Page 38 of Eva Reddy’s Trip of a Lifetime

The Awakening

I wake to the shower running, the whoosh of the water not quite muffling the sound of cheerfully off-key singing.

From the lyrics, I guess I am being serenaded with mid-seventies ABBA, but the melody is indeterminate at best. It could just as easily be Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Or Black Sabbath. It’s as good a soundtrack as any to the most surreal moment of my adult life.

Utkarsh. Me.

What on earth had I been thinking?

We are both terrible singers. We have that much in common. But it isn’t the most solid foundation on which to build a relationship. And it certainly doesn’t explain what the heck happened between us last night.

I squeeze my eyes closed. I need to get my bearings both physically and emotionally. Overhead, an ancient ceiling fan creaks and jerks, scarcely moving the heavy air.

The facts of my situation are as inescapable as the humidity and the off-key bellowing from the bathroom.

And, I have to admit, equally discomfiting.

I am lying in a room that is not my own, in an obscure town in central India.

There is a naked man lathering his privates in the bathroom a few feet away from me.

And not only is that man not my husband, but his post-coital karaoke skills are seriously lacking.

None of this—not the man, not the location and certainly not the background vocals—was on young Eva’s ‘By the time I am 50 I will …’ list. But to be fair, neither was a cheating spouse, unemployment and a mercy dash to India.

Sweat clings to my body like a second skin.

And sweat, I realise in sudden horror, is all I am wearing.

I rummage through the tangle of damp sheets in search of my underwear, finally unearthing a fraying sports bra and full brief panties.

Really? I broke a years-long sexual drought wearing waist-to-thigh knickers that I’d picked up at a supermarket?

Still, the morning could be a lot worse. What if I had opened my eyes and found myself nude and nose to nose with a man who is not my husband?

The singing cranks up another few decibels and I realise Utkarsh is making sure I am awake and have had time to process what happened between us before he returns to the bedroom. He is in tune with my emotions, if nothing else.

I sit up and frantically start processing.

I’ve had sex with a man I’ve known for less than a week.

Nothing much I can do about that. Horse.

Gate. Bolted. What I need to do is figure out how I feel about it.

And I am surprised to realise I don’t feel any shame or remorse beyond my choice of underwear.

The main thing I feel is an overwhelming sense of wellbeing.

And most certainly an interest in doing it all over again.

I idly wonder if there is a lingerie shop somewhere in Khajuraho.

Better safe than sorrily caught out again tonight.

The bathroom door is slightly ajar and I lean forward to peek inside.

Every now and again, the steam parts, allowing me to catch a reflected image of soft and welcoming flesh.

My mind wanders back to the night before.

The memory makes me smile. A series of sketches from the Kama Sutra on the wall opposite had provided plenty of inspiration.

We haven’t completed the whole sequence, but when we did finally fall asleep, there was a definite ‘to be continued’ vibe.

I commit the last few positions to memory and reach for my phone on the bedside table. I might be at a critical juncture in my life, but I still need to check if my mother has posted any TikTok updates while I was otherwise engaged.

I swipe the screen. Dammit—the battery is dead. In all the anticipation and excitement of the previous night, I’d forgotten to charge it. I can’t remember when I last did that. It makes me feel a little pleased with myself.

I look around the room and spot Utkarsh’s laptop sitting on top of a makeshift desk.

Surely, he won’t mind if I use it to check up on my mother?

Tracking her down is very much a shared mission now—he is as invested in the hunt as I am.

And as much as I would like to explore the next sketch in the Kama Sutra series, we need to get moving.

I pull my cotton blouse over my head and pad across the room. In the background, Utkarsh launches into a Grease medley, unwisely attempting the parts of both Danny and Sandy.

The laptop is locked, but guessing his password will be easy. Utkarsh doesn’t seem the type to seal his life away behind a jumble of numbers, symbols and lower and upper cases. He is nowhere near that complicated.

I type ‘Aanya’ and sit back, my hands laced behind my head.

Bingo. The laptop defaults to what appears to be a business website.

A photo of Utkarsh fills the screen. His arms are crossed and he has a camera hanging around his neck.

I would have taken a moment to appreciate his molten brown eyes and the way his stance enhances the curve of his biceps, but this isn’t a happy snap—it is a professional photograph.

And he isn’t a rickshaw driver, as he first suggested.

Nor is he a businessman. At least, not in the way that he has led me to believe.

He is neither of those things. I read the text in disbelief.

UTKARSH PATEL

Private Investigator

Specialist in surveillance, marital infidelity and other domestic matters.

That slimy, duplicitous piece of shit. From the bathroom, Utkarsh launches into an ear-piercing rendition of ‘Hopelessly Devoted to You’. The bastard has to be mocking me.

I push the laptop aside, retrieve my trousers from the floor and pull them on as quickly as I can.

My belongings are strewn all over the room.

Phone. Hotel key. Money belt. Passport. Heavens knows what else.

I race around collecting it all, desperately hoping I don’t leave anything important behind.

I am almost out the door when Utkarsh emerges from the bathroom. A small and scratchy-looking towel is wrapped loosely around his hips. The only other thing he is wearing is a wide morning-after grin.

But as he sizes up the situation, the smile falls from his face as quickly as our clothes had fallen to the floor last night. A drop of water inches down his chest. I do not let my eyes follow it.

‘What are you doing, Eva?’ He goes to hold up a hand, but his towel starts to slip and he hastily yanks it back around his waist. ‘Is something wrong? If you are regretting what happened between us, we can talk about it. We shared something beautiful. Please don’t run away.’

I stand next to the door, frozen in place, disgusted and infuriated by this man I had so naively trusted.

Suddenly all the awful things that have happened to me in the last week rush to the surface.

Seismic waves of white-hot anger ripple under my skin.

I am angry that a jumped-up little nobody ripped away what was left of my career.

I am angry that my husband traded me in for a younger, skinnier model.

I am angry that my mother is a selfish brat.

And I am angry at this final indignity. The rage feels like it will cleave my body in two if it doesn’t find a way out.

‘Utkarsh Patel.’ I pronounce his name slowly and deliberately. ‘Private investigator. Specialising in surveillance and infidelity. Well, you certainly do a very thorough job.’

Utkarsh glances at the open laptop on the desk. A look of horrified comprehension spreads across his face. He starts to walk toward me but registering the scale of my fury, thinks better of it.

‘I can explain.’

‘I can’t imagine what needs explaining. You have been hired to follow me.’ My eyes drill into him. ‘You can deny it, if you like.’

Utkarsh drops his head to examine his bare toes. Guilty as charged.

‘By my husband, no doubt.’

My voice slices the air with the steely precision of a razor blade.

I am in control of my anger, letting it escape a little at a time.

‘But tell me, Utkarsh. Did you earn a little extra pocket money for bedding me last night? Will you be sending photographs to my husband? Are the two of you thinking that you can wrangle a more generous divorce settlement if I am also guilty of infidelity?’

Utkarsh stares back at me, his jaw slack. I would describe his expression as stricken except that would imply a conscience. And a man who seduces a heartbroken woman into bed for money has no conscience. And what about Jonathan? He went along with this scheme, maybe even planned it—

I stall mid-thought.

Jonathan!

It all starts to click. Utkarsh has been feeding him information the whole time. While I have been trying to find my parents, my husband has been stalking me—digitally certainly, but maybe physically as well. He could even be at this hotel, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal himself.

I have to get the hell out, and quickly.

I fix Utkarsh with my most contemptuous look. ‘I am going to my room. I am going to pack my things. And you are not going to follow me. Your job is done.’ I push the door open. ‘Goodbye, Utkarsh.’

And with that, I stumble into the corridor with no idea where I am headed next. All I know is that wherever I am going, I am going there on my own.

From: Me

To: Rachael Ezzy

CC: Katie Taylor

Hello friends,

It’s happened. I’ve finally found a positive to getting older as a woman. The sex is amazing.

That’s right, ladies. I finally slept with Utkarsh. And it was hands down (legs up) the best sex of my life.

Now, before you start high-fiving one another, there’s a rather large caveat attached to the encounter. But I’ll get to that in a moment.

Let me start with the good stuff. Did I mention the sex was amazing?

Why that should be the case, I’m not exactly sure.

Maybe it’s because it has been so goddamn long since I did the wild thing that I’d forgotten how good it makes me feel.

Perhaps, all these years later, I know what I want and I make sure my partner does too.

Maybe my lover was especially skilled. And believe me, Utkarsh is extremely skilled.

Although I’d like it on the record that I held up my end as well.

So, you’re probably thinking: you go, girl! And yes, I sure did go. A few times actually. But there’s a problem. A big and insurmountable problem.

Utkarsh is an unscrupulous, lying, two-faced bastard.

I discovered that he is not actually a rickshaw driver or a garden-variety businessman.

Rather, he is a private investigator hired by Jonathan to track me down and, it seems, dig up dirt on me as well.

I guess it was a matter of BYO shovel. So, my one amazing night can never happen again.

Damn it.

As you can imagine, I was mad at first. Thelma and Louise shoot up a tanker kind of mad.

But I’ve been bumping along on a rickety Indian bus for two hours now, bound for God knows where and with a caged chicken on the seat next to me.

My immense discomfort has given me time to reflect. And the fact is, I had a good time.

Last night reminded me of what I’ve been missing.

And it let me know what I want in the future.

Of course, I’ll vet my partners more carefully going forward.

Or maybe I’ll just pay for the pleasure.

Whatever. The fact is I discovered something really important about myself and my needs. And that can’t be bad.

Presuming I do start writing a blog for middle-aged women—and that’s a big if—what do you think of a post that offers the newly menopausal some sex tips?

Suddenly/possibly single ladies like me need to know that everything still works.

The old body needs a little more cajoling than it once did.

But that’s a good thing, right? Foreplay is no longer a welcome extra. It’s a prerequisite.

I’m not exactly the open-door type, so if anyone wanted more information on the subject, I could direct them to the Debbie Reddy TikTok account (premium content). Don’t ask, just know it is a thing.

But back to my current predicament. Apparently, I am headed for Satna.

I didn’t choose the destination for any other reason than it was where the first bus out of town was headed.

From what little I know about Satna, it is the last place on earth anyone would think to look for me.

My Single Girl’s Guide sums it up in one sentence: ‘There is not a single reason to visit this city.’

It sounds perfectly appalling. And so, it is perfect.

Now that I’ve cut Utkarsh loose, I can’t see how Jonathan will be able to find me. And who’d think to look in India’s cement capital?

Wish me luck on my first solo flight!

Much love,

Eva xxox