of a cannon, into the courtyard at the back.
‘You loosen up, lady,’ said one of the masseuses. ‘You very tense.’
Story of my life lately, I thought as I tried to let go and surrender to the rhythm.
‘Let go, let go,’ urged the other masseuse. I loosened my grip on the couch and tried to relax. Forward and back, up and down, they stroked and I slithered. It had been years since I’d had a massage and I felt I’d lost the ability to switch off. Life, work and commitments always seemed to take precedence. Running my shop was a full-time business, often spilling over into my evenings and weekends, so aspirations to have regular treatments or a facial seemed to get shoved to the bottom of the list. Even this holiday with Pete and Marcia had been combined with purchasing a small amount of merchandise to have sent back home. While my friends had been dozing on the beach in Kerala, I’d been combing the market stalls nearby, looking for appropriate acquisitions while trying to ignore Stuart’s voice in my head advising me not to get into debt before I left. As the masseuse bade me turn over, I wondered what to expect this afternoon. A psychic? What would she see? Anything? I wasn’t sure I wanted to be told about my future. It might be bad news. Life had been uncertain on so many levels before I’d left to come away. Business was slow and my love life at an all-time low. Could things change? Or would it be more of the same – work, work, work; getting older; more Friday nights alone in front of Netflix, trying to convince myself I was OK. I didn’t need anyone. I was strong, independent. I was OK, and keeping busy provided a way to block out the fact that I was fifty, single, and all my previous relationships hadn’t worked out for one reason or another. If I hadn’t got it right so far, there was little chance I was going to succeed in the future, so I’d given up looking. I’d worked hard to create a life where it appeared that I had it all and I didn’t need anyone. I had a lovely house, though I barely spent any time there, great friends, though mainly couples, but really nothing to complain about. My work was my life; that was an achievement, though lately I’d realized that I rarely got the chance just to kick back and enjoy life. The truth was, behind the mask of the independent, successful businesswoman, I was lonely at times. No wonder I was tense.
‘OK, waking up now lady,’ said the masseuse, just as I was finally beginning to doze off. ‘Drink much water. Get dressed when ready.’
We set off for the Taj Lake Palace Hotel in the early afternoon, feeling soothed and scented after our treatments. I’d resigned myself to going along to keep Marcia happy, to smile and listen to whatever rubbish the fortune-teller had to say and not to let my cynicism be too apparent.
‘A car’s coming to take us down to the bay,’ said Pete, as we made our way down to the hotel lobby. Two minutes later, a maroon and beige vintage Bentley rolled up. It was straight out of the days of the Raj. ‘Is that for us?’ I asked.
Marcia nodded. ‘We’re going in style. I thought it might sweeten the experience for you.’
‘Blackmail,’ I said, ‘I like it.’
Marcia laughed. ‘I wanted to make sure you came.’
The car took us a short distance to a car park by the lakeshore, where we got out to see a tall Indian man, in a white turban and Eastern-style gold uniform, holding a large fringed red parasol. He was waiting to escort us into a white tent. ‘Your boat is ready,’ he said as he led us through and down to the water. Minutes later, we took our places in a small speedboat, which was open on the sides and canopied on the top, the seats inside scattered with colourful cushions.
‘I really do feel like I’m in a Bond film now,’ I said as the boat whooshed through the water to the hotel. Looking back at the shore gave us the best view of the City Palace so far: with its domed turrets, terraces and balconies, it was a truly magnificent piece of architecture.
Our boat arrived at a small jetty, where another Indian man, this one in a red turban and navy uniform, stepped forward to help us up onto the marble landing area at the front of the hotel. A red carpet led to the reception area, which we could see behind a glass wall. From an open balcony on the floor above came a shower of rose petals. I looked up to see the faces of two smiling Indian women. ‘Welcome,’ they said, as they scattered more petals down on us.
We stepped through an open door where three smiling ladies in emerald green saris were waiting. They came forward and placed garlands of golden flowers around our necks. One of them introduced herself as Adita. She reached down to a brass tray on a small table behind her, then dotted red powder on our foreheads. The other ladies handed each of us an iced pink drink in tall glasses. ‘Passion fruit,’ said one of them, ‘you will like.’
As I looked around me, I could see that the décor of the hotel was a mix of old and new, with marble floors, white arches and pillars and tall gold Indian statues placed in alcoves along a corridor in front of us.
‘You here for Saranya Ji?’ asked Adita.
‘We are,’ Pete replied, and he handed her our vouchers.
‘Please you follow,’ she told us, and led us into a white courtyard with a pool in the centre of the hotel where she indicated we should take a seat in one of the alcoves. The atmosphere was very tranquil, the only sound from a bubbling lotus fountain in the middle of a pool of water.
‘You two go first,’ I said when Adita had left us alone.
‘OK,’ said Marcia, ‘I can’t wait to see her.’
On the dot of one, Adita returned and took Marcia away.
‘You nervous?’ asked Pete when they’d gone.
‘Not at all. What is there to be nervous about?’
‘She might see into the depths of your soul and all your dark secrets …’
‘Stop trying to wind me up.’
Pete laughed. He always liked to tease, and had been doing so since I’d met him almost thirty years ago, when Marcia had brought him back from Glastonbury. They’d met there, then worked together manning a food stall. Pete was 100 per cent hedonist, with a particular love of good food and, with his clever business head, he had turned that passion into money. He’d started out doing food at the Glastonbury festival, which he and Marcia still went to every year, then moved on to running a café up north, then a small shop when he moved to London. Now he ran Harvest Moon, a food emporium in the city. It was a glorious place to visit and sold everything organic: bread, pastries from all over the world, fruit, vegetables, cereals, grains, every type of health food and supplement, cheeses, herbs and spices. There were also a couple of juice and healthy snack counters where local office workers could pop in for a takeaway lunch and get something tasty, fresh and good for them. Marcia worked there with him, running the office and keeping the admin side of things in order.
‘But I do wonder what Saranya Ji’s going to come up with,’ Pete said. ‘I know it’s more Marcia’s thing than yours but it could be interesting. I think there are some genuine psychics in the world, people who have a true gift.’
‘But what if they see something awful, do they tell you? Like your plane is going to crash on the way home, you will lose all your money, and all your family are going to die in an attack by a plague of locusts.’
Pete laughed. ‘Pessimist. I think they’d probably
