Crazy Little Thing Called Love: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy you won’t be able to put down. Charlotte Butterfield

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       Prologue

      Leila heard Jaipur before she saw it. The melodic whirs and clunks of the ceiling fan above her blended with loud shouts, incessant horns and revving engines from the market traders below.

      This wasn’t part of The Plan. Nothing about The Plan led to her waking up on Christmas Eve in a strange bedroom in Jaipur. This was actually as far away from The Plan as it was possible to be. She might also have lost the ability to open her eyes; she wasn’t sure yet and wasn’t ready to test it.

      The irony was, yesterday had started so well. Or maybe it was the day before, she had no concept of days or time anymore. Using her air miles to upgrade herself at the check-in counter at Heathrow had been a spur of the moment inspired decision. She blamed the festive spirit that blanketed the airport’s departures hall. Surrounded by rosy-cheeked loved ones jetting off on their magical Christmas mini breaks, who wouldn’t have agreed to a little upgrade? After all, it wasn’t every day you crossed the world to be reunited with your soul mate, so if you couldn’t treat yourself then, when could you? Leila had never turned left at the plane’s doors before. She had graciously accepted two, maybe five, glasses of champagne on the flight, enjoyed a three-course meal on a real plate with real cutlery and arrived in Mumbai ready for the surprise romantic reunion with her boyfriend Freddie, who was working there for three months.

      Except he wasn’t there.

      Leila felt a bit sorry for the woman behind the reception desk at Freddie’s Mumbai office who told her with undisguised pity that Freddie had moved to the Jaipur office a few weeks before. She could feel the receptionist taking in her carefully-put-together reunion outfit, noticing the plastic piece of mistletoe that Leila clutched in her hand thinking it would be such a romantic way to greet him, then looking down at her suitcase.

      ‘Jaipur?’ Leila had replied, with an enthusiasm that was fast evaporating into the smoggy city air. ‘Wow, looks like I’m going to see more of your wonderful country then,’ and after giving the woman a bright fake smile and a cheery wave, she had wheeled her suitcase out of the building and onto the bustling street. Her gusto faltered a smidgen more when she headed back to the airport only to be told that there were no flights to Jaipur, just a 15-hour train ride.

      ‘It’s an adventure, think of Freddie,’ she’d chanted in her head, while giving over some hastily changed rupees in exchange for a bowl of biryani on the station platform.

      Her stomach started making the rumbles of discontent about an hour into the journey, and after stepping over legs, bags, bodies and even more legs, bags and bodies, she found the toilet. In her previous life of just a day ago she wouldn’t have even considered stepping into this cubicle, common sense and bowel control being two of her former major assets. Yet thanks to her delicate constitution, the urine-soaked box quickly became her spiritual home for the next three hours or so.

      Somehow she’d finally found her way back to her seat, curled up into a ball and fallen asleep. She’d stumbled out of the station in Jaipur. Her eyes felt heavy, her stomach was in cramping knots and her appearance in complete juxtaposition with the business class luggage label adorning her suitcase, which had now lost a wheel, because evidently fate had decreed that this day wasn’t bad enough. A flashing neon hotel sign adjoining the station had beckoned her. She couldn’t remember getting to the room, but had vague recollections of handing over her credit card to a bloke behind a desk.

      And now she was here. On the 24th December. Lying underneath the world’s noisiest ceiling fan. Hearing sounds of the city below that quite frankly terrified her. With no idea where in the heaving metropolis her boyfriend might be. Or why, thinking about it, he hadn’t told her he’d moved. His last email, sent a week ago, was shorter than the others, granted, but could still be classed as very positive and upbeat. She remembered feeling a slight pang that he’d ended the email with Cheers, Freddie, rather than his previous sign offs that were variations of Yours, Hugs, Big Kiss, XOXO, which she was sure were edging ever closer to the L word.

      They’d been dating for four months, which, ok, wasn’t a huge amount of time for deep feelings to form, but when you knew, you knew. She’d met him at the horse races, which sounded a lot posher than it actually was. When she’d accepted her client’s invitation to join them at Cheltenham for the day, she’d envisaged a box, a silver tray with unending rounds of canapés being passed around and fancy hats. In reality she was shoehorned into a minibus with fourteen men who started drinking even before the bus pulled out of Victoria coach station at 9am.

      Freddie was sat directly behind her and kept pulling bits of her hair out of her bun somewhere around Oxford. She’d swung around in anger ready to launch into a spit-laden tirade only to see the most piercing blue eyes smile back at her. As much as she tried to act stern, her remonstration was laced with flirty overtones. ‘Please don’t do that, I don’t like it,’ she’d said.

      ‘Please don’t wear your hair like that then,’ he’d fired back. ‘You’re far too cute to have a hairstyle like a granny.’

      Cute. He’d said she was cute. She’d have preferred beautiful, stunning, even hot, but cute was ok. Cute was better than sweet. At five foot three, she’d even had a man pat her on the head before as he passed by in a pub, which admittedly ended in her throwing her wine over his retreating back. But when Freddie had called her cute, she didn’t mind. In fact, as she swivelled around in her seat to face him, the rest of the journey was a lot more enjoyable. They’d spent the whole day together drinking, laughing, placing bets, shouting for the winners, and when his hand rested on her thigh on the journey home, she didn’t move it. And when he escorted her home that night and she invited him in, and they sat on her sofa, she didn’t move it either. And by then it was even higher up.

      Two busy months of dating followed: pubs, parties, back to her flatshare, pubs, parties, back to hers, they’d settled into a sociable pattern that was rudely interrupted by his boss asking him to decamp to Mumbai, Jaipur, wherever the heck she was, for three months. It was a huge deal, this secondment. What a responsibility, of course she could excuse him a certain amount of brevity in his email correspondence, what type of girlfriend would she be if she didn’t?

      Her neck gave off an audible crack when she moved her head, and she knew she СКАЧАТЬ