. ‘But I thought we were going to Udaipur.’
‘Udaipur is our final destination, yes,’ nods Rocky, ‘but it is very far and now it is time for eating.’
‘Who mentioned eating?’ Jack suddenly jerks upright like a jack-in-a-box, dislodging his fedora, which tumbles onto his lap. He glances at me, and does a double take.
‘What?’ I say defensively, at his expression.
‘Um . . . nothing.’
He’s a terrible liar.
‘What?’ I say again. ‘Have I got something on my face?’
‘No, it’s not that . . . you just look a little different.’
Leaning across him, I angle myself towards the rear-view mirror to try and get a look at my reflection. And get the shock of my life. It had been dark this morning when I got up, and without any of my things I’d had to make do with washing my face with soap, brushing my teeth with the toothbrush I found in my hotel welcome pack, and that was it.
But now, seeing myself in broad daylight, I realise three things:
1. Never underestimate the power of a toiletry bag.
2. There is nothing I wouldn’t do right now for a lash-lengthening mascara.
3. I would kill for Angelina Jolie’s cheekbones. Or anyone’s, for that matter.
‘I . . . er . . . just did my hair differently,’ I reply, quickly scraping it up into a pineapple on the top of my head. ‘It makes me look . . . different.’ Not for the first time in my life do I wish I was one of those natural beauties who look fabulous without a scrap of make-up and hair that’s been left to dry naturally. Not someone who needs a good hour in the bathroom with an industrial-sized hairdryer and the entire contents of Selfridges’ cosmetics hall at their disposal.
‘Huh,’ shrugs Jack, furrowing his brow as he peers at me, ‘no kidding.’
I smile uncertainly. This is one of those times when I don’t know whether to feel pleased or offended he’s agreeing with me.
‘Anyway, it’s lunchtime,’ I say, quickly changing the subject and making a show of checking my watch.
Fortunately that wasn’t stolen, but then it’s only a cheap little Timex I’ve had for years. I don’t own expensive jewellery. Well, unless you count my diamond engagement ring that I still keep in my sock drawer. I tried to give it back but Sam didn’t want it. He said he’d bought it for me and it was mine to keep. I half thought about selling it, I even took it to my local jeweller’s for a valuation, but something stopped me. Maybe it was sentimentality, or the fact that it wouldn’t be worth much second-hand, anyway.
Or maybe it was because sometimes I do something that I’ve never told even my closest friends. Sometimes, secretly, I take it out and slip it back on and for those few moments when the diamond sparkles softly on my finger, I pretend everything is perfect again.
I know. I really am pathetic, aren??
?t I?
‘Great, I’m starving.’ Having woken up, Jack makes an attempt to stretch out his long limbs in the small confines of the back seat, arching his back and making loud groaning noises whilst sticking his fingers into his tufts of flattened hair. I watch him scraping them back and forth so vigorously, it’s almost like he’s trying to scrape ice off a windscreen.
God, he can be so annoying. Why can’t he wake up like a normal person? I grimace, being splashed with water as he unscrews a bottle and begins drinking thirstily.
‘I know an excellent place,’ nods Rocky, indicating left at the traffic lights. A rather futile gesture, as no one else on the road appears to pay a blind bit of notice and there’s nearly a pile-up as cars, tuk-tuks, mopeds and pedestrians converge upon us.
‘What kind of food does it serve?’ I ask, a little nervously.
‘Italian,’ replies Jack, resurfacing from his water bottle.
‘Ooh, really?’ I feel a flicker of happiness at the thought of a nice plate of pasta. Since the train I’ve only had a packet of crisps and a couple of bananas.
‘No, of course not,’ he laughs, shaking his head at me. ‘We’re in India, not Italy!’
‘Oh.’ My face falls. Feeling like a complete idiot, I quickly try to hide my disappointment. ‘Right, yes, durr . . .’
His brow furrows. ‘Hey, I was only joking,’ he says, his voice softening. ‘You’re not really disappointed, are you?’
‘Me? Gosh, no!’ I lie and shake my head vigorously. ‘I love Indian food!’
‘But Indian food doesn’t love you, right? Of course, now I remember that little speech you gave.’
My cheeks flame at the memory of my outburst. I’m still embarrassed about that. ‘It’s fine, I’m not that hungry.’ My stomach betrays me by gurgling loudly. ‘I think my stomach’s still a little upset.’
‘Your stomach, not you?’ he frowns.
‘No, not at all!’ I protest, shaking my head. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’ I feel myself warm towards him. He can actually be quite sweet when he wants to be.
‘Good,’ he nods, looking satisfied. ‘Because I know we didn’t get off on the best foot.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ I fib, trying to be all nice and polite.
Unlike Jack, who pulls a face and laughs. ‘I would. You looked like you wanted to murder me on that train.’
Well, in that case . . .‘OK, you’re right. I did,’ I admit sheepishly.
‘It’s cool, I didn’t like you much either,’ he continues cheerfully.
I feel unexpectedly miffed. ‘You didn’t?’
‘Talk about uptight.’
‘Uptight?’ I echo.
‘Yeah, totally,’ he grins. ‘I was like, “Holy Moly, this girl’s got a stick up her ass.”’
I stare at him in disbelief, all thoughts of being nice and polite evaporating. ‘You think I have a stick up my ass?’ I demand indignantly. What on earth was I doing thinking he was sweet? He’s not sweet! My first impressions were right: he’s a rude, arrogant pinhead.
‘I did,’ he nods, seeming not to notice the outrage in my voice, ‘but not now.’
‘Oh really? Well that’s nice to hear.’
‘Now I’ve got to know you a little bit better, I like you.’
The conversation, which a moment ago was careering along Highway Arsehole towards Major Bust-Up, does a sudden U-turn. I stare at him, taken aback. ‘You do?’ His statement disarms me, pricking the anger I felt like a balloon.
‘Yeah,’ he replies, looking at me thoughtfully. ‘I like you a lot, Ruby.’
There’s a heavy pause. I want to stay angry at him, I really do, but it’s as if all the anger has disappeared somewhere and instead I’m . . . I’m . . . Flailing around, I glance quickly away, trying to catch the tail of my thoughts. ‘You do?’ I say again, only this time it’s much less of a question. Is it me, or has it got really quiet in this car?
‘Yeah,’ he nods, ‘and now we’re going to be spending all this time together, I really want us to be friends.’
Abruptly, I snap to. ‘Friends?’ I repeat, feeling wrong-footed.
‘I know we’re totally different but I really want us to get along.’
‘Right, yes, absolutely,’ I nod vigorously, the sound of the honking traffic loud in my ears again.
‘Good,’ he nods, looking pleased.
‘Great,’ I enthuse, giving him a bright smile.
God, what was I thinking? I almost thought . . . Anyway, whatever. It’s not like I’m disappointed. I’m not looking for love, I’m looking for Amy, remember? I mean, phew, for a moment there I was actually a bit worried about what he was going to say.
We pull into a long driveway and the car shudders to a halt in some pretty landscaped gardens.
‘Grub is up,’ chortles Rocky, delighted by his vernacular.
‘Awesome,’ cheers Jack.
‘Brilliant.’ I keep smiling. No, I’m not disappointed at all. And as Rocky opens my door I clamber outside and race ahead into the restaurant.
After a bland and cautious lunch of plain rice and plain naan for me, and a delicious-looking, exotic meal of tandoori this and spicy that for Jack, we pile back into the car to continue our journey. Only Rocky has other ideas.
‘You cannot leave Agra without visiting the Taj Mahal,’ he insists.
‘The Taj Mahal?’ I reply, my interest piqued.
‘Fraid we don’t have time for any sightseeing,’ replies Jack, checking his watch. ‘In fact, are you sure this is the way to Udaipur?’ Digging out a crumpled map, he peers at it, frowning. ‘Judging by this map, we’ve gone completely out of our way.’
‘There are many ways,’ replies Rocky, waving his hand dismissively.
‘Well, we need to hit the road,’ he says firmly.
‘True,’ I nod, thinking about my search for Amy.
‘But boss, it is one of the Seven Wonders of the World.’
‘There’s always a next time,’ Jack placates him, settling himself back on the seat in preparation for a long drive. He looks annoyed.
But Rocky is insistent. ‘It is the greatest symbol of eternal love!’
‘Not for Princess Diana,’ I interject. ‘Don’t you remember that famous photograph of her sitting there alone on that bench when she was still married to Prince Charles?’
Jack shoots me a sideways look across the back seat.
‘Well, don’t you?’ I persist. ‘It was heartbreaking, she looked so sad.’
‘No, no, no, it is the most romantic thing in the world!’ cries Rocky, gesticulating wildly with his head.
‘Romance, showmance,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
Jack raises his eyebrows. ‘You don’t like romance?’
He catches me off guard. ‘I’m just a realist, that’s all,’ I say, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.
‘And romance isn’t real?’
Like a piece of elastic, my mind snaps back to Sam and the moment he proposed. At the time I thought it was so romantic; I thought it was for real. But now . . .‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘It’s all show, it doesn’t mean anything,’ I say defiantly. ‘Romance isn’t real love, it’s just gestures.’
There’s a pause as he looks at me thoughtfully, and for a moment I think he’s going to say something.
Suddenly we’re both distracted by the car pulling in at the side of the road.
‘Five minutes walking,’ announces Rocky, abruptly turning off the engine.
‘Huh?’ we both say in stereo, turning to look at Rocky, who’s already jumped out of the driver’s seat.
‘What going on?’ asks Jack.
‘I cannot go any further, you must do self-service,’ he says firmly, opening the doors and shooing us out of the car.
We exchange bemused glances, and for a moment I think Jack’s going to argue, but then he seems to think better of it and obediently gets out of the car. I do the same and together, under Rocky’s watchful eye, we set off, following the small
pathway that lies in front of us. Past tourists laden down with cameras, a herd of goats, Indian children playing, a couple of stray dogs. We have no idea where we’re going and for a few minutes we keep walking until unexpectedly we reach a river.
We both stop dead.
It’s almost like a mirage. Across the water, rising majestically from its banks and shimmering in the afternoon haze, is the Taj Mahal.
It literally takes my breath away.
‘Wow,’ I utter, awestruck.
Standing next to me, Jack lets out a low whistle. ‘Now that,’ he says, shooting me a sideways glance, ‘is what you call a fucking big gesture.’
Chapter 17
‘Rabindranath Tagore described it as a “teardrop on the cheek of eternity”, Rudyard Kipling as the “embodiment of all things pure”, while its creator, Emperor Shah Jahan, said it made the “sun and the moon shed tears from their eyes”.’
Listening to our tour guide, I gaze through the shadowy archway, which perfectly frames the vision beyond. Made of white, almost translucent marble, it glows in the sunlight, and I nearly have to pinch myself. It’s a Monday afternoon and usually I’d be sitting at my desk, staring at my laptop. But instead I’m standing here, staring at the Taj Mahal. I feel as if I’ve stepped out of one world and into another.
After queuing for ages, along with dozens of other tourists, Jack and I finally got our tickets and made it inside the grounds of the Taj Mahal. It was inevitable. Gazing at it from across the river was like catching sight of the most beautiful human being you’ve ever seen across the room at a party, and desperately wanting to get closer. It was impossible to resist. There was more chance of Jack and me flying to the moon than of getting back in the car and driving away. From the moment we saw it, in all its white marble splendour, we were hooked.
Which, of course, is exactly what Rocky knew only too well would happen when he made us walk down to the river.
‘In 1631, the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan’s favourite wife, Mumtaz Mahal, died while giving birth to their fourteenth child. On her deathbed, her dying wish to him was for a symbol of their love. The result was the Taj Mahal . . .’