Page 29 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

A Five-Star Puzzle

‘Utkarsh. This is it!’

I race across the lush carpet of lawn, dodging a couple of peacocks, an abandoned croquet hoop and an ornamental fountain. Unexpectedly, I don’t run out of puff. All the walking I’ve been doing seems to have kickstarted my metabolism. Who needs a gym membership when you can go adventuring instead?

I stop at the bottom of the marble stairs and gaze up.

The hotel’s entrance is even more impressive in real life than it was in the video.

A dozen or so white columns rise two storeys high all along the colonnade, giving the building the appearance of a giant wedding cake.

At the base, perfectly pruned topiaries create a band of green. The effect is spectacular.

India is a constant surprise. At street level, it doesn’t have a great deal to recommend it, with its chaotic traffic, choking fumes and heaped rubbish. But I have to admit, the Indian people sure know a thing or two about cooking and architecture. And living life to the full.

I check my watch as I wait for Utkarsh to catch up. ‘This is definitely where they held the reception. And check-out isn’t for another forty-five minutes. I do believe we’ve finally got my mother cornered!’

‘Let’s not count our chickens … or in this case, peacocks,’ Utkarsh warns as we make our way up the stairs. ‘But it does appear very promising.’

Two massive elephant statues flank the spotless glass double doors. Their trunks are raised toward the ceiling. I think that symbolises good fortune. Or is that trunks down? I’m inclined to believe it’s a positive sign. It is well past time my luck changed.

I walk up to the reception counter, composing my face to look like a loving daughter rather than what I really am: a deranged bounty hunter.

‘I’m here to see two of your guests—a Doug and Debbie Reddy?’ I give the lady at reception a beaming smile that I hope will overcome any privacy concerns.

‘Ah, yes, Madam Debbie said you would be here. You are her daughter, Eva? You are a little earlier than she expected.’

Yes! Utkarsh was right. My mother has finally made a mistake.

‘Can you tell me what room they are in? I am so looking forward to seeing them both.’ I cross my fingers behind my back.

‘Oh, no, madam. You misunderstand. Your parents have already checked out.’

Of course they have. Who had I been kidding?

My mother didn’t let me win at Scrabble as a child; she was hardly going to hand me an easy victory now that I am all grown up.

And especially not in a game of her own devising.

I am Wile E. Coyote, once again outwitted by the roadrunner.

In my head, I can hear my mother making a beep-beeping sound.

The receptionist gives me a sympathetic shrug of the shoulders, misinterpreting my silence as disappointment at missing out on a much-anticipated family reunion.

‘But Madam Debbie asked me to give you this.’ She hands me an envelope. Inside is a note written on hotel stationery.

Dearest Bunny,

As they say, the early bird catches the worm. But if you are reading this, you can’t have been early enough! Because these birds have already flown the coop.

Still, well done on getting this far. You are obviously far more capable than you’ve been letting on all these years.

Now, I know I say that we should always look forward in life, but I think it would do you some good to backtrack.

When did you become so beige and ordinary?

And why? You were such an interesting child.

And yet you chose to be a lacklustre adult.

Look at me and your father—you’d hardly describe us as boring, so it can’t be hereditary.

It has to be environmental. I suggest you retrace your steps and give these questions some serious thought.

But enough about your dull suburban life. Let’s talk about me. And by me, I mean your father and me.

Where will we end up next? Well, you’re just going to have to work that one out yourself. But here’s a hint. We’re off to see a couple that has been together even longer than your father and me. Ain’t love grand?

Time to fly now!

Much love,

Mum and Dad

PS I might get a crane for my next video. What do you think?

‘I think you’re bloody insane,’ I mutter as I shove the letter into my pants pocket and stomp back to the reception desk. I rearrange my features, trying to approximate someone who loves their mother dearly.

‘I don’t suppose they mentioned where they were heading next?’ My face threatens to crack, like a vase in an adult pottery class. ‘Did she say anything else? Maybe she did a little extra filming in the hotel?’

‘Oh, yes! We gave Madam Debbie special permission to utilise our outdoor water feature. She will tell the world about my brother’s ear-cleaning business.’

I shudder, imagining the horrors of the video ahead.

‘Also, she said you would probably need this.’ The receptionist hands me a hotel key card.

‘She is certain you will solve her puzzle eventually, but you will need some peace and quiet. And some reference material. So she paid for one more night in our Palace Room. She didn’t tell us that your husband was with you.

But this is so very, very good. The Palace Room is one of our most romantic suites.

Madam Debbie and Mr Doug enjoyed their stay there very much. ’

I look down at the key card and feel my face flush.

Again. What must Utkarsh be thinking? Just the day before, he had told me the tragic story of his life’s one great love.

And now my mother has inadvertently orchestrated a situation where the poor man will be sequestered in a romantic hotel suite with me.

I turn to apologise and offer some other less awkward options, but to my surprise, Utkarsh is doubled over and pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying to ward off a laughing fit.

I must look mortified, because he straightens his body and his face. But his eyes are still dancing a polka as he hoists our bags onto a nearby trolley.

‘Eva, it’s okay. It’s not some kind of love shack.

It’s just a convenient place to figure out our next move.

Better we solve this puzzle in the comfort of a five-star hotel suite than sitting on a railway platform.

’ He gives me a good-natured, and frankly unsettling, wink.

‘I promise I won’t take advantage of you. ’

His tone is light and reassuring, but I don’t feel reassured.

Instead, I’m disappointed. What would it be like if this gorgeous man did take advantage of me?

The thought is there and gone again in an instant.

So fleeting, my cheeks don’t even get the chance to glow bright red again.

But that doesn’t alter the fact that my initial response was so excruciatingly inappropriate.

What am I thinking? Utkarsh is a grieving widower.

And I am … well, I certainly am not available.

That’s what I keep telling myself as we make our way upstairs.

I grip the key card so tightly the edges dig into my palm.

This might be a suite, but today, it is not a bedroom—it’s a place to study, like an office or a library.

And there is nothing sexy about a library.

The Palace Room is just a workspace we will share companionably while we figure out where my parents are headed next.

But my carefully constructed narrative collapses the moment we open the door.

This is not a library, it is most definitely a bedroom—and not one where sleep is the primary activity.

Scattered rose petals lead to a king-sized bed where fluffy white towels have been sculpted into two enormous hearts.

Dozens of plump pillows call us hither. On a nearby table, an oil burner pushes out heavy clouds of scent.

I stand at the door, horrified.

‘What is that smell?’ I ask, hoping to draw Utkarsh’s attention away from the bed and to other, less charged parts of the room.

‘It’s jasmine,’ Utkarsh replies. Unlike me, he doesn’t seem at all perturbed by the turn of events. ‘The Hindu perfume of love.’

So much for turning down the heat. All I want to do is bury myself under that mountain of pillows and not emerge for the term of my natural life.

It’s funny. My adventure is continuing; I’ve been granted the wish that I scarcely dared to acknowledge.

But I did not imagine it continuing quite like this—holed up with Utkarsh in a luxury hotel room somewhere in Northern India.

Well, that isn’t entirely true. I thought about it quite intensely and vigorously while I was showering in Agra last night.

But that was a fantasy. This is real life.

And fantasy and real life make unhappy bedfellows. Pun intended.

Utkarsh takes a seat at a mahogany desk on the far side of the room. An enormous pile of books is stacked in front of him. He looks up and waves me over.

‘I believe your mother has left us these. For research purposes.’

I pick up one book after another. An atlas with maps of India. A Lonely Planet Guide to Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh . Paperback after paperback offering thousands upon thousands of pages of sightseeing suggestions and tourist information.

‘I guess it’s a case of divide and conquer,’ he says, pushing half the pile toward me. ‘Somewhere in here is the answer to where your parents have gone. Can I take a look at her note, please?’

I hesitate. My mother drew a damning picture of my life back home. All true. But still, I don’t want Utkarsh viewing me through that same unflattering lens.

He holds out his hand, impatiently. ‘Please show me the note, Eva. I’ve already seen most of what your mother wrote. I read it over your shoulder in the foyer.’

What the actual? How dare Utkarsh invade my privacy like that? I am about to serve up a very large piece of my mind when he hurries on.