Warmed up? It must be a hundred degrees in here. Sweat is literally running down my back like water over Niagara Falls. And my body is still doing its impression of an ironing board. I look at Amy, she’s barely broken into a sheen.
‘He’s amazing, isn’t he?’ she continues, gesturing towards Shine, who’s contorting himself into yet another unfeasible position.
‘He’s very supple,’ I nod.
‘He’s just so inspiring.’
‘Mmm . . .’ I make a sort of vague sound.
Actually, this probably explains the real reason why I’m so useless at yoga. It’s not just that I’m physically hopeless at it, but I’ve tried to get into the whole spiritual side of it and, call me a Neanderthal, but the only thing yoga has ever inspired me to do is go home and lie down with pint of Häagen-Dazs.
Or in this case one of those delicious fried banana pancakes. My stomach rumbles. Only it’s not hunger pangs, I think it’s the masala omelette I ate for breakfast, which isn’t agreeing with me. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten it as I’m not brilliant with spicy food, but I just couldn’t resist. Saying that, I’m going to have to be a lot more careful in future, I realise, as my digestive system gurgles loudly in complaint. I don’t want to spend the whole week eating Imodium tablets like sweets.
‘. . . with your palms outstretched and keeping your shoulders strong, move into Chaturanga Dandasana . . .’
Flopping onto my mat, I try to push myself up with shaky elbows. Sweat drips onto my outstretched fingers and my chest feels as if it’s about to burst. Oh bloody hell, this is so hard and I’ve got jetlag. I’m exhausted already. I really need to lie down.
But I can’t give up without a fight, so for the next hour I concentrate hard on fighting off jetlag and desperately trying to mirror Shine as he flows from one position into another. It’s a struggle. Out of the corner of my eyes I can see the rest of the class are all managing to keep up, whilst I constantly lag behind, abandoning one impossible-to-get-into pose for another hamstrings-are-killing-me pose.
Until finally . . .
‘Now it’s time to relax, lie or sit on your mats and close your eyes . . .’
At last! A position I can get into! With utter relief, I flop onto my mat as Shine begins circulating the room, giving people shoulder massages and rubbing their temples.
‘. . . feeling your breaths, take a moment to thank yourself for committing yourself to this class . . .’
A pair of feet appear by my head and I feel the expert pressure of Shine’s fingertips as he gives me a little massage. It’s like heaven for my sore, aching shoulders and I feel myself drifting off. Actually, maybe I’ve been wrong all these years. Maybe I could totally get into yoga.
‘. . . and tomorrow’s class at sunrise . . .’
Sunrise? I’m jolted from my reverie.
‘I hope you all will join me here on deck at five a.m.’
There’s a loud murmuring of agreement and I feel all thoughts of a lie-in flying out of the window as I try imagining doing this all over again. At the crack of dawn tomorrow morning.
On second thoughts . . .
‘Now, if you’d like to finish our practice by joining me in chanting Om . . .’
Probably best not to rush things. It’s important to honour my divine energy and all that.
‘Ommmmmmmm,’ I breathe out and, closing my eyes, I fall fast asleep.
Chapter 7
‘Ouch.’
The next morning I can barely move and have to hobble into breakfast.
‘Are you OK?’ Amy looks at me with concern.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I wince, easing myself down into the chair with trembling thighs. My entire body feels as if it’s been run over by a truck and as I try and reach for the orange juice it takes all my resolve not to let out an agonised yelp. ‘I’m just a little stiff after yoga, aren’t you?’
‘No, I feel wonderful,’ she smiles brightly, springing onto the seat next to me. ‘I did the sunrise class before breakfast.’
‘You did?’ I stare at her, aghast. Once again I wonder how we can share the same DNA. After yesterday’s class, I can barely reach to pour the orange juice, let alone do five a.m. Sun Salutations.
‘Why don’t you go for a massage?’ she suggests, picking up the jug and starting to pour two glasses. ‘My treat.’
I smile gratefully. ‘Thanks Amy, that’s really sweet of you, but I’ll be OK.’
‘No seriously, you should have one,’ she enthuses. ‘There’s this really amazing Ayurvedic centre five minutes away where they drip oil onto your forehead. It’s a traditional form of Indian medicine and is supposed to be great for rejuvenating frayed nerves and eliminating bad thoughts . . .’ She trails off awkwardly.
‘Are you trying to tell me something?’ I raise my eyebrows.
‘Well, I know things have been rough for you . . . ever since Sam . . .’
At the mention of his name, I fall silent. ‘I thought I’d hidden it,’ I say, after a pause.
‘Maybe from everyone else, but I’m your sister. You can’t hide it from me,’ she says quietly, her bright blue eyes meeting mine.
I smile appreciatively. ‘I love you, sis.’
‘Ditto,’ she grins, and passes me my juice.
‘Though I should have known,’ I add, ‘I’ve never been able to hide anything from you. Remember how I tried to hide all my make-up from you and you still found it?’
‘I was only six,’ she protests.
‘Mum and Dad couldn’t stop laughing, you looked like a clown . . .’ and now I start giggling at the memory, ‘I’ve still got the photo somewhere.’
‘Oh god,’ she groans loudly, ‘promise me you’ll never show anyone that.’
‘What’s it worth?’ I demand, laughing, then clutch my side as a pain shoots through my aching muscles. ‘Ouch.’
‘A massage,’ she fires back, without missing a beat.
I take her up on her offer – well, it’s too good not to – and after breakfast Amy calls up to make a booking for me, and gives me the directions. Which I attempt to follow and promptly get lost. Damn. I try retracing my steps, but that only makes things worse, and after a few minutes I end up down some little side street, completely lost. I look for someone to ask, but there’s no one around. Bollocks, I’m going to be late, oh hang on.
Ahead, I notice a car parked up with the engine running. It’s an expensive-looking car, a dark grey Mercedes with tinted windows; as it’s mostly tuk-tuks and mopeds here, it sticks out like a sore thumb. I stare at it for a moment, wondering if I should go up and ask for directions, when the rear passenger door swings opens and someone gets out. A figure dressed in white. A man.
Hang on, I recognise him, isn’t that Shine? Feeling a beat of relief, I start to hurry towards him – what a stroke of good luck, he’ll totally be able to give me directions – then suddenly pull back.
He’s not alone. As he slams the door behind him, a window buzzes down and I hear someone call after him. It’s a woman’s voice, and although I can’t understand what she’s saying, I can tell she’s angry. But he’s not listening. Ignoring her, he begins walking away, when suddenly the car door is flung open and a figure jumps out. It’s an Indian woman. Stunningly beautiful, with long black hair to her waist and wearing Western clothes, she rushes after him, yelling, and grabs hold of his arm. Flinging herself at him to try and stop him leaving, she tries to embrace him, but he pushes her roughly away.
I feel suddenly embarrassed, like I’ve been caught watching something I shouldn’t. Their body language is so passionate, so urgent, so familiar. They’re obviously in some kind of a relationship. She must be his girlfriend, or wife, or maybe she’s just his lover.
I shrink back. It feels so clandestine. I don’t want them to see me looking, and yet, it’s impossible not to look. They’re making such a scene. And now they’re arguing! Hearing their voices loud and urgent, I turn to see her gesticulating wildly and grabbing at his clothes.
But Shine is having none of it. Shaking his head, as if refusing to listen, he’s trying to fend off her hands and calm her down.
Crikey! What’s all that about?
Finally they break apart and as she gets back in the car looking tearful, Shine strides away angrily. I watch him, his face set hard as he heads towards me . . . Oh shit! I look around desperately for something to dive behind, but it’s too late, there’s nowhere to hide.
‘Oh, hi, Ruby.’ Shine looks startled to see me.
‘Hi,’ I smile brightly, trying to cover up my awkwardness. ‘Fancy seeing you here!’
I feel my cheeks flush bright red. Oh god, I am such a terrible actor. I really am.
‘I was just taking a walk by myself,’ he says, recovering quickly. ‘I like the solitude.’
Why is he lying? What’s the big secret? Who exactly was that woman and what were they arguing about?
‘I was just looking for the massage place,’ I reply, my mind racing. ‘I . . . um . . . got a little lost . . .’
‘What’s the name of it? Maybe I can help you,’ he suggests, seeming pleased to be taking the focus off himself.
I tell him and he quickly gives me directions. ‘Enjoy your Ayurvedic treatment,’ he nods then, seeming eager to be on his way, he bids me goodbye and strides away down the street.
I watch him for a moment, my mind turning, trying to make sense of it all . . . before snapping back. I’m already late, I can’t stand here all day. Plus, I’ve got better things to think about than Shine’s love life, like spending the next two hours being massaged with delicious perfumed oils. And, brushing the thoughts out of my mind, I hurry on my way.
Dear Diana,
Took your advice and am on holiday in India! Having a fab time, doing lots of yoga and getting super-fit. Just what the agent ordered! Be back in London next week. Hope all is well and speak soon .
Ruby xx
Well, that’s the official line on my postcard.
In reality I only make it to just that one yoga class, and instead spend my time lazing around on the beach, having massages, shopping for souvenirs and drinking rather too many of these delicious cocktails served in coconuts.
Still, everyone fibs on postcards, don’t they?
The rest of my holiday passes in a relaxing blur. Goa is stunning, the people are wonderful, and waking up every day to the constant blue skies and sunshine is better than any medicine. The knot in my shoulders disappears, the pale grey pallor goes from a bright pinkish tinge to a reasonable light tan and I sleep better than I have done in months.
Despite my best intentions, however, my sightseeing list remains untouched. The furthest I make it is to the string of stalls lining the beach where I buy a few souvenirs. Well OK, perhaps slightly more than a few, but it’s all so colourful and glittery it’s hard to resist.
I mean, who wouldn’t want a silk umbrella embroidered with all these gorgeous twinkly mirrors? I muse, picking it up from the chair in the corner of my room, opening it and giving it a little twirl. Admittedly it’s probably not that practical for London. In fact, now I’m thinking about it, is silk waterproof?
‘That’s bad luck!’
I look up to see Amy’s head popped around the side of my door.
‘Hi,’ I smile, pleased to see her. Despite staying in the same resort, I’ve barely seen her all week as she’s always doing yoga. Honestly, I had no idea she was such a yoga bunny! Whenever I’d suggested doing anything, she said she couldn’t as she was busy working on her lotus position, which, I admit, has been a bit disappointing, but still, at least it shows dedication.
And thighs that are a damn sight firmer than mine, I muse, feeling a beat of regret that I didn’t stick at the yoga a bit longer. Oh well, there’s always next time.
‘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.