Blast from the Past
Cathy Hopkins

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Cathy Hopkins 2019

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Cathy Hopkins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008286576

Ebook Edition © December 2019 ISBN: 9780008289270

Version: 2018-12-04

Know, therefore, that from the greater silence I shall return … Forget not that I shall come back to you … A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me.

Kahlil Gibran

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cathy Hopkins

About the Publisher

1

It all began with a birthday gift from my friend, Marcia. Most people would think of giving a scarf, a pair of earrings, books or some scented bath oil but, oh no, not Marcia, not this time. She’d wanted to be different and present me something out of the ordinary.

‘Today’s our last day and you remember what we promised each other,’ she said as we sat, ready for breakfast, in rattan chairs on the terrace of our brightly coloured heritage hotel on the shore of Lake Pichola in Udaipur, India.

‘I do,’ said Pete, Marcia’s husband. ‘Presents! Time to reveal what we’ve all been planning.’ He reached down and produced three envelopes from his rucksack. He fanned his face with them then handed one to Marcia, one to me, and kept the last for himself. ‘These are from me. Happy fiftieths. May we have many more decades together.’

‘Especially in locations like this,’ I said as I gazed out over the water which was shimmering in the early morning sun. Udaipur was my favourite part of the holiday so far, a fairy tale of a city with a scenic and romantic setting, marble palaces, courtyards, gardens, temples, ancient narrow streets and, of course, stunning views from our hotel of the famous lake. And to top it all, presents. I knew that whatever Pete and Marcia had got me would be thoughtful and generous – from Marcia in particular; she loved to spoil friends and always picked something that was just right.

‘So go on, open them,’ said Pete.

‘I will,’ said Marcia, ‘but first …’ She handed me a tube of lotion and pointed at my nose which was red from the sun.

I laughed. ‘You never change.’ She’d been telling me what to do since I’d met her on my first day at secondary school. Along with all the other wide-eyed new girls, I’d entered the school gates, looking around for someone, anyone, I knew, but there was no one I could see from my junior school. I’d followed the crowd into assembly, got in line, and there in front of me was Marcia, her wild, black hair tamed into a long plait. She’d turned around, looked me up and down, assessing me, then she’d pulled her jumper up and rolled the waistband of her skirt, making it inches shorter than the knee-length uniform rule. She’d indicated that I should do the same which I did without question. ‘Welcome to seven years of hell. I reckon we should stick together.’ I’d laughed, impressed, and stuck close to her, and here she was, almost forty years later, still looking out for me and telling me what to do. I applied the coconut-scented cream, though it was really too late, my face blared Englishwoman abroad. Marcia, being dark skinned, never suffered the same problem, nor did Pete; in fact, his tan had developed evenly into a deep nut brown.

A handsome young waiter in a white starched uniform appeared and placed tall glasses of mango lassi on the table in front of us. Pete whipped out his iPhone and showed it to him. ‘Please would you take a photo? Three of us?’

The waiter nodded so Pete handed it to him then indicated that Marcia and I should pull our chairs close while he went to stand behind us.

‘Everybody smile,’ said the waiter and we grinned into the camera. ‘One more. Good.’

After he’d gone, Pete examined the results then showed them to us.

I grimaced as I stared at the photos. ‘I look like an ageing elf. Your fault, Marcia.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Marcia. ‘You’re the epitome of style, as always.’

The photos showed a slim woman with short platinum-blonde hair between two vibrant-looking hippie types. Pete, with a goatee beard and navy scarf, tied bandana-style around his head, looked like an old rock star, Marcia, with her waves of long black hair, was in a red kaftan and amber beads, his rock-chick companion. I was wearing a long black linen dress, 1930s Prada sunglasses, a single, long rope of silver that matched my earrings, and had painted my lips bright red. It was a style Marcia had come up with when my brown hair had begun to grow grey in my mid-forties. ‘Think Annie Lennox 1980 – spike it up at the front a bit,’ she’d told me, ‘add a slash of bright lipstick, then go for plain colours with your clothes and you’ll be seen as cool and chic, not middle-aged. With your fine bone structure, you could take it.’ I’d taken her advice, had my hair cut, and stuck to black, navy or white clothing ever since.

We’d planned the trip to India for months, the holiday of a lifetime to celebrate our birthdays. We had agreed no gifts until the end of the journey, then we’d all surprise each other with something. So far on our travels, we’d had a chill-out week on white sands by the sea in Kerala, and drifted peacefully on rice boats through palm-tree-lined canals in Alleppey (the Venice of the East). We’d done the Golden Triangle: Delhi, insanely busy with traffic, where we’d had a near-death experience in a tuk-tuk; Agra where we saw the Taj Mahal before the crowds arrived, its iridescent white marble glowing rose pink in the dawn light; Jaipur, where camels, elephants, pigs, cats, dogs and chickens could be seen strolling along the streets, narrowly missed by mopeds sometimes carrying five or six people. Everywhere we’d been was photo-worthy: women in jewel-coloured saris on bicycles; big-eyed children waving or begging from the side of the road; honey-stoned temples with intricate carvings on pillars and arches; market stalls overflowing with fabrics, pashminas, jewellery, fruits and spices; lorries painted bright yellow, red and green, strewn with garlands of flowers and tinsel. I loved India and, although I’d been before on short trips buying jewellery and trinkets for my shop back in the UK, the vibrancy and beauty never ceased to impress and inspire me.

Four days ago, we’d arrived through the three-arched gate into Udaipur in Rajasthan, the last leg of the journey. We’d been on a budget for most of the trip, but had agreed to splash out for our last few days and stay in the Shiv Niwas Palace, a heritage hotel on the shore of the lake. Our time there was made even more special when, on hearing that we’d all just turned fifty, the hotel manager, Rakesh, an elderly man with an impressive white moustache and big smile, had insisted on upgrading us to the royal suites. ‘My biggest pleasure,’ he’d said when he showed us the rooms that were out-of-this-world fabulous. ‘Hotel used to be royal guesthouse, long time ago. Suites empty today, now full with you my new friends. Everyone happy. Good to be happy on big birthdays.’

We couldn’t believe our luck. The rooms were vast with high ceilings, and decorated in the glorious colours that India does so well. Mine was sugar pink and apple green, Pete and Marcia’s pale grey with royal blue stained-glass windows and, hanging from the ceiling, an enormous chandelier in the same vivid shade. Both suites had arched doorways leading to balconies where we could sit and marvel at the magnificent City Palace to our right, the lake in front of us, and the purple and ochre mountains in the distance.

Pete indicated the envelopes again. ‘Go on then, open them,’ he said. Marcia and I did as we were told and found vouchers inside for Ayurvedic massages.

‘Just what I wanted,’ said Marcia.

‘Perfect,’ I agreed. ‘Some pampering to end the trip. Thank you.’ I pulled out two parcels that I had hidden under the table earlier. ‘And these are from me.’ I’d thought long and hard about what to get for Marcia and Pete. We were all at an age where we had most things we wanted, and at first I had been at a loss as to what I could possibly add to their lives. In Jaipur, I’d had an idea. I’d been out one afternoon buying merchandise for my shop and had passed a stall bursting with fabrics of every colour. I’d bought metres of gunmetal silk for Pete and scarlet for Marcia, then found a tailor in Udaipur with a sign outside his shop advertising that he could make anything in twenty-four hours. I’d asked him to make the material into long kimono-style dressing gowns and he’d been true to his claim: the gowns had been delivered to my suite yesterday evening and the stitching was immaculate.

Marcia and Pete ripped the wrapping paper to reveal the robes. Both immediately put them on. ‘Wow,’ said Pete, as he gave us a twirl, then looked at Marcia. ‘You look amazing. Bea, these are fabulous. What a great idea.’

‘Yes, thank you. I love it,’ said Marcia as she stroked the soft fabric. ‘I hope you’re having one made for yourself too. In fact, you ought to think about manufacturing these and selling them.’

‘My thoughts exactly,’ I said. ‘But Stuart gave me a stern talking-to before we left about not spending until business has picked up back home.’ Stuart was my accountant and a good friend and I knew he was concerned about the drop in profits in the last year.

‘The killjoy,’ said Marcia.

‘Looking out for me as always,’ I replied. ‘And he’s probably right. I need to get things back on an even keel before I think about expanding into importing silk dressing gowns.’

Marcia sat down. ‘OK. My turn.’ Like Pete had done a few minutes earlier, she produced three envelopes, handing one to Pete and one to me and keeping the last for herself.

‘Oo, what’s this?’ I said as I ripped mine open. Inside, there was a voucher not unlike the one for Ayurvedic massage, but this said, ‘An hour with Saranya Ji.’ I looked to Marcia for explanation.

Her face was glowing with excitement. ‘She’s one of the top psychics in India.’

Oh no, was my immediate reaction. I don’t do clairvoyants, astrologers or palm readers: they’re not my thing at all. I think fortune-tellers prey on the vulnerable and tell people what they want to hear, but this was a present from Marcia and the last thing I wanted to do was to hurt her feelings. ‘Fabulous,’ I lied.

Marcia laughed. ‘You hate it. I know this isn’t your bag usually but she has a fantastic reputation; all the reviews say that she is amazing in what she reveals.’

‘No, no, I don’t hate it at all. It will be fun,’ I said. It was typical of Marcia to have done something like this. She had stacks of books on spirit guides and the meaning of dreams at home, was always a sucker for a card or palm reading, looking for someone who could draw back the veil to the unknown. Not me, and she knew that. I was the more rational of the two of us, my feet firmly planted on the ground, whereas Marcia had her head in the stars. Pete went along with her interests if only to keep the peace but, privately, the only spirits he was into were those of the alcoholic variety.

Marcia laughed again. ‘You don’t have to put on an act for me, Bea. But come on, keep an open mind. If nothing else, it will be a chance to get a look inside the Taj Lake Palace Hotel, because that’s where she’s staying and doing the sessions. She’s on a tour and I was lucky to get us all in.’ She pointed out over the water to the middle of the lake where there was a two-tiered white marble hotel with pillars and arches around the sides. It looked like an enormous wedding cake. ‘It was originally built around 1743 as the royal summer palace, and it covers the whole island, which is why it appears to be floating. It looks straight out of Disney, doesn’t it?’

‘It does,’ I agreed. ‘And it will be great to take a look inside.’

Pete kissed his wife’s cheek. ‘Well I love it. What an original gift. Let’s find out what our futures hold.’

‘Can’t wait,’ I lied again. Probably some charlatan who will tell me I am about to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger, I thought. As if that’s ever going to happen. I’d given up on men many moons ago, but I’d go along with it for Marcia’s sake. As she’d said, it was also a chance to look inside the world-famous hotel. ‘I’ve read that it was used as a location in the TV series, The Jewel and The Crown – and in the Bond film, Octopussy. I reckon martinis will be in order when we get there.’

‘Excellent idea,’ said Pete. ‘Make mine shaken, not stirred.’

2

The Ayurvedic treatments were to be at a health centre just outside the Udaipur City Palace, so we decided to make the most of our last day and explore the glorious-looking building on our way there.

‘There’s not a square inch that hasn’t been painted or covered in mosaic,’ said Marcia as we wandered through a maze of corridors and into vast, tall rooms interlinked with scalloped arches and carved pillars. We marvelled at the depictions of life-size elephants on one wall, a camel on another, Lord Krishna in shades of yellow glass, gods and goddesses in reds and blues. We passed through a gold door surrounded with a series of deep green arches that seemed to ripple out towards us, then we moved into and through a room covered in lines of silver, and scarlet tiles that had been set in dramatic zigzags across the walls.

‘Wow, opulent,’ I said as I looked at the lightning bolts of colour. Everywhere was a feast for the eyes: a gold and orange room; another that was pale turquoise with rust-coloured shutters; a ceiling covered with scarlet flowers on an emerald green background; a golden elephant against a royal blue wall; stained-glass windows with panes that shone like jewels with the light behind.

There were tourists in every room, all with their iPhones out. I was tempted to join them then decided not to. ‘I’ll take snapshots with my mind instead,’ I said as I put my mobile away. ‘And I can always revisit it on the Internet.’

‘We’ll probably want to do that when we get home,’ said Marcia. ‘I read that it’s snowing back in the UK.’

‘And of course it will be Christmas mania over there,’ I said. And not a time that I look forward to any more, I thought.

‘This part is famous,’ said Pete as we entered a pretty courtyard with a huge green and blue mosaic peacock, then moved into the adjacent room where the walls were made from small squares of blue, orange, green and yellow glass.

‘Colour combinations that are a million miles away from the pebble and taupe shades we live with back home,’ I said.

Marcia nodded, ‘Apple green and red, lime green and turquoise and everywhere gold, gold, gold. I love it. Pete, I think I feel some redecorating coming on.’

Pete rolled his eyes. ‘Again?’

‘The palace was built 450 years ago by Maharana Udai Singh II,’ we heard a tour guide tell his party. ‘It was added on to by subsequent generations, which is why it is now a series of palaces, eleven in all, measuring two hundred and forty-four metres long and thirty metres high. In days gone by, silk or muslin curtains, soaked in rose or jasmine water, would have been hung across the arched doorways and windows so that in the heat of the sun, the scent would waft through the palace.’

‘So romantic,’ I said to Marcia. Not for the first time on the trip, I felt a pang of regret that I wasn’t there with a special someone to share it with. Not that Pete or Marcia made me feel as if I was tagging along, not for a moment; but, all the same, sometimes I felt wistful that there wasn’t a hand to hold, or someone I could stop, look and treasure a moment with.

*

The health centre was a dark wood raised bungalow with a veranda at the front. It smelt strongly of herbs and sandalwood joss sticks, and in the background was the sound of chanting, Om, om, ommmmmmm.

We were greeted by a young Indian woman in a red sari, who took our names, then led us along a corridor and into treatment rooms. Moments later, I was undressed, on a couch, and had been anointed with what felt like a bucket of pungent-smelling oil. Soon, I was being pummelled and stroked by the two female therapists, one on either side of me.

They started to slap me lightly then poured on more oil and got to work. ‘Rosemary, good for muscles,’ said one of the masseuses.

As the massage continued, due to the copious oil that had been poured all over me, I found myself sliding forward and back along the leather couch at an alarming speed. I dug my fingers under the sides of the bed and held on in order to stop shooting out through the open window opposite, like a cannonball out 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.’

3

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 say something vague, like you’re in for a challenging time.’

‘I already know that I am,’ I said.

‘Are you worried about what you’re going back to?’

I nodded. ‘I am but I’m determined not to think about it while we’re here. It’s been wonderful to have a break from all my concerns back home. I’ll deal with it when I get back. Heather’s been texting but I purposely haven’t read her or Stuart’s messages.’

‘Good for you. Heather’s a good manager so I’m sure will cope if anything’s come up. And you know Marcia and I will do whatever we can to help.’

‘I do, but let’s not talk about it now. If I start worrying here, there’s not anything I can do, it’s not going to make any difference, and it would only spoil our last day.’

‘Exactly,’ said Pete. ‘Very wise.’

We chatted away about our plans for Christmas and the time flashed by until Marcia came back with Adita, who beckoned to Pete to go with her.

‘So, how was it?’ I asked.

‘Not saying. I don’t want to influence you. How about we tell each other what she said when we’re all done,’ she said, and with that, she went over to a sun-lounger, picked up a magazine from a nearby table and stretched out on the bed.

‘OK, but good or bad do you reckon?’ I asked.

Marcia put her hand up to her mouth and zipped. ‘My lips are sealed.’

‘Spoilsport,’ I said. I could see she wasn’t going to be budged, so I got out my book of puzzles to do while I waited. I loved puzzles and crosswords; they were great for passing time at airports, on planes and trains, or anywhere I had an hour to kill. I’d even been known to have a jigsaw on my dining table on a rainy weekend, something that Marcia found hilarious.

An hour later, Pete was back. He looked slightly dazed and, for the first time, I felt a twinge of apprehension. ‘OK?’ I asked.

‘Fantastic,’ he said as he went to sit by Marcia. ‘She’s definitely got something.’

Hmm, I’ll be the judge of that, and I mustn’t give anything away, I thought, as Adita beckoned that I should follow her. I got up and she led me back to the reception area, along a corridor to the left and into one of the hotel rooms. I knew from gullible friends that sometimes fortune-tellers fished for clues. Well, I wasn’t going to give her any.

‘Saranya Ji will come in short time,’ said Adita, as she indicated that I should take a seat, then she left me alone to wait.

I looked around the small suite, with its closed shutter doors that I presumed led to a bedroom. The room was tastefully decorated in traditional style with cream walls, a red velvet sofa and chaise longue with gold cushions, a navy blue Persian rug on the floor and an antique-looking painting on the one wall showing a maharaja riding an elephant. This must have cost a packet, I thought. Gypsy Rose Ji must be doing well out of the psychic business.

Moments later, the door opened, and I stood as a small Indian lady in a white sari came in. She exuded warmth and came over and greeted me like a long-lost friend.

‘My dear Bea, I am so pleased to see you,’ she said as she clasped my hands in hers and I noticed the soft scent of roses and sandalwood. I couldn’t help being charmed by her manner and found myself smiling back at her. ‘Please, sit, sit. Would you like tea? They have mint here, made with fresh mint, no teabags. It’s very refreshing.’ She spoke with a perfect English accent and I found myself wanting to know more about her. I resolved to google her as soon as I got back to my hotel.

‘Yes, that sounds wonderful.’

She picked up the phone and ordered tea then turned back. ‘So my dear, how can I help?’

‘Help? Oh no. I don’t need help, no, my friend Marcia, the lady you saw earlier, she bought a session with you for me as a birthday gift.’

Saranya Ji regarded me in a manner I found a little uncomfortable. It wasn’t that she looked at me unkindly, more that she stared right into me and I felt exposed in some way. I felt myself blush. After a few moments, she nodded and smiled. ‘OK, a gift. So what would like to know?’

‘I … I thought you were going to tell my fortune.’

‘Ah. Fortune. I don’t exactly tell fortunes. Is that what you want? Someone to tell you your future?’

She’s fishing, I thought. ‘No. Not that.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘The past has gone, the future is yet to be written; only the present is real.’

‘True,’ I said as there was a knock at the door and a waiter brought in a silver tray with tea.

After he’d gone, Saranya Ji poured and handed me a cup, then we sat in silence for a while which I found awkward. I didn’t know where to look, so I stared at the carpet. I am not going to give anything away, I told myself.

Finally Saranya Ji began to speak. ‘I feel sadness in you, Bea, and resistance. I feel scepticism, but this will change.’

Doubt it, I thought, and as for appearing sad or resistant, that could apply to most of the population. Who hasn’t got to the age of fifty without a few knocks?

‘Why are you here?’ she asked.

‘We’re on holiday—’

‘No, I mean here today, with me.’

‘My friend Marcia, the gift, I couldn’t refuse. I … there’s nothing I want to know specifically.’

Saranya Ji sighed and then nodded to herself, as if accepting that I wasn’t going to blurt out my whole life. ‘OK. Give me your hands,’ she instructed. I held my hands out and she took them in hers, turned them palm upwards and studied them. She closed her eyes as if tuning in to me, then opened her eyes and let go of my hands.

‘You have known pain with love in this lifetime, no?’ she asked.

‘I … I …’ I blustered. ‘I’ve had good relationships and some not so good, probably like everyone my age.’ I was about to tell her more, then remembered that I’d resolved not to give anything away.

‘I mean the joy of love and contentment that comes from meeting your equal and soulmate,’ said Saranya Ji. She looked at me with such compassion that I felt my eyes well with tears. It was as if she knew, she understood how empty my life felt, but that couldn’t be. I’d known her five minutes and some people I’d spent a lifetime with had no idea about what went on in my head and my heart. I had a good public mask of being cheerful, positive, not needing anyone. Only friends like Marcia, Pete, Heather and Stuart knew what went on behind the act. I blinked the tears away. Ridiculous. What was wrong with me? And what was happening here? Maybe Marcia had been filling her in on my past, or Pete? I’ll kill them when I get out of here, I thought. Marcia saw my present lack of love life as her private mission, and was forever trying to pair me off with inappropriate single men.

‘You have travelled far through time to be here,’ said Saranya Ji.

‘True,’ I said again. ‘It was a long flight from England and we go back tomorrow.’

‘No. Not in India, I mean in this body you call Bea. What I want to talk to you about is your life as Bea.’

‘OK.’

‘What you must understand, Bea, is that in life, first comes destiny, next comes free will. Understand? How you react to what happens to you.’

I nodded. ‘I understand.’

‘Our soul has many lessons to learn on this journey. You have had many lives, many incarnations, gathering knowledge and experience to bring you here today in this lifetime as Bea. So far this time, you have not found lasting love, but it is there as your destiny, you could know the joy of finding your true companion.’

Me and a thousand others, I thought, and wondered how many people she’d fed the same lines.

She reached across, took my hands in hers again and closed her eyes. Her touch was soft and warm and it felt soothing. She opened her eyes again and continued, ‘There is a reason for this and that is because you have it imprinted in your unconscious mind that lasting love is not for those such as you; for you it brings pain, that people you love, they leave you, and you are destined to be alone. In your attempt to go beyond this and not to get hurt further, you have repeated a pattern. You recreate the familiar in your relationships so you can think, yes, it is true, love hurts, no point. I am better off alone. I don’t need anyone.’

Whoa, I thought, steady on. It was true, I did believe that love brought pain and that people leave, because so far that had been my experience, but imprinted on my unconscious mind so that I was creating it? I did not like what I was hearing. I glanced at the door and wondered whether to end the session there and then, but another part of me was fascinated as to what else she had to say. I stayed where I was. Let’s hear what baloney she comes out with next, I told myself. I can have a laugh about it later with Pete and Marcia.

‘I see a man, your soulmate. You have been together many times in many lives. It is a great love, powerful, and each time brought you a joy that you have not come close to in this life. He was and is your true love and you brought out the best of each other’s nature. This was good. You encouraged each other to be open to learn, you challenged each other. Ah …’ she paused then continued with confidence. ‘Here it is. In your last life, you were Grace Harris. You worked as a dressmaker in London, England. You were to be married but … something happened to end that love.’

Saranya Ji was quiet for a few moments, and her head tilted as though she was listening to someone in the room, to her right, someone I couldn’t see. She nodded. ‘Ah, this could be where the pattern of belief that you carry now began. You were to be married but it was the war, Second World War. He had to go and fight but, oh … his life was interrupted. He didn’t return. You were heartbroken. This loss caused you great pain because you believed you would have a whole life together in the future. This belief that love hurts went deep, deep into you, and you have carried this with you, the idea that a smooth love affair happens to other people but you lose those whom you truly love. This has made you cautious to give your heart and so you prefer to choose men who are wrong for you so, if they leave, it doesn’t matter so much and if you do begin to care, you push them away so they cannot get too close and wound you.’

I almost laughed out loud. Grace Harris? A soldier killed in action? What a load of tosh. She’d probably seen an old war movie recently and was repeating the storyline back to me.

‘What I want to tell you is that, as you are back in this lifetime, so is he. Like you, he has travelled far through many dimensions to be here. In this life, you must find him if you are to be truly happy. This is important, Bea. You are meant to be together. You must find him, recognize and let him in, if you are ever to know the joy of love.’

The atmosphere in the room felt charged and I felt a shiver go up my spine, but I was not going to be taken in. ‘Was he by any chance tall, dark and handsome?’

Saranya Ji looked directly at me. ‘You are cynical, Bea. Don’t be, it doesn’t suit you. It is a wall to protect yourself and is not your true nature. You have an open and loving spirit. You must learn to let go of your distrust if you are to progress. Yes, you may scoff at what you hear – many do when they hear a truth, and doubt me, but I simply tell what I see. It is always your choice to make of it what you will, but this man from your past who was …’ She listened to her right again, ‘He was known as Billy Jackson, he is your destiny. You can believe me and try and find him and who he is now in this life, or dismiss what I say and drift from one meaningless love affair to another, never finding the true contentment and companionship that your soul could know. Or you can immerse yourself in your work as you have done, so busy that no one knows that you are hiding. People see success but you are alone and …’ She stopped and looked at me with tenderness, ‘I don’t think so happy with this, yes?’

You’re beginning to freak me out, I thought as I looked away.

‘Have you any questions?’ Saranya Ji asked.

‘There are millions of men on the planet, in different countries, how would I know him?’

‘Recognition, there will be familiarity. A sense of, ah there you are. Have you ever met anyone and thought, where do I know you from? Yet you have never met them in this life.’

‘I suppose I have felt it with some friends.’

‘Yes, but it will be much more so with this man. A sense of, oh I know you. That is what you must look out for, but with your soulmate it will be stronger than with friends; it will feel exciting to find each other and maybe a little scary for you because it will confront your fear of loss and being hurt, so be careful not to push him away. Trust what you feel, as deep down there will be an awakening of that knowledge that yes, we belong together.’

I still didn’t believe what she was saying. It was too unlikely, romantic fodder for the easy-to-fool, and I wasn’t going to be taken in. ‘OK, Saranya Ji, but what if we miss each other? He’s on one continent, I’m on another.’

‘Trust. Don’t doubt that he will come into your life or has already come into it, that part is taken care of; but, as I said, it is your free will as to whether you accept him or reject him for fear of pain. You choose.’

‘If you say he was Billy Jackson last time, can’t you tell me his name this time? It would save a lot of time.’

She shook her head. ‘I cannot, because then you would look for a name not for his spirit. You must recognize him, look into his eyes and connect with that soul you have known many times. If I give you a name, it would influence your search.’ She regarded me again with her birdlike eyes. ‘You are still sceptical, yes?’

‘I’m sorry but I am, Saranya Ji. I’m afraid I don’t believe in past lives or even soulmates, although it’s a lovely, idealistic notion.’ I didn’t add that I thought that what she had said was ridiculous, preposterous.

Saranya Ji looked at me with a kind but weary expression. ‘My dear Bea, open your heart and try not to be ruled always by your head. Change is coming to your life. Allow for possibilities that are …’ she raised an eyebrow and smiled, ‘ridiculous and preposterous. See where they take you. Life may surprise you yet.’

4

‘So, what did she say?’ asked Pete as soon as I got back to the courtyard and went to sit with them at a table where they were drinking ice-cold beers from tall glasses.

‘Anything about what’s coming?’ asked Marcia.

I shook my head. ‘She said something about change but didn’t elaborate. I guess that could apply to anyone, though. Life is all about change, isn’t it?’

‘Did she say you’d meet the love of your life?’ asked Marcia.

I laughed and shook my head. ‘Not exactly, no.’

‘So what did she say?’ asked Marcia.

‘I’m still processing it,’ I said. ‘It was … weird.’ Despite my cynicism, I felt shaken by my session with Saranya Ji. She had not been what I expected at all and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. ‘You tell me what she said to you first.’

‘She talked about my soul’s purpose and journey,’ said Marcia. ‘She talked about how God is within all of us and the importance of recognizing that.’

‘Yes, she said that to me too,’ said Pete. ‘And that we are not all born equal but eventually will reach a point where we are all equal.’

‘And how’s that supposed to happen?’ I asked.

‘Through knowledge and learning, through cultivating charity, hope, faith and love,’ said Pete. ‘And in my case, the importance of balance.’

‘Good. You need that,’ said Marcia. ‘All or nothing, that’s you.’

I smiled. It was true. Pete never did things by halves. One week, it was red wine and fine food, other weeks green tea and brown rice.

‘And she spoke about making time to meditate,’ said Marcia. ‘Time to stop and tune into the peace inside.’

‘No prophecies?’ I asked.

‘Not exactly. She spoke about my father, though, said he is with me in spirit and he was fine and that he said to tell me that I worry too much.’

Pete laughed. ‘He was always telling you that.’

‘And you believed her?’ I asked.

‘I did.’

‘But I’m sure a thousand fathers would pass that message on to their daughters.’

Marcia shrugged. ‘I found it comforting,’ she said, and I realized that I should shut up with my doubts. I knew that Marcia had loved her father dearly and was still grieving, five years after his death. If what Saranya Ji had said had lifted some of that pain in some way, I didn’t want to pour cold water on it.

‘I’m sorry, Marcia, I didn’t mean to be cynical. You know what I’m like. I guess we know so little about what happens after death. Why shouldn’t your father speak through a medium?’

‘Indeed,’ said Marcia. She smiled. Like Pete, she was easy-going, not one to pick an argument, nor was I, although privately I thought the chances of her father’s spirit turning up to speak through a small Indian woman in Rajastan was about as likely as one of us winning the lottery.

‘It’s true,’ said Pete. ‘We know nothing about life after death, or if a spirit lives on.’

‘Oh yes we do,’ said Marcia, ‘there are loads of books about reincarnation and accounts of people who have had experiences. So, what else did Saranya Ji say to you?’

I laughed. ‘She spoke to me about a past life.’

‘Really? Did you ask her about them?’ asked Marcia.

‘No, of course not. Why would I? Didn’t she talk about past lives to you? I would have thought she would tell you two that you are soulmates and have been together life after life.’

‘We already know that,’ said Marcia, ‘but no, Saranya Ji didn’t mention anything like that. Why did she to you?’

‘Because she said she sensed sadness in me and that I hadn’t found true love. Did either of you say something to her?’

‘Not me,’ said Marcia.

‘Nor me,’ said Pete.

‘Did she talk about you meeting the love of your life?’ Marcia asked.

‘Not exactly meeting him. She said I’d already met him.’

‘Already? Great. So, someone you already know?’ asked Marcia.

‘Yes and no. I’m not sure I do know him.’

‘Stop being evasive,’ Marcia persisted. ‘What did she say exactly?’

‘She said I’d met him already—’

‘Yes, you said, you’ve already met him. Michael. I bet it was Michael O’Connor. I always thought you two were meant for each other.’

‘No. Not in this life.’

‘What? So … ah, right, in a past life?’ Marcia persisted.

‘Yes, she said I’d met him before, in a previous life, when I was called Grace Harris; in many previous lives, in fact. She said we’d been together time after time.’

‘A soulmate,’ said Pete.

‘Yes.’

‘Lovely, how romantic,’ said Marcia.

‘And she said that as I am back now in this life, so is he, and that I must find him.’ I filled them in on the rest of what Saranya Ji had said, because I knew that Marcia wouldn’t let it go until I’d told her everything.

‘Wow,’ said Marcia when I’d finished. ‘That’s quite a story.’

‘Exactly, a story, a big load of tosh, though it would be just my luck that my soulmate is dead … but I don’t believe any of it for a second. OK, I’ll acknowledge that Saranya Ji has some sort of spooky antenna for tuning into people, and she did pick up on a few aspects about my life that are true, but a past life as a Grace Harris? I don’t think so.’

‘I wouldn’t dismiss it,’ said Marcia. ‘I’ve met a few people I believe I’ve known before. Pete, and you. I bet we’ve known each other before.’

‘You were probably her mother,’ said Pete. ‘You’re always bossing her around.’

‘Yes, that’s a very likely possibility,’ said Marcia.

I put my fingers in my ears. ‘Not listening. You really are bonkers sometimes, away with the fairies.’

Marcia laughed. ‘That’s no way to talk to your mother.’

I sighed. ‘Honestly, I’ve never heard such nonsense.’

‘I’d take on board what she told you if I were you.’

‘Marcia, you know I love you dearly, and I am quite prepared to believe that Saranya Ji passed on a message from your father, but what she told me, I think not. I bet she gives loads of people the same spiel. I reckon she clocked that I was single because I don’t wear a wedding ring then she made it all up from there. I can’t be the only woman of my age who hasn’t known lasting joy, as she put it, in my relationships.’

‘But what if she didn’t make it up? She said nothing to either of us about past lives,’ said Pete. ‘What she told me was very much about the present and about life’s purpose and lessons to be learnt.’

‘For me too,’ said Marcia. ‘But more importantly, what are you going to do about it?’

‘Do?’

‘About Billy and whoever he is this time round. What are you going to do to find him.’

‘Find him? Nothing. Oh come on, I appreciate the gift, I really do, it’s been a great experience,’ I indicated the hotel. ‘Coming here has been fabulous – the boat ride and the car, I loved it, and meeting Saranya Ji, it’s been … er, different, if a little weird. But past lives? People called Grace and Billy. I’m sorry but I don’t believe a word she said, not for a minute. She guessed I’d known some sadness. Who hasn’t? Then she made the rest up and that’s her gift – tuning into people then spinning a yarn. Obvious really.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Marcia. ‘You have to give it a chance and try and find him. She talked to me about destiny, it being what is fated to happen, and that free will determines how you react to that fate.’

‘She also talked about the importance of keeping an open mind,’ said Pete.

‘She said that to me too,’ I said. ‘So OK, a soulmate? In what country? In what period of my life? She said I may have already met him. We could have passed each other on the street and—’

‘You were probably looking at emails on your iPhone,’ said Pete.

‘Exactly. Missed him, darn it.’

‘It’s never too late,’ said Marcia. ‘If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.’ She glanced at Pete for support but he just shrugged. He wouldn’t take sides. He never did.

Adita appeared by our sides. ‘Your boat is ready to take you back,’ she told us.

I stood up. ‘Great,’ I said, and prayed that Marcia would drop all talk of past lives and spirits, ‘now let’s go and enjoy our last evening.’

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