Blast from the Past

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.