The Love Detective Read Online Free PDF

airport.
    Only I can’t see her.
    My gaze passes from face to face, but there’s just a sea of shiny black hair and not a blonde head in sight. I feel a familiar tug of annoyance. Why am I not surprised? This is so typical of Amy. She’s always late. Or in the wrong place.
    Or she’s totally forgotten .
    I get a sudden flashback to last year, waiting for her in the pouring rain in Leicester Square. It was just after I’d broken up with Sam and we’d arranged to see a movie, only she never showed up. Or answered her phone. (That’s another thing about my sister, she has this infuriating habit of never answering her phone because she didn’t hear it, or she’s run out of credit, or she’s forgotten to charge it. Or the classic excuse: she forgot to turn it on .) I ended up spending Saturday night on my own, sitting amid a row of snuggly couples, watching What To Expect When You’re Expecting .
    Trust me, I still bear the scars.
    ‘You need taxi?’ A small, wiry man appears next to me.
    ‘No thanks, I’m fine,’ I smile politely, and try to keep moving.
    But I’ve barely gone two more paces before I’m swooped upon by another man. ‘Taxi ma’am?’
    ‘Um, no thank you,’ I shake my head, dislodging the beads of sweat that have sprung up around my hairline. They start trickling down my face in big fat rivulets. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’
    He stares at me dubiously, and who would blame him? I’d left my flat dressed for the weather – as in, the weather in London in January, not the weather in Southern India – and I’m wearing black leggings, a black jumper and a pair of black boots. Believe me, I couldn’t look less fine.
    Fine is sitting on the sofa with your feet up, drinking a cup of tea and flicking through Grazia . Fine is not melting in thirty-five-degree heat, encased in Lycra and sporting a pair of swollen cankles.
    And now I’m being dived upon by a whole crowd of taxi drivers. ‘Miss! Taxi! You need taxi? I give you ride! Where you go? Taxi! Miss! ’
    It reminds me of a wildlife programme I once saw where all these lions were circling a herd of elephants and one became separated and was all lost and vulnerable and boom , they pounced.
    In my head I can hear David Attenborough’s voiceover:
    ‘The taxi drivers circle the crowds of arriving passengers, hungry for a fare, until suddenly they spot one . . . jetlagged and disorientated, it’s been left stranded . . . and as it moves away from the pack and starts looking for its relative, it leaves itself defenceless . . .’
    Just as I’m identifying with the elephant (trust me, you haven’t seen my cankles) and thinking, that’s it, there’s no point trying to resist, I might as well give up on my sister and be bundled into a cab, I hear a voice:
    ‘Rubes!’
    At the sound of my name I twirl around and see a tousled blonde head bobbing up and down in the crowd and a pair of tanned, skinny arms stacked with lots of sparkly bracelets waving in the air. I watch them both getting closer, until suddenly the crowds part, and my little sister bursts forth.
    ‘You’re here already!’ she gasps breathlessly, flinging her jangly arms around me.
    My sister always acts surprised to see you when she’s late. As if it’s a complete mystery to her how this could have happened.
    ‘Well yes, my flight arrived an hour ago,’ I reply, hugging her back.
    ‘Oh, was it early?’
    ‘No, it was on time,’ I bristle as we break apart. ‘Didn’t you get my text?’
    She looks at me blankly.
    I’m about to remind her that I texted her my flight details, but I don’t want to get into an argument already, I’ve only just arrived. Plus, knowing me and my little sister, there’ll be plenty of time for that later.
    ‘So how are you?’ I ask, quickly changing the subject and standing back to take a good look at her. Her hair has gone even blonder in the sun, her skin is tanned and, instead of her usual Topshop wardrobe, she’s wearing an