The Love Detective (20 page)

‘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 . . .’

As we slowly shuffle down the steps and begin making our way along the marble pathways, I get a sense of wonderment that I haven’t felt since I was a child. Never in a million years did I think I could be this moved by a building, but there’s something magical about the Taj Mahal. Something you don’t get from looking at a photograph, or seeing it on TV. Something that surpasses all your expectations; something that makes it more than just a beautiful building.

‘According to legend, the death of Mumtaz left the emperor so heartbroken that his hair is said to have turned white virtually overnight . . .’

‘Wow, he really loved her,’ I sigh wistfully, fascinated by the story.

‘So, you still don’t believe in romance?’ challenges Jack.

I zone back in to see him looking at me, amused.

‘Well, of course I’ll make an exception for the Taj Mahal,’ I reply tightly.

‘And that’s it?’ he replies, raising an eyebrow.

‘Well, it’s not like this any more, is it?’

‘What isn’t?’

‘Love,’ I say simply.

He frowns. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because love stories like this only exist in the pages of history books. The stuff of myth and legend.’ Over his shoulder I see the bench that Princess Diana sat on, surrounded by people taking pictures. ‘I mean, look what happens to our modern-day fairy tales,’ I say, gesturing towards it.

He glances over and his brow suddenly clears. ‘Are you still going on about that bench?’

‘You know what I mean,’ I say huffily.

‘What is with you Brits and Princess Diana?’

‘Now if you want to follow me, we will take a closer look at what is considered to be the most beautiful building in the world,’ the guide continues.

I throw Jack a stern look. ‘Sshh,’ I hiss and, ignoring him, I turn back to the tour guide.

‘. . . a memorial to a love so powerful, that it has lasted hundred of years . . .’

As the guide speaks, I glance at the faces of the people around me – the couple from Japan, two old bearded men from Afghanistan, a bunch of young Italian boys, a family of Canadians. They’re not here because it’s a beautiful building, or because it’s hundreds of years old, but because of what it represents: the power of love. A love so great it could create all of this. Could attract all these people, from all over the world. Could stand the test of time.

That’s the something that gives this place its magic, I suddenly realise.
Love
.

Only you won’t find this kind of love in today’s world, I reflect, with a moment of sadness. It doesn’t exist. Forget love lasting centuries, these days you’re lucky if it lasts six months. And I’m not just talking about Sam and me.
No one
stays together any more. Celebrities change partners faster than I change my bedding. I only have to flick through a magazine to read about another newlywed couple breaking up once the honeymoon period is over. It’s just depressing. It makes you want to give up before you’ve even started.

Not that I’m thinking of starting again, I remind myself sharply. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. Or rather, in my case, the wedding dress. Which, to add insult to injury, I’m still paying off on my credit card. Honestly, modern-day love sucks. I’m happy to be single. Perfectly, one hundred per cent happy, thank you very much.

‘The Taj Mahal took twenty-three years and several thousand master craftsmen from all over the world to create. A gruesome legend exists that afterwards these craftsmen had their hands chopped off to prevent them from building anything so beautiful again. Fortunately, there is no historical evidence for this story . . .’

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn sideways to see Jack waving at me with just a stump, the sleeve of his sweatshirt flapping away where his hand should be.

‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ I whisper, pulling a face.

‘Oh, c’mon,’ he smiles, revealing the hand he’d hidden up his sweatshirt. ‘That wasn’t bad.’

‘No, it was terrible,’ I hiss, rolling my eyes. ‘Now will you stop fooling around, I want to listen, this is really interesting.’

‘Now, if you look closer at the ornamental gardens, you will see that they are laid out in a square which is divided into quarters by watercourses, each one offering a beautiful reflection . . .’

There’s a murmur of approval from the assembled group of people.

‘Classic Mughal design,’ nods Jack.

I glance at him in astonishment. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I know a little bit about buildings,’ he shrugs modestly.

‘What else do you know?’ I ask curiously.

He pauses to scratch the stubble on his chin. ‘Well, see the vaulted arch and the minarets on either side,’ he begins, pointing them out.

‘Uh-huh,’ I nod, my attention now fully caught.

‘These are repeated on each of the four faces of the building,’ he explains, ‘and each one is identical, so that wherever you stand your view will never change, which all adds to the feeling of timelessness.’

Listening to him, I’m taken aback by how knowledgeable he is. Just the way he’s talking, how he’s moving his hands, the way he’s so earnest and animated, I can’t believe this is the same Jack who always seems so flippant and dismissive about everything.

‘And not only is it perfectly symmetrical, but it’s built on a platform, so that the backdrop is only sky which, from a design point of view, is total genius—’ He suddenly breaks off, blushing. ‘Sorry, am I boring you?’