The Love Detective Read Online Free PDF Page A

fluttering onto the floor. I pick it up. I’ve never been to India. It seems so magical, so exotic. And I have to say, that beach does look inviting . . .
    Impulsively I sit back down at my desk, snatch up my mouse, click onto Expedia, and search for flights to Goa. My sister’s coming back in a week’s time, so it’s probably a crazy idea, I mean, I probably won’t be able to get a flight last minute anyway . . . Oh look, there’s one leaving first thing tomorrow!
    I hesitate, a list of all the things I need to do running through my head, all the reasons why I can’t possibly just drop everything and jump on a plane. Every sane, sensible, careful bone in my body is telling me it’s a ridiculous idea. A holiday isn’t going to fix anything. I need to stay here. I have deadlines, bills to pay, a pile of laundry, my annual check-up at the dentist’s . . .
    ‘ There’s plenty of time to be sensible when you get to my age. ’ Mrs Flannegan’s voice rings in my ears.
    And it is only a week.
    Before I can change my mind, I click purchase.
    After all, what can happen in a week?

Chapter 4
    Two long-haul flights squashed on the back row, next to the toilets, in a seat that won’t recline, a delayed stopover in Doha Airport where a cappuccino costs a small fortune, and some severe turbulence later, I finally arrive in Goa.
    Phew.
    If I looked a hundred years old when I left Heathrow, I look double that now, I wince, giving myself a fright as I catch my bleary-eyed reflection in a mirror as I wait at baggage reclaim.
    Still, I’m here, I quickly remind myself. In India! On holiday!
    Despite my exhaustion, I feel a surge of excitement. It was all a bit of a rush, but I got everything sorted:
     
    To Do
     
    1. Water plants
     
    (aka half-dead spider plant in bathroom.)
     
    2. Put lights on timer
     
    (though let’s be honest, does this really fool a potential burglar?)
     
    3. Leave Heathcliff with Mrs Flannegan.
     
    (She offered to look after him and I gave her strict instructions on how he likes being tickled under his belly and not to give him too many treats. Last time she had him for the weekend he came back twice the size and couldn’t even fit through his dog door. Admittedly he didn’t look best pleased to be left with his arch nemesis, Snoopy the cat, who promptly got into Heathcliff’s basket, but I’ll make it up to him. Somehow.)
     
    4. Buy Immodium
     
    (also insect repellent, antiseptic ointment, plasters, hand sanitiser, headache tablets, tampons . . . I didn’t have time to go shopping so I had to do it all at Heathrow . . . in fact, sod it, just throw in all of Boots to be on safe side.)
     
    5. Buy guidebook
     
    (I like to be prepared. See above.)
    And last but not least.
     
    6. Shut laptop!
     
    Spotting my suitcase, I grab it off the conveyor belt and, stifling a yawn, set off, wheeling it determinedly towards the exit. A few days of sun, sea and relaxation and I’ll be a whole new me.
    It’s like walking into a sauna.
    As the automatic doors slide open, I step from the cool, air-conditioned building into the tropical humidity outside. It’s still early in the morning and darkness is clinging on around the edges of the new day, but the heat is already stifling. I’m greeted by an excited crowd of people waiting for their friends and relatives, arms waving, faces smiling, voices shouting.
    I smell the air: it’s a pungent mix of diesel oil mingled with incense, and I take a deep lungful. It smells like India. My excitement ratchets up a notch and for a moment I pause, trying to slowly take it all in. To observe. To let myself acclimatise. But it’s impossible. It’s like being on a diving board, I just need to jump straight in.
    Gripping on to my suitcase, I charge forwards through the commotion. Busily I scan the crowds. I texted my little sister yesterday to tell her I was coming out and she texted back excitedly, asking for my flight details and saying she would pick me up at the