him. When Mumtaz, his favourite wife, died giving birth to their fourteenth child, he had embarked on the task of creating this exquisite memorial to her. Twenty-two years and twenty thousand workmen and specialists later … Lou tried to imagine what it must be like to feel that strongly about someone after so many years of marriage. Some of the shine must surely have worn off with all those children. Three had proved quite enough for her and Hooker.
She found a quiet spot in the ornamental garden where she could sit on the grass. After a moment, she delved into her string bag for a bottle of water and the guidebook that smelled of the suntan lotion that had leaked onto it the day before. She peeled apart the couple of pages devoted to the Taj, then shut them. She could read later. The thing was to experience the place to its full in the short time she had.
Feeling a little less frazzled now she was in the shade of a tree, she watched the chipmunks race through the bushes. The sound of tourist chatter was broken by screeches from electric green parrots that swooped over her head. A group of Indian students asked in broken English if they could have their photo taken with her. She smiled into their camera, conscious of how different she must look to them, her lime green linen outfit and red scarf standing out against their drab trousers and white shirts, her fair skin and wild reddish hair providing such a contrast to their dark complexions.
Once they’d finished asking her about London, she went to hunt for her travelling companions. The sun beat down on the queue of tourists jostling to be snapped on ‘Diana’s bench’, with the Taj framed behind them. Demure Indian women in coloured saris rubbed shoulders with scruffy backpackers, neatly turned out schoolchildren and well-heeled Europeans and Americans on luxury tours. Lou was in two minds whether or not to join them. In exchange for a short wait, she’d have an ironically apt memento of her visit. Like Diana, alone in life. She was amused by the comparison, but only for a second. Come on, woman. Get over yourself. After all, whose choice is it that you’re on your own? Certainly not Hooker’s.
‘I’ll take yours,’ said a voice behind her, ‘if you’ll take mine.’
Lou turned to find one of the other two single women on the trip standing behind her. She knew her name was Ali but that was about it. During the previous ten days, as they’d journeyed from Udaipur to Jodphur and Jaipur, Ali had kept herself at a discreet distance from her fellow travellers. Not that she had been unpleasant, joining in with whatever was going on, but, when the opportunity arose, she’d bury herself in a book or separate herself from the group, going off to explore on her own. Wandering around a gallery of exquisite Indian miniatures, exploring the Amber or Merenghar Forts, the piled-high fabric emporiums or cluttered jewellery shops, Ali was always the last to tear herself away, as if not wanting to miss the slightest detail, sometimes sketching in her notebook or taking a final photograph. After dinner, she almost immediately retired to bed. Lou, on the other hand, had thrown herself into the group, keen to find out more about the people she was travelling with, wanting to share and compare everything new she was experiencing. She had nicknamed Ali ‘the cat who walked alone’, yet couldn’t help but be intrigued by her, the one person on the trip she’d failed to get to know. Ali was taller than Lou, younger, trimmer (not hard) and more elegant than her too. Not of course that any of these things could be held against her. Her oval face was framed by bobbed dark hair whose neat shiny finish gave away a small fortune spent on hairdressers and products. At that moment, she was looking at Lou, waiting for her answer.
Lou made up her mind. ‘Yes. Why not?’
Together, they walked towards the Lotus Pool.
‘Isn’t this place incredible?’ asked Ali. ‘Beats every photo I’ve ever seen of it.’
They both gazed at the Taj.
‘Those screens and the inlay-work in there are amazing, quite beautiful.’
‘Bloody noisy though,’ said Lou, and laughed.
So, as they began to talk about their reactions to the Taj, to the contrasting chaos of Agra and about the highlights of their trip, their friendship took its first steps.
By the time it was their turn to sit on the marble bench, Lou could feel the sweat running down her spine. Anxious about dropping Ali’s professional-looking camera, she wiped her hands on her linen trousers. When she’d packed them in London, she’d imagined herself looking cool, stylish even, amid the heat and dust of India. Instead, they looked as if they’d been scrunched into a ball and put on without sight of an iron. She was aware of the sweat marks spreading under the arms of her not-quite-loose-enough, short-sleeved top as she waited for Ali to pose.
Wiping her brow, Ali took up Princess Diana’s exact position: hands on her knees, clasped around her sunglasses, legs at a slight angle, head lowered to one side. She looked up coyly through her fringe. Afterwards, she laughed. ‘That’ll confuse my boyfriend. He’s bound to wonder if there’s a hidden message. Something about my wanting to be alone. As if.’
Lou returned Ali’s camera, then fumbled in her bag for her modest compact bought especially for the holiday. As she passed it over, it slipped from her grip. Her attempt to catch it was about as successful as any she’d made on the rounders pitch at school. The camera bounced out of her hands and clattered to the ground. She could feel the crowd behind them growing mutinous at the delay so she snatched it up, saying tightly, ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ But when she pressed the On button, nothing happened.
‘Let’s use mine,’ offered Ali. ‘I can at least email you the picture.’
Lou took her place, annoyed by her clumsiness, and pushed her hair back, hoping her touch would tame the wayward frizz (much worse in the heat) into something as effortlessly chic as Ali’s bob, and mustered a smile. As soon as the camera clicked, an American couple were already edging her off the seat, wanting their turn.
‘What do you think?’ Ali asked, tilting the camera so Lou could see.
In the sun, Lou’s hair had transformed into a hectic halo that framed her face. Off the forehead was never a good look on her, but especially not when she was squinting and her forehead and nose were shiny with sweat. Her irritation with herself showed in her face. The way she had half turned from the camera made her look as if she had put on about a stone in weight. Not of course that she cared. Not really. But it was a look she’d rather wasn’t captured for posterity. In the background, the Taj gleamed in the sunlight. She grimaced. ‘Not exactly Princess Di, is it?’
Ali studied the image again. ‘Mmm. But you’re not exactly working with Mario Testino either.’
Laughing and, in Lou’s case, resigned, both women stepped away from the bench and joined the crowds thronging the gardens.
‘If you don’t mind, I really want to have a last walk round alone,’ said Ali, slinging her camera over her shoulder. ‘Just to take it all in. I’ll see you back at the gate.’
Lou nodded, happy at the chance of having a final wander herself. As the trip drew to an end, she was conscious of trying to drain every last sensation from the few days she had left. She wanted to be able to relive the holiday in detail during the winter months that lay ahead back home.
She thought back to that conversation with Fiona three months earlier, when she’d had no plans to go away over the Christmas break. Then, just as she thought she would explode if anyone else asked her how she was, or what she would be doing at Christmas now that she was single again, inspiration had come from nowhere. In reply to her close friend’s invitation to her and her husband Charlie’s remote Devon farmhouse bought only for its vast unrealised potential that, two years later, had still to be realised, Lou blurted, ‘Actually, I’ve made plans. I’m
