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“But you don’t have a license, sir.”
“I don’t think anyone will notice.” Seb flicked on the ignition, revved up and waited for Vijay to climb on behind him before he joined the traffic heading into Bombay.
They were back outside the hotel forty-one minutes later. Seb checked his watch. The rose should be delivered any time now.
“I’ll be back, Vijay, but I can’t be sure when,” he said before walking quickly up the steps and into the hotel. He took the lift to the eighth floor, went straight to his room, poured himself a cold Cobra and sat down next to the phone. So many jumbled thoughts flooded through his mind. Had the rose been delivered? If it had, would Priya even see it? If she did see it, would she realize who’d sent it? At least he felt confident about that. She would recognize his handwriting, and with one call to the florist she would discover which room he was in. It was clear that her family weren’t letting her out of the house unaccompanied, possibly not even out of their sight. Checking his watch every few minutes he paced up and down the room, occasionally stopping to take a sip of his beer. He glanced at the front page of the Times of India, but didn’t get beyond the headlines. He thought about ringing his uncle Giles, and bringing him up to date, but decided he couldn’t risk the line being busy when she called.
When the phone made a loud metallic sound, Seb grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Is that you, Seb?” Priya whispered.
“Yes it is, black swan. Can you talk?”
“Only for a minute. What are you doing in Bombay?”
“I’ve come to take you back to England.” He paused. “But only if that’s what you want.”
“Of course it’s what I want. Just tell me how.”
Seb quickly explained exactly what he had planned, and although she remained silent, he felt confident she was listening intently. Suddenly she spoke, her voice formal. “Thank you, yes. You can expect my mother and me around eleven—” A pause. “I’m also looking forward to seeing you.”
“Don’t forget to bring your passport,” said Seb, just before she put the phone down.
“Who was that?” Priya’s mother asked.
“Brides of Bombay,” said Priya, casually, not wanting her mother to become suspicious. “Just confirming our appointment for tomorrow,” she added, trying to conceal her excitement. “They suggested I wear something casual, as I’ll be trying on several outfits.”
Seb made no attempt to disguise how euphoric he felt. He punched the air and shouted “Hallelujah!” as if he’d just scored the winning goal in the cup final. Once he’d recovered, he sat down and thought about what needed to be done next. After a few moments, he left his room and went downstairs to the front desk.
“Did you find what you were looking for at the florist, Mr. Clifton?”
“She couldn’t have been more helpful, thank you. Now I’d like to book two first-class tickets on Air India’s flight to New Delhi at two twenty tomorrow afternoon.”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll ask our travel desk to send the tickets up to your room as soon as they’re confirmed.”
Seb sat alone in the hotel restaurant, picking at a curry as he went over his plan again and again, trying to eradicate any possible flaws. After lunch he left the hotel to find Vijay sitting on the bike. He could have given a lapdog lessons in loyalty.
“Where to now, sir?”
“Back to the airport,” said Seb, as he grabbed the handlebars and climbed on.
“Do you require me, sir?”
“Oh yes. I need someone sitting behind me.”
Seb knocked three minutes off their previous time to the airport, and once again walked across to Gate 14B, where he double-checked the departure board. On the return trip to the hotel, he knocked another minute off his time, without ever breaking the speed limit.
“See you at ten tomorrow morning, Vijay,” said Seb, knowing he was talking to someone who didn’t need to be reminded to be on time.
Vijay gave a mock salute as Sebastian entered the hotel and returned to his room. He ordered a light supper and tried to relax by watching Above Us the Waves on television. He finally climbed into bed just after eleven, but didn’t sleep.
21
DESPITE A SLEEPLESS night, Sebastian wasn’t tired when he pulled open the curtains the following morning, letting the first rays of the sun flood into his room. He now knew what an athlete must feel like the morning before an Olympic final.
He took a long cold shower, put on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of trainers. He ordered breakfast in his room, but only to kill time. He would have called his uncle Giles to bring him up to date if it hadn’t been the middle of the night in London. He went down to the front desk just after ten and asked for his bill.
“I hope you enjoyed your stay with us, Mr. Clifton,” said the concierge, “and will be returning soon.”
