The Hen Night Prophecies: Eastern Promise

by Jessica Fox

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

EASTERN PROMISE is the second novel in this addictive new series, THE HEN NIGHT PROPHECIES, following the fortunes of five different girls, each given their own puzzling prophecy at a friend's hen night... Priya's prophecy, 'In love, mother knows best...' does not fit her fiercely independent, successful world. She's fed up of her disapproving Hindu family's constant meddling in her love-life. Distrusful of men ever since her betrayal by boss and ex-boyfriend Vic, she throws herself into work. When her new assignment leads her to India to document an ashram high in the hills, Priya hopes to find some much-needed serenity. But with mystery and secrets at its heart, she's soon convinced something sinister is afoot. And with her feelings for attractive tour guide Noah complicating things further, Priya can't help but wonder: is Noah really interested in her, or is he trying to distract her from finding out the truth?

Release date: October 20, 2016

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 324

Sample

Priya Gupta didn’t believe in Fate or destiny or soulmates.

Definitely not!

At school, while the other girls sobbed their way through the final scenes of Romeo and Juliet, Priya had simply made neat notes in the margin of her set text and wrinkled her nose with scorn. Star-crossed lovers? Fortune written in the heavens? What a load of old nonsense! Everyone knew that the only luck was the luck you made yourself and the only way to shape your future was to go out and grab it with both hands. Sitting and waiting for things to happen to you was just ridiculous! If Priya’s grandfather had thought that way the Guptas would still be living in the Punjab eking a living from the land and her father would never have become a respected academic. So when her classmates had crowded round the latest copy of Just 17 clamouring to hear their stars Priya had simply ignored them and buried her nose in her text books. She didn’t need Mystic Meg to tell her that if she studied hard she’d pass her exams with flying colours and win her longed-for place at Oxford.

No, as far as Priya was concerned the only future was the future you made yourself. Anything else was just nonsense, a way of getting the gullible to part with their cash, which was why she couldn’t understand why the other girls at her friend Zoe’s hen night were all so excited at the idea of having their fortunes told. Personally Priya hated the idea of Fate; she much preferred surprises and choices. She also hated superstition and spooky stuff, preferring to anchor herself with facts and figures. Some people might have described Priya as a control freak but that, as far as she was concerned, was their problem. She preferred the description well organised.

Priya hadn’t needed psychic skills to know she’d graduate from Magdalen with a first class degree. Just like she knew getting her job at the BBC was the result of her hard work and planning rather than some vague celestial design. She’d ignored all the voices saying it was impossible for a woman, especially a young British Asian woman, to succeed as a journalist and documentary maker, knowing hard work and a good dollop of talent were all it took and that she had plenty to offer of both. If she’d believed for a second that Fate existed and her path was already mapped out she’d have given in, concentrated instead on the law degree that her parents had set their hearts on, and not have had a shelf crammed with awards for her documentaries.

No, Priya Gupta was living proof that people made their own futures. Fate, fortune and psychics with crystal balls were only there to hoodwink the credulous and make money. There was no such thing as Fate. She’d proved that already.

‘It’s all a con anyway,’ she said firmly as Zoe’s sister, Libby, sloshed more Chardonnay into her glass. ‘Honestly, girls, I bet I’m as psychic as she is.’

‘She’s supposed to be really good,’ said Libby, busily topping up more glasses. ‘That’s why I booked her. My friend, Rachel, had a reading last week and apparently this woman knew everything about her. Rachel said it was incredible.’

‘It’s called cold reading,’ said Priya, tossing her razor-sharp bob and raising her neat eyebrows. ‘One of my colleagues did a documentary about psychics and apparently they all do it. They analyse body language and clothing and then make really vague comments which could apply to anyone. It’s all total hokum but it really convinces a lot of people.’

‘God, it must be hard work being so cynical,’ sighed Libby.

Priya wasn’t cynical, she just liked to get to the bottom of things and ensure that the truth was told – qualities that made her remarkably successful as a documentary maker – but she understood that, to Libby, she must seem like a real killjoy.

‘I’m realistic, that’s all,’ she shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s the journalist in me.’

‘Well, put your journalistic instincts into gear now,’ said Fern, a small slim college friend of Zoe’s, whose merry, freckled face and tumbling golden curls made her look like a blonde imp. ‘It’s your turn.’

Sure enough Zoe was stumbling into the room, looking rather perturbed.

‘Oh no, did she get it all wrong?’ wailed Libby.

Zoe sank into a chair and curled her slender hands around her wine glass. ‘Actually she was spookily accurate about most things. I’ve never known anything like it.’

‘See!’ Libby cried, turning triumphantly to Priya. ‘I told you she was good. Now it’s your turn. Try to have an open mind.’

‘I do have an open mind!’ Priya protested, setting down her glass and tucking her dark hair behind her ears. ‘I’m just a bit sceptical about psychic stuff, that’s all.’

But, as she left the cosy sitting room, where the other hens were settling back down to the serious business of emptying wine bottles as fast as possible, Priya felt a little tingle of anticipation run down her spine. Was it her or did Zoe’s kitchen suddenly feel cooler than usual? And was the atmosphere really super-still, as though unseen ears were straining to hear what might be said?

‘For God’s sake!’ she said sternly to herself. ‘You’re being ridiculous! You don’t even believe in this stuff, remember?’

So why did it feel as though a school of piranha fish were chomping away in her stomach? She couldn’t be nervous at the idea of seeing some phoney psychic? It was only a bit of a giggle for the hen night. With the exception of Zoe’s gloomy future sister-in-law, all the other girls were up for it.

Maybe working so hard lately has robbed me of what remained of my sense of humour, thought Priya. Not that she’d felt like laughing much lately, not since Vikram had—

Stop right there!

She shook her head as though shaking away all thoughts of Vik. She wasn’t going to think about him right now or at all if she could help it. He was best left in the past, or as much in the past as he could be seeing as he was still her boss. Priya didn’t need this psychic to foresee that having to take orders from her ex wouldn’t make for happy working relations. To say that things were strained between them was putting it mildly.

Priya paused at the heavy curtains that divided Zoe’s restored Victorian conservatory from the kitchen. Her mouth was dry. This was ridiculous! She never got nervous of the dark. As a kid she used to lie in bed with the curtains open and fix her eyes on the blackness of the world outside. The dark didn’t frighten her the way it did her sister Neeshali. Instead Priya had longed to leap into it and find out what lay beyond. She wasn’t any different now. Her documentary on immigration had won three awards and the one about people trafficking had earned a BAFTA nomination; gruelling topics that had kept her awake at night long after the film was in the can, so why was she feeling so on edge about seeing this so-called psychic?

It wasn’t as if any of it was true.

So, not wanting to be a party pooper, Priya took a deep breath and stepped forward through the curtains. She just wanted this ordeal to be over as quickly as possible.

‘Hello, love. I’m Angela.’ A woman seated at the table beamed up at her. With her greying curls, sweater and slacks she would have looked like an ordinary mum if it hadn’t been for the crystal ball and tarot deck laid out before her. ‘You must be Priya? Come and sit down and we’ll begin.’

Priya took the Lloyd Loom chair set opposite Angela and folded her hands into her lap. There was no way she was going to give anything away, like a lack of engagement ring for example.

‘My, you’re a beautiful girl,’ said Angela, with a gentle smile.

Priya mentally rolled her eyes. So Angela was going to go down the flattery route, was she? ‘Thanks, but I think you’ll find the dim light helps.’

The fact was that Priya was exceptionally pretty, with perfect café au lait skin, shoulder-length glossy black hair, high cheekbones and, most unusually for an Asian girl, eyes of hazel flecked with green. But Priya came from a background where family honour was prized far more highly than looks and worked in a male-dominated world where appearing feminine set her at a distinct disadvantage. So most of the time she just pinned her hair up, disguised her curves with well-cut suits and hid her eyes behind brainy-looking plain-glass specs. Beauty wasn’t an attribute she’d ever associated with herself.

Angela shook her head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being beautiful, Priya. Now, my love, you often distrust people because you feel they keep secrets, don’t you?’

Here we go, thought Priya. She’ll wait to see if I agree and then she’ll pick up on it.

‘But never mind that now,’ continued Angela. ‘Taking things at face value and trusting people is not a lesson that I can teach you.’ She looked at Priya through thoughtful eyes. ‘In fact, lovey, I don’t think there’s a lot anyone can teach you. You’re a young woman who likes to find things out for herself, aren’t you?’

‘Mmm,’ said Priya.

Angela sighed. ‘Sweetheart, I can sense you’ve closed your mind to anything I might say tonight. But would you do me a favour? Just listen to what I tell you and think about it. Sometimes what Spirit tells me makes more sense later on.’

‘Okay,’ Priya agreed. Whatever. The sooner this was over the sooner she could get another drink.

Angela pushed her tarot cards aside and peered deeply into the crystal ball. It was opaque and milky, the glass appearing to glow in the reflected lamplight. In spite of herself Priya felt a prickle of unease.

‘You work too hard,’ Angela said, her eyes not leaving the crystal ball, ‘but I can see that’s the way you like it. It’s how you define yourself. And you’re successful, too.’ Then she frowned. ‘There’s someone at work who’s upset you, isn’t there?’

That’s a lucky guess, thought Priya. There was no way that Angela could possibly know about Vik and what he’d done. Only one person knew, her friend and colleague Ray, and she’d sworn him to secrecy.

‘Your love life is a bit quiet, isn’t it, my love, after a bit of a roller coaster? He really let you down, didn’t he? And now, well, now you think there’s no time for love.’

‘I’m busy,’ said Priya quickly. And I’ve also got my mum and three aunties on my back about finding a good Hindu boy, she added silently. Thank God that Neesh had recently got engaged and taken the heat off her for a bit. If Priya had discovered any more eligible young Indian guys ‘accidentally’ turning up at the Gupta family home she thought she’d scream. Her mother couldn’t have been any more obvious if she’d walked round Kingston-on-Thames wearing a sandwich board declaring I have a single daughter in her late twenties (the shame!). Please marry her!

Angela smiled. ‘I’m sure you are, love, but some things are more important than work and sometimes work is a way of hiding from what’s really important.’

Priya snorted. Angela sounded just like her mum. Chi, chi, Priya! This work is all very well but will it find you a husband, hmm?

But Angela was serious. ‘Please take notice of what I’m saying, sweetheart. My guides have a message for you and they’re insisting that I pass it on.’

Suddenly the atmosphere seemed to grow heavy and Priya found she was holding her breath. It was easy to scoff at psychic stuff in broad daylight, but now that the shadows seemed to be closing in and the darkness pressing against the glass roof Priya wasn’t so certain.

‘What is it?’ she whispered. ‘What do you see?’

The psychic ripped her gaze from the crystal ball. Was it Priya’s imagination or were her pupils suddenly darker than the night sky? ‘My guides want you to know this, and they’re telling you to heed it well: in matters of love, mother knows best.’

‘What?’ Priya stared at her in disbelief. ‘That’s it? That’s my important message?’

‘So it would seem, love.’ Abruptly, Angela appeared to sag and her face looked haggard. ‘That’s it. There’s nothing more, I’m afraid. I can’t see anything else.’

‘In matters of love, mother knows best?’ Priya echoed. ‘You've clearly never met my mother.’ She shook her head, furious with herself for being suckered in even for a minute. How easy had she been for Angela to cold read? Take one young unmarried Asian girl, add a few cultural stereotypes and bingo! The pushy Asian mother desperate to marry off her daughter scenario. The fact that in her case this just happened to be true was totally irrelevant. Angela had just made a lucky guess.

Mother knows best, thought Priya as she headed back through the kitchen, pausing at the fridge to collect a well-deserved bottle of wine, I don’t think so! As far as she was concerned that reading just confirmed all her worst suspicions about the unscrupulous ways of so-called psychics.

Besides, her mother had adored Vik, which just showed how much she really knew about matters of love!

No, Priya decided firmly as she rejoined the hens, Angela’s spirit guides could take a hike. In matters of love she knew best, which was just the way she liked it.

And that was the way it was going to stay.

‘No! No! No!’

Priya shot across the sitting room in a blur of crimson silk and glittery slippers and just managed to bar the way in the nick of time. One second later and Steve would have trampled his size tens right across her brand-new cream rug. Unthinkable!

‘Sorry, Steve,’ she said breathlessly, ‘but would you mind leaving your shoes at the front door? It’s just that the carpets are really delicate and—’

‘And she doesn’t want your dirty great clodhoppers wrecking them,’ finished Zoe as she dropped a kiss on Priya’s cheek and shooed her new husband back towards the front door. ‘Honestly, Priya, and there was I thinking he was nearly house trained. Will I do, though?’ She held up one elegant stockinged foot and rotated it slowly. ‘Or should I wrap my feet in giant fluffy slippers as well?’

Priya laughed. ‘Am I really that much of a nightmare neat freak?’

‘The worst,’ said Steve, rejoining them, minus Timberlands and sporting a fetching pair of Bart Simpson socks. ‘But we love you anyway,’ he added, pressing a bottle of Chardonnay into her hands. ‘Thanks for inviting us to the housewarming. We’ll try hard not to wreck the joint, won’t we, Zo?’

Zoe punched him playfully on the arm before turning back to Priya. ‘This place looks absolutely amazing. I can’t believe it’s the same flat. You’ve worked wonders.’

Priya followed Zoe’s gaze around the flat and felt a warm glow of pride. Finally, after weeks of living and breathing DIY and decorating, the apartment in Spitalfields looked exactly as she’d dreamed it would. Talk about a labour of love, though. When the estate agent had first shown her round Priya had almost turned tail and run away as fast as her boots could carry her. The estate agent’s details had brimmed with breathless prose about how quirky, trendsetting and smart Spitalfields was and how this conversion was a prime investment opportunity. What they had failed to mention was that the converted warehouse had walls running with damp, plaster more pitted than teenaged skin, windows boarded up and floors strewn with chunks of masonry and rubbish. It had looked like a squat.

‘Actually, I think it was,’ the estate agent had said apologetically. ‘But imagine the potential!’

‘For what?’ Priya had wondered, pulling her pashmina around her shoulders and shivering. ‘Consumption? A head injury from falling plaster? Asbestosis?’

‘But it’s such a wonderful investment opportunity.’

So, five months later, as she looked around at her guests chatting in the minimalistic open plan space, all wood floors, glass walls and shiny chrome fittings, Priya felt very proud. She loved the funky fire bowl, the vast white leather sofas and the thick rugs that swallowed her feet right up to the ankles; relished coming home, flicking on the lamps and kicking back with a cold glass of wine. Her flat was uncluttered, ordered and pristine, which was just the way that she liked things to be.

But best of all, the flat was hers: bought and paid for by countless hours cloistered in dark rooms and edit suites or out filming with only Ray and his camera for company. It was Priya’s space, with no squabbling siblings or bossy female family members to hassle her, and she loved every clean and tidy inch of it.

And if that made her a sad neat freak then she was guilty as charged.

‘Thanks for your wedding present, by the way,’ Steve was saying, his gentle tones plucking Priya away from thoughts of renovations and back to her party. ‘I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with a year’s pass to The Sanctuary Ladies’ Day Spa, though.’

Zoe laughed. ‘That’s Priya’s clever way of buying you some time on the golf course without me moaning.’

‘Then I’m very grateful,’ Steve said, grinning at Priya. ‘I can improve my handicap while my wife improves her body. Genius!’

‘Hey, what do you mean improves her body?’ Zoe echoed, pulling a face at Priya. ‘This is what happens once you marry them, babes! They reveal their true colours. Remember that when it’s your turn.’

‘I think I’ll leave the getting married stuff to my sister,’ said Priya, who felt that she was more likely to visit Mars than to get married any time soon. As far as her aunts were concerned Priya was well and truly stuffed when it came to husband hunting. She was destined to sit on her shelf and gather dust – or as much dust as a girl who owned the latest turbo-charged Dyson could gather – and, after Vikram, it actually didn’t feel like too bad an option to her. There was a lot to be said for the single life, like being able to eat garlicky food whenever you wanted and getting reacquainted with the remote control.

‘Ignore my wife,’ Steve said, winding his arms around Zoe and dropping his chin on to her blond head. ‘She loves every minute of married life really.’

As Zoe and Steve shared a tender kiss Priya sighed wistfully. Perhaps her mother was right and she was being too picky? But surely a girl was entitled to be picky when it came to choosing the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with? It wasn’t like going to DFS and choosing a sofa.

Although, thinking about it, most of the guys that her mother kept ‘accidentally’ inviting over for dinner certainly had the desperate whiff of the bargain bucket about them . . .

In matters of love, mother knows best. Yeah, right! If that phoney psychic had known that Priya’s mum thought that moustached men who could double as draught excluders were suitable husband material she might have changed her tune. Besides, Priya thought, her mother hadn’t a clue about relationships. ‘Love comes with time’ was her mother’s motto, and it had been true in her experience. She and Priya’s father had had an arranged marriage which had worked out beautifully, luckily for them, but privately Priya thought this was down to the fact that her father was probably the easiest going man on the planet. As long as Ashwani Gupta was left in peace to his studies he was happy for Divya to make all the decisions, an arrangement which suited them both perfectly but was down more to luck than to design.

Priya thanked God every day that there was no chance of her parents ever arranging a marriage for her. The thought of the bridegroom her mother would produce was too awful to contemplate. After all, she’d thought Vikram was perfect.

Saved by the bell from maudlin thoughts, Priya excused herself, and wove her way through her guests to answer the door. She immediately wished she hadn’t because five feet six of trouble was standing on the doorstep.

Her sister Neesh had decided to join the party.

‘About time!’ shrilled Neesh, barging past her sister and dragging an apologetic Sanjeev in her wake. ‘I thought you’d never answer! I’m bloody frozen out here.’

Even though it was midsummer Priya wasn’t surprised to hear this. Her younger sister was poured into a tiny skirt and tight red corset above which her goose-pimpled breasts were making a valiant break for freedom. With her naked shoulders rising up like two scoops of coffee ice cream, smoky eye makeup and mane of tumbling ebony hair extensions she looked more like an Asian exile from the Playboy Mansion than a respectable lawyer’s fiancée.

‘Maybe you should put some more clothes on next time?’ Priya suggested, resisting the impulse to chuck one of the sofa throws over her sister. The jaws of some of the male guests were on the reclaimed floorboards and drooling surely wouldn’t do the wood any favours. ‘And take those bloody stilettos off. You’re wrecking my floor.’

Neesh rolled her false-lashed eyes. ‘Chillax, sis! You sound like Mum.’ Her gaze swept Priya up and down, taking in the floaty sari, strappy sandals and distinct lack of cleavage. ‘Come to think of it you dress like her too. You need to come out shopping with me, I’ll sort you out.’

Since Neesh favoured the kind of outfit that even Jordan would baulk at, Priya felt she could be forgiven for not jumping with joy at the suggestion. Not that Neesh was bothered. She was far too busy adjusting her corset and tugging her tiny skirt over her perfect peach of a backside.

‘How did you get past Mum anyway, dressed like that?’ Priya wondered, half horrified and half in awe. Neesh might be twenty-four but she still lived at home where her mother’s word was law. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still sneaking your clubbing gear out under your jeans?’

‘Like duh!’ Neesh checked her scarlet lipstick in the mirror and pouted. ‘I got dressed at Sanjeev’s. Not that Mum would notice if I went out stark naked these days. She’s far too busy trying to keep the aunties under control.’

The aunties were bad enough separately but together they were a force of nature. Last month her father had suffered a nasty bout of pneumonia and his three sisters had moved in uninvited to help care for their brother, the precious only son of the Gupta family. Four weeks on they showed no inclination to move out, content to bicker, watch endless repeats of their favourite Indian soaps, eat lorryloads of Bombay Mix and generally send her mother crazy but, becau. . .