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“I hope so too,” said Seb as he handed over his credit card, although he couldn’t imagine what circumstances would make it possible for him ever to return. When the receptionist handed him back his credit card, he asked, “Shall I send someone up to collect your luggage, Mr. Clifton?”
Seb was momentarily thrown. “No, I’ll pick it up later,” he stammered.
“As you wish, sir.”
When Seb stepped out of the hotel, he was pleased, though not surprised, to see Vijay leaning on the motorbike.
“Where to this time, sir?”
“114 Altamont Street.”
“Posh shopping area. You buy present for your girlfriend?”
“Something like that,” said Seb.
They arrived outside Brides of Bombay at twenty minutes past ten. This was never going to be an appointment Seb would be late for. Vijay didn’t comment when Seb asked him to park out of sight, but he was surprised by his next instruction.
“I want you to take a bus to the airport and wait for me outside the entrance to the domestic terminal.” He took five hundred rupees from his wallet and handed over the well-worn notes to Vijay.
“Thank you, sir,” said Vijay, before walking away looking even more bemused.
Seb kept the engine turning over as he remained hidden behind a dilapidated old lorry. He couldn’t decide whether it had been dumped or parked.
A large black Mercedes drew up outside Brides of Bombay a few minutes after eleven. The chauffeur opened the back door to allow Mrs. Ghuman and her daughter to step out. Priya was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and flat shoes, as Seb had recommended. It didn’t matter what Priya wore, she always looked stunning.
One guard accompanied them as they entered the bridal shop, while the other remained in the front seat of the car. Seb had assumed that once the chauffeur had delivered his passengers, he would drive off and come back later. But the car remained parked in a restricted zone, and clearly wasn’t going to move until his charges returned; Seb’s first mistake. He had also thought both guards would accompany Mrs. Ghuman into the shop. His second mistake. He switched off the bike’s engine, not wanting to draw attention to himself. His third mistake. He wondered how long it might be before Priya reappeared, and whether she would be alone or accompanied by the guard.
A few minutes later he spotted Rohit Singh in his wing mirror. The photographer was strolling nonchalantly along the pavement, camera slung over one shoulder, clearly content to be fashionably late. Seb watched as he disappeared into the shop. The next twenty minutes felt like an hour, with Seb continually glancing at his watch. He was sweating profusely. Thirty minutes. Had Priya lost her nerve? Forty minutes. Could she have changed her mind? Fifty minutes. Much longer and they’d miss their flight. And then suddenly, without warning, there she was, running out onto the pavement on her own. She paused briefly, before anxiously looking up and down the road.
Seb switched on the ignition and revved the engine, but he was only at the side of the lorry by the time the second guard stepped out of the Mercedes and began wa
lking toward the boss’s daughter. The chauffeur was opening the rear door as Seb pulled up by the car. He waved frantically at Priya, who ran out into the street, jumped onto the back of the bike and clung onto him. The guard reacted immediately and charged toward them. Seb was trying to accelerate away when he lunged at him, causing Seb to swerve and almost unseat his passenger. The guard narrowly avoided being hit by a passing taxi and landed spread-eagled in the street.
Seb quickly recovered and maneuvred the bike into the center lane with Priya clinging on. The guard leapt up and gave chase, but it was an unequal contest. Once he had seen which way the bike turned at the end of the street, Seb’s fourth mistake, the guard immediately changed direction and ran into the shop.
When Mrs. Ghuman was told the news, she screamed at a petrified shop assistant, “Where’s the nearest phone?” Before she could reply, the manager, hearing the outburst, reappeared and led Mrs. Ghuman into her office. She closed the door and left her alone, while her customer dialed a number she rarely phoned. After several rings a voice said, “Ghuman Enterprises.”
“It’s Mrs. Ghuman. Put me through to my husband immediately.”
“He’s chairing a board meeting, Mrs. Ghuman—”
“Then interrupt it. This is an emergency.” The secretary hesitated. “Immediately, do you hear me?”
“Who is this?” demanded the next voice.
“It’s Simran, we have a problem. Priya has run off with Clifton.”
“How can that be possible?”
“He was waiting for her on a motorbike outside the shop. All I can tell you is that they turned left at the end of Altamont Street.”
“They must be heading for the airport. Tell the chauffeur to take both guards to the international terminal and await my instructions.” He slammed down the phone and quickly left the room, leaving twelve bewildered directors sitting around the boardroom table. As he swept through to his office he shouted at his secretary, “Find out the time of the next flight to London. And quickly!”
Ghuman’s secretary picked up the phone on her desk and called special services at the airport. A few moments later she pressed the intercom button that connected her to the chairman’s desk.
“There are two flights out of Bombay today, both of them Air India.” She glanced down at her pad. “One in forty minutes’ time, at 12:50, so you couldn’t possibly make it to the airport in time, and one—”
“—but a man on a motorbike could,” said Ghuman without explanation. “Get me the duty controller at the airport.”
