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.