Destination India (9 page)

I walked over to the old sitar player and knelt down next to him. Sensing movement around him he flashed open his wrinkled eyes and looked at me.

‘Erm, excuse me, I don’t suppose you have anything a bit, I don’t know, a bit jazzier?’ I asked making jazz hands.

He just stared at me.

Worried that he couldn’t understand I asked again but louder and slower.

He nodded slightly and pointed to the mic that the lead singer had been using earlier.

‘You … you want me to sing?’ I asked.

He nodded; he looked like he was enjoying this. The rest of the restaurant including the tour group were focusing not on their dinner but on the woman interrupting the awful music.

‘Oh no, I really
really
don’t think anyone in here wants to hear that,’ I said feeling my cheeks heat up.

‘Go on, Louise!’ I heard Ollie call out; he was punching his fist in the air and looking at me.

‘Yeah, Louise!’ Bex shouted followed by Liz, although slightly quieter.

Oh balls.

The sitar player fidgeted on his cushion and nodded towards me. I was still half-crouched, half-stood up at this point, hoping that the ground would suddenly swallow me up. I nervously looked back at our table; all these new faces were smiling at me encouragingly. I
had
promised them a good time and I
did
need to do something so they would forget the stupid awful review. Taking a deep breath I stood up and forced my trembling legs to slowly step onto the stage.

The sitar player strummed a few notes and nodded his head over to the microphone. I didn’t know any Indian songs; what on earth was I going to sing? Then as his arthritic fingers danced away I realised that I actually did know this song! It was an unusual bhangra version of ‘Let it Go’ from
Frozen.
I could have burst into laughter that this gummy-mouthed old man had even heard of this film, let alone could play the notes.

Then I realised that the restaurant, including the staff and our tour group, were poised ready for me to burst into song. My stomach dropped, my hands went sweaty and my mouth was suddenly stupidly dry.

‘Woo, Louise!’ Bex called out. ‘You can do it!’

The sitar player had made the first note last as long as possible. It was now my turn to jump in.

‘Let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back any mooooorrrrreeee!’ I warbled.

I was surprised glasses didn’t suddenly start shattering as I murdered the high notes. As I continued channelling my inner Elsa with some awkward hand movements and random hip shimmying I noticed that people had started to clap. And cheer. Oh wow, maybe I was better than I thought I was?

‘Let the storm rage onnnnnnnnnnnnnn, the cold never bothered me anyway.’ I ended with a dramatic flourish almost kicking the amps off the stage as I stamped my feet.

‘Wooo hooo!’ ‘Encore!’ ‘More more more!’ people were calling out, not just from my table but groups of locals who were probably quite enjoying this impromptu performance. Who knew I had such finesse in entertaining the crowd. They seriously loved me! I couldn’t wait to tell Shelley and Marie about this; they would not believe it! I bashfully bowed and curtseyed hearing even more rapturous cheering from the audience, from my fans, my people.

‘OK, one more?’ I asked as people banged their fists on the table. I could hardly see any of their faces because the halogen spotlights were blinding me, but if they wanted it I was going to give it.

‘Do you know any other songs like that?’ I asked the sitar player who nodded and placed his fingers on the strings. I was just about to burst into my best Whitney impression when I noticed that Liz had crept up to the stage. Maybe she wanted to make a request, I thought excitedly, quickly running through my best karaoke performances in my mind. It had been ages since I had been given a microphone and free rein; usually my ex, Alex, would wrestle it off me telling me his ears were bleeding as Marie ignored him and carried on throwing some serious shapes as my backing dancer. Maybe that was what Liz wanted? To join me! I could get the three girls up here and teach them the ‘Single Ladies’ routine! I wondered if the restaurant had napkin holders that we could use as rings.

Liz was chewing on her bottom lip. ‘Louise,’ she whispered loudly, indicating something with her wide eyes.

I couldn’t work out what it was she was trying to tell me. I shimmied over to her, getting even more cheers as I did
and crouched down out of the spotlight. The sitar player had given up waiting for me to start singing and had carried on playing another Indian song, badly.

‘You OK?’ I asked, fanning my hands at my flushed cheeks, strands of hair sticking to my neck.

‘You … erm … I don’t know how to tell you this but …’ She trailed off nervously, twitching her fingers, pointing at me.

‘What? Do you want to join me? We could do a duet!’ I said brightly.

Liz’s porcelain skin visibly paled even more at the thought of it. ‘No. But you probably need to stop.’

‘Why?’ I tilted my head wondering if she knew the lyrics to ‘Breaking My Heart’. I could be Elton if she wanted.

‘Because. You … erm …’ Her eyes grew even wider. ‘We can see everything!’

I looked down slowly. My dress, my cream, floaty dress was in fact blindingly see-through under the bright spotlight. They didn’t love my voice – they loved my bits!

‘Oh my God!’ I screeched, jumping off the stage ungracefully.

People started to boo at the back of the room. Once I was out of the glaring light and my eyes adjusted, I realised that the crowds of people who I thought were loving my work turned out to be a table of five or six workers and the kitchen staff who had clocked off for the night. I shuffled over to our table feeling mortified.

Bex was cackling with laughter. ‘You’re a dark horse, Louise! You really did
let it go
!’ she slurred.

She’d already finished the whole bottle of wine that I’d left next to her on the table before I thought it was wise to jump on the stage and literally give everyone a show. Ollie didn’t appear to know where to look so focused on a tiny speck of vibrant red curry sauce that had splodged
on the tablecloth in front of him. Liz and Flic both looked humiliated for me, and Chris just sat back in his chair, his arms crossed behind his head, a strange, slow smile playing on his thin lips.

‘Ha, ha, yes, erm. Right, erm, OK, everyone ready to get back?’ I asked, wishing I had a jacket to wrap around me and protect what shred of decency I had left.

I felt utterly humiliated. What a brilliant start to the tour: the boss got her bits out as the form of entertainment. I winced. Well thank God they didn’t know who I really was. In a country where women were expected to cover up and dress conservatively, I’d broken a hundred cultural rules in the space of one badly screeched song.

‘You not going to perform an encore then?’ Chris asked, faux innocently.

‘No. I’ll wait for you by the front.’

This was all Nihal’s fault; if he hadn’t done a runner I’d never have been so bold as to practically perform a striptease in front of this group of strangers. Speaking of whom, where the hell was he? I half fled from the stunned-into-silence table, knocking into a few chairs in my rush to get the hell out of there.

Petulant (adj.) Insolent or rude in speech or behaviour

I dreamt I was walking through Manchester high street wearing nothing but a blue silk turban on my head, trying to run away from jeering strangers who were cat-calling me as I streaked through town, desperate to hide my modesty. I’d woken up with a start, gasping for breath and sweating, trying to calm myself down and thankful that it was all just a dream. Until it slowly dawned on me that nope, I had exposed myself to the other tour goers last night. Great.

To be fair, I’d fallen asleep like a baby, completely knocked out with exhaustion from travelling here and the evening’s hectic revelations. In more ways than one. It was only on waking up and throwing back the curtains in my small bedroom that I realised Delhi never sleeps. Through the double-glazed windows I could see the busy road outside was already heaving with traffic, noise and people milling everywhere in various states of shabbiness. Horses pulled carts with men sat up loosely holding the reins, cows ambled around groups of women who carried heavy sacks of rice on their heads and dogs chased everything that moved.

It was still slowly sinking in that I was here in India and without Shelley; she would never have let last night’s striptease happen if she were by my side. Feeling a pang of homesickness I eventually managed to connect to the pretty
dodgy Wi-Fi and quickly sent her a WhatsApp message to see if she’d found her passport or if her allegations were true about Marie before the connection dropped. I hadn’t heard anything from Ben since I’d left Manchester and felt that sick knot in the pit of my tummy when I read that he’d been online just a few minutes ago. That was the problem with time stamps on iPhones; it turned you into a maniac and forced you to ride the wave of emotions that came with it. I thought back to what Shelley had told me a few months ago when I’d gone through an obsessional message-checking phase to see if Ben would ever send me anything non-work-related or reply to my sort-of flirty texts.

‘Stop torturing yourself to see if he’s messaged you,’ she’d said for the umpteenth time.

‘But on WhatsApp it says he was online one minute ago, so why has he not replied?’ I’d wailed.

‘Control. This is all about control,’ she told me matter-of-factly. ‘You’re like everyone else in the fact that you want to be wanted, desired and loved, so if the person you like isn’t doing that then …’

‘Then they’re just not that into you?’ I said sarkily.

Shelley had rolled her eyes. ‘No, if they don’t message you then you work yourself up convincing yourself that you’re a worthless, undesirable, fat slug when in fact he just probably hasn’t realised that because you added an extra kiss at the end of your previous message you basically want to shag his brains out. I told you, men don’t get subliminal messages.’

My rumbling stomach forced me to stop thinking about it and head downstairs for breakfast – after a refreshing shower and making sure that today’s outfit would not be so revealing.

‘Good morning, Miss Green, how did you sleep?’ An employee with neatly gelled-to-the-side, petrol-coloured
hair and kind eyes asked cheerfully as I wandered into the bright and airy breakfast room that was completely empty. ‘My name is Rashid. Please come and take a seat.’

I wondered briefly if I was late, as according to the plan I had we were meant to be spending the day visiting the old part of Delhi, starting at 8.30 a.m., but glancing at the gleaming silver wall clock it was already twenty past. The other guests must still be fast asleep, and I hadn’t heard a peep from Nihal.

‘Oh, yep, fantastic, thanks.’ I smiled and sat down at a table next to a large gilded picture of Ganesh, the elephant-headed Hindu god.

‘Ah, that is very good to hear.’ His eyes brightened. ‘What would you like to drink?’

‘I could murder a cup of tea; you don’t have Tetley’s do you?’ I laughed.

‘Oh.’ His face fell. ‘I’m very sorry but we only have coffee or chai tea. I can send someone out to get you a tea from one of the restaurants down the street if you would like?’

I blushed. ‘Oh no, please don’t go to any trouble. A cup of coffee will be fine.’

‘So, is there anything I can help you with today? We can arrange cars to take you around the most famous sites in the city or I can advise where to find the best cake in all of India?’

‘Well that’s quite the promise.’ I laughed. ‘But I think I will be meeting the others soon, including Nihal, to spend the day in the old quarter.’

Rashid’s face fell; he would make a lousy poker player. ‘I don’t think there are any plans for today, Miss Green – not according to what Nihal told me.’ He added quietly, ‘A day of rest, as it were.’

No plans. The second day of the trip and nothing had been organised, added to the fact our tour guide had rocked up
late to the welcome meeting and then bailed during dinner … I didn’t like the sound of this. Well I guess I’d found the answer to why all these reviews had been so bad – all thanks to Nihal. I let out a deep sigh. When we’d hired him he’d come so highly recommended. What the hell had happened?

‘Oh right,’ I mumbled, trying to hide my annoyance and confusion as I popped a slice of bread in the toaster. Rashid gave me an apologetic smile and started polishing a stainless-steel water jug. ‘Erm, is Nihal about? I don’t know if you knew but he skipped out on dinner last night and I could really do with talking to him.’

After a long pause Rashid cleared his throat. ‘He’s not here but I could try contacting him. Nihal’s not in good shape at the moment.’

Yeah, I gathered as much.

‘What do you mean? Is everything OK, Rashid?’ I asked raising an eyebrow.

He bobbed his head in a way that seemed to indicate both yes and no.

‘Rashid, is there something you’re not telling me? About Nihal or the tour?’ I paused. ‘I really
really
would like to know.’

Rashid carried on polishing the jug but increased in speed.

‘Rashid?’ I pressed.

A deep crimson flush coloured his cheeks. He stopped manically cleaning and turned to face me, biting his bottom lip. ‘I know who you are.’

I jolted back in my seat and let out a small laugh. ‘Sorry?’

‘I know who you are,’ he repeated. ‘Georgia Green. CEO of Lonely Hearts Travels. It’s true isn’t it?’

I dipped my head and didn’t say a word. Rashid edged closer to me and dropped his voice to a hushed whisper.

‘Once we had a member of the royal family staying here – well he was a third-removed duke or something but still very important – and I only found that out after he’d left. I could have kicked myself for being so unprofessional by not addressing him in the correct manner.’ He shook his head lost in some uncomfortable memory. ‘So, since then I try to Google all our guests to ensure I never make that social faux pas again. I Googled you and discovered that you own the company that runs these tours.’

I nodded slowly. ‘Wow, you do take your job seriously.’

‘I am wrong?’

I sighed. ‘No, you’re right. It’s true.’ I peered around the empty room in case someone had suddenly snuck in. ‘Does Nihal know?’

Rashid shook his head. ‘No, not yet. I wanted to talk to you first to see if he or indeed I am in some sort of trouble; surely that is the reason you have come all this way – to check up on us?’

‘I’m not checking up on you, Rashid.’ I was grateful that there was no one around to hear us. ‘The thing is we’ve had a few bad reviews about this tour.’ A look of horror crossed his face. ‘Don’t worry, not about your hotel, more about the, let’s say,
disorganised itinerary
.’ Rashid nodded slowly. ‘So I thought I’d come undercover to experience it for myself, see if I can find the problems and fix them. I’m guessing, from last night’s example at least, that the main cause of this is Nihal.’

Rashid slammed down the jug causing small silver bowls to shake on the long breakfast table. ‘I told him! I told him he needed to sort himself out or else he and everyone else who works with him would be paying for it.’ He caught my shocked expression and calmed down slightly. ‘Sorry, Georgia, Louise, Miss Green … Oh should I call you Boss?’ His bottom lip quivered.

‘No, Rashid, Louise is fine, especially in front of the other guests – it’s my middle name.’ He nodded and I took a deep breath. ‘So what’s going on with him?’ Suddenly the toast I was chewing tasted extremely dry.

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Louise. I really am in no position to be the one to tell you; it has to come from Nihal himself. As a friend I’m worried about him, especially finding out that he’s being secretly watched by the big boss.’

‘Please, Rashid, you’re making me really anxious now.’

He sighed and peered through the glass of the door, checking the coast was clear. ‘As you have the day with no itinerary how about I arrange a car for you to go and find out for yourself?’

‘What? Go and see Nihal?’ I stared at him. ‘But what about the other guests?’

‘I can arrange cars to take them around the old district; I know one of the kitchen staff who speaks excellent English would be able to step in as a tour guide. It may not be as wonderful as if you had organised it but it will be better than nothing.’

‘Can you not just tell me what’s going on?’

He thought for a moment then leant forward, words forming on his lips, when the door was flung open and in walked Bex and Ollie laughing about something. Rashid instantly straightened up and smiled at the guests. ‘Welcome! Please sit down and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.’

‘Cheers, mate. Oh, morning, Louise, how you doing?’ Ollie asked brightly.

‘Oh here she is: Princess Elsa.’ Bex winked as I rolled my eyes. ‘Just kidding; you were great last night. I’m paying for it today though. I feel as rough as a badger’s arse.’ She rubbed her face and groaned.

‘Blame the jet lag.’ I smiled distractedly as I tried to catch Rashid’s eye.

‘Or the two bottles of wine she had?’ Ollie teased as Bex visibly paled.

‘Do not mention the W word. Otherwise it will all be coming back up over you.’

Ollie and I both grimaced as Bex struggled to keep a loud belch down.

‘You already eaten, Louise?’ Ollie asked, pointing to my half-chewed, now cold slice of toast.

I was about to answer when I spotted Rashid out of the corner of my eye looking like he was trying to make a swift exit before I bombarded him with questions about Nihal.

‘Erm yep. All done. Listen, I’ll see you guys in a bit. Enjoy your breakfast!’ I quickly stepped round them to grab Rashid before he scuttled into the kitchen.

‘Rashid,’ I hissed before he wandered off. ‘OK, I’ll go and talk to Nihal.’

Thirty minutes later I was sat in a knackered-looking, silver car driven by a scowling nineteen-year-old man who didn’t speak a word of English. Being in a car that was barely fit for purpose in a chaotic foreign city
and
not being able to communicate with the young driver en route to have it out with an incompetent tour guide in God knows where set my anxiety levels high.

This angst was not helped by the fact the roads were as chaotic as when Deepak had driven me here. I thought Bangkok was busy and frenzied, well, that was like a leisurely Sunday country drive compared to this. With no road markings or apparent Highway Code to follow my driver swerved and braked and shouted, gesturing wildly at other cars he’d amazingly managed not to hit, though he got as close as possible without crashing into them.
I suddenly realised why so many drivers here had figurines and bobbing heads of gods and goddesses tacked to their dashboards: so passengers could pray to these tiny deities as their life flashed before their eyes on these frenzied streets. I glanced at the small ornament of a blue-coloured man. I think it was Krishna, a Hindu god that Flic had been trying to teach us about last night. I said a silent prayer that everything would be OK.

We had been driving for around twenty minutes or so when we pulled off the main street and drove down a cramped, unpaved side street full of tilting shops that seemed to be holding the one next to them upright. Crowds of men stood on the corners, chatting and smoking rolled-up cigarettes next to piles of rubbish that had been swept to one side of the dusty street. We suddenly stopped.

With no cars in front or behind us I nervously peered out of the window, wondering what the holdup was. The driver still had the engine running but took his hands off the steering wheel and folded them on his lap. What the hell was happening? I leant forward, my seat belt pulled taut against my beating heart.

‘Everything OK?’ I asked him.

He turned to face me, his baby face completely blank, not understanding a word of what I was asking. He gave me a confusing head shake, which didn’t clear up whether it was a yes or a no, and turned back round to intently watch two men who were unloading huge, stonking sacks of potatoes from a tatty blue cart.

‘Is there a problem? Why are we not moving?’ I pushed. My voice sounded strangled as I desperately tried to control a bubble of panic rising up inside me. The teen driver didn’t bother turning his head; he just nodded like he had before.

Some of the men who were on the corner had stopped chatting and were throwing obvious glances at our stationary car, peering round one another to look through the window. I shrank back into my seat. I’d heard so many stories of solo female travellers in risky situations in this country I felt stupid for putting myself in such a vulnerable position, all for the sake of clearing up some bad reviews. My poor parents would be beside themselves if they knew.

I suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here, in this small alley in a foreign country with a driver who couldn’t understand me surrounded by intimidating, staring men. Why wasn’t he moving? Was this a trap? A set-up? What if Rashid had told him to take me here for one of the many men to drag me out by my hair? A way of getting me back for thinking I could spy on my employees?

‘Please, take me back to the hotel,’ I said forcefully, my bottom lip trembling. ‘Hotel. No stop here.’ I jabbed my finger, pointing up the street, and moved my hands together to hopefully show driving a car.