The two of us sprang forward and grabbed her arms. They were stick-thin, like dry, brittle twigs.
“Let's get her into the house,” Geena said urgently.
We helped her over the fence again. The back door stood open. We supported Molly across the weedfilled garden, Jazz trailing along behind us, carrying the suitcase.
“It can't be her,” she kept muttering. “It can't be.”
The kitchen was a hellhole. It was filthy and it smelled. The worktops were stained and caked with bits of food and there were electrical wires sticking out of the wall above the cooker. Gingerly Geena pulled out the only chair from under the tiny, cracked table and we sat Molly down on it. She immediately laid her head on her arms, and stayed there, very still. A gold bangle, the single piece of jewelry she was wearing, glinted on her right arm. It looked expensive, and very much out of place.
“Jazz, make a cup of tea,” I said.
Jazz was hovering just outside the back door. “I'm not coming in there,” she whispered. “I might catch something nasty.”
I went to the fridge. It was empty except for a packet of margarine, the cheapest you can buy, and even that was nearly gone. There were two used tea bags drying out on the windowsill, ready to be used a second time. Or maybe a third or fourth.
I raised my eyebrows at Geena, who looked grave. Then, quietly, I went round the kitchen opening all the cupboards. There was nothing in them except for a few more tea bags, half a packet of stale crackers and a pot of jam, which was nearly empty.
“I suppose she wouldn't have needed much if she was going away,” Geena whispered, nodding at the suitcase.
“I'm not deaf,” Molly snapped, lifting her head sharply. Her toffee-colored eyes bored into mine. All the color had bleached from her face and she looked white as bone.
“Sorry,” I said absently.
My eye had been caught by a crumpled letter lying on the worktop. I edged my way over to it as Molly put her head on her arms again. I couldn't see much because of the way the letter was folded. But a few sentences leaped out at me. Eviction for nonpayment of rent …Payment of arrears must be made within the next week …
“You still haven't told me what you're doing here,” Molly said abruptly. She wouldn't have won any awards for charm. But I guess if I'd been a rich Bollywood star, and then ended up in a scummy house in Reading with wires sticking out of the wall, I wouldn't have been very charming either.
“Well, we were hoping—” I began. Then stopped. It was clear that Molly Mahal, in her current condition, was not going to be a big draw at the Bollywood party. It was also clear that I couldn't possibly tell her. It would be too cruel. I would have to find an excuse that would spare her feelings and allow us to leave as quickly as possible.
Except …
How could we leave, knowing that she was probably suffering from having hardly anything to eat, and about to be homeless?
Geena always complains that I come up with ideas without thinking about them properly first. That's why my ideas are stupid (her words). Well, I did think about this one. But it was, very possibly, still stupid. I see that now.
“Well …,” I began again.
“This is a great day, Amber,” Geena said. “It's got to rank as one of your best ideas yet. It's almost as good as when you persuaded Jazz that if you cut off her hair and sold it, you'd be millionaires.”
“I was only five at the time,” Jazz said in an aggrieved voice. “I had a bald patch for months.”
“Yes, all right,” I said. I was already regretting my impulsive action. The train was lurching and rumbling its way back home, where I could only assume that even more abuse would await me. But what else could I have done?
“I had to do something,” I pleaded. I lowered my voice. “We couldn't leave her there, could we?”
We glanced across the aisle. Molly Mahal was curled up next to the window on the seats opposite. Her eyes were closed, feet in cheap, worn trainers resting on her suitcase. Even though there was an empty seat next to Jazz, she wasn't sitting with us.
“What's Auntie going to say?” Geena demanded. “We're about to arrive home with a woman who was a film star, and now appears to be a half-dead vagrant, and tell Auntie that we've invited her to stay?”
“We!” Jazz repeated. “I didn't have anything to do with it. I wasn't even in the room.”
“All for one and one for all,” I reminded her.
“That's such an overrated concept,” Jazz retorted. “It just means we all get to share the fallout.”
“There won't be any fallout,” I said, pretending confidence. “Auntie likes helping people. She'll enjoy the challenge.”
“And it's quite a challenge,” Geena said smoothly. “Miss Mahal wasn't exactly grateful when you invited her to stay, was she?”
“She was,” I said defensively. I hadn't mentioned the Bollywood party when I'd blurted out my invitation. I'd said that we were big fans of Molly's, and we'd be honored if she'd come and stay with us.
Molly didn't seem to think there was anything odd about that, despite the fact that not even Geena had been born when she'd made her last film. She'd stared at me unsmilingly for a moment, then muttered, “All right.”
“Either I'm going deaf,” Geena remarked, “or she never even said thank you.”
“She didn't have to,” I said, trying to appear unconcerned. “I could read it in her face.”
“And could you read her face when you told her we'd have to walk to the station because we didn't have the money for a cab?” Jazz inquired. “I don't think it said thank you then.”
“Yes, all right,” I mumbled, flexing my aching fingers. I'd had to carry the suitcase all the way to the station.
“She could sell that gold bangle she's wearing to raise some money,” suggested Jazz. “It looks quite expensive.”
“And what does she do when the money runs out?” I demanded. “It looks like she's already sold almost everything she owns. Anyway, the bangle must be important to her if she's kept it.”
Silence for a moment.
“And where is she going to sleep?” Geena returned to the attack.
“I thought she could have Auntie's room,” I replied.
Geena's eyes flashed a warning. “And what about Auntie?”
“I thought she could move in with you,” I said bravely.
“Then you must be mad,” Geena snapped. “That is never going to happen, Amber.”
“Well, Auntie can't move in with me and Jazz, can she?” I pointed out in a reasonable voice.
“Thank God,” Jazz said with feeling.
“Forget it,” Geena retorted. “But with any luck, Auntie will get rid of her as soon as we arrive.”
“How can you be so mean?” I said furiously, as the train rattled its way into our station. “Look at her. She's got no money and nowhere to live. Why can't you try and have a bit of compassion for a change?”
Geena looked uncomfortable. “Amber, of course I feel sorry for her,” she said at last. “But she's not our responsibility. Her own family should be looking out for her.”
“I asked about her family,” I reminded Geena. “She says she hasn't got any.”
Jazz sniffed. “What if we invited everyone who was homeless to stay with us? We'd never get into the bathroom.”
“I'm not asking everyone,” I snapped. “Just her.”
As the train shuddered to a halt, Molly's eyes fluttered open.
“We'll get a cab to your house,” she announced.
“I told you,” I began, “we don't have enough money because we had to pay for your ticket.”
It was like talking to a brick wall. Molly ignored me, rose to her feet and walked off down the carriage, leaving her suitcase behind.
Geena smiled. “Why don't you try and have a bit more compassion, Amber?”
I muttered rude words as she followed Molly off the train. “Jazz, give me a hand with this suitcase, will you?”
Jazz ignore
d me too. “We are so dead when we get home,” she said, walking away.
I sighed, dragging the suitcase toward the door. Geena and Jazz might be mad with me, but I knew they'd have done exactly the same thing. They wouldn't have left Molly Mahal there either. It was just more convenient to blame me. That way I got all the trouble that was going. I had a feeling there was going to be a lot of it.
By the time I'd heaved the suitcase out of the station, Molly Mahal was sitting in the back of a black cab at the taxi rank. She had a stern, implacable look on her face. Geena and Jazz, meanwhile, were hovering helplessly by the open door.
“She won't get out,” Jazz wailed.
“Look, love,” the taxi driver said patiently, “do you want this cab or not?”
“Yes, we do,” I said.
“This is getting better,” Geena groaned, as the driver hopped out and stowed the suitcase in the boot. “We roll up with the guest from hell, and get Auntie to pay for it. Oh, I can't wait.”
“What if they're not in?” asked Jazz.
“We'll rob the jar of change that Dad hides under his bed,” I said, giving her a push. “Just get in the car.”
The journey was made in silence. Molly Mahal stared out of the window, her face a complete blank. I had no clue what she was thinking or feeling. Geena looked worried and Jazz petrified. Meanwhile, I was trying to decide how to break the news to Auntie that we had a houseguest. There seemed no other option but to tell the truth, terrifying as it sounded.
My heart lurched horribly as we pulled into our street.
“I have to go inside and get the money from my aunt,” I told the driver as he drew to a halt outside our house.
He looked a bit suspicious. “All right, but your mum and your sisters can wait here till you come back.”
“I'm not their mother,” Molly Mahal snapped.
“There is a God,” Geena muttered.
“Just wait here,” I said. The way things were going, they'd be at each other's throats before I got back with the £4.65.
I scrambled out. I was only halfway up the path when the front door was flung open and Auntie dashed out, looking concerned.
“Why are you in a taxi?” she demanded. “Has someone been hurt?”
“No, of course not,” I said. “But we need four pounds sixty-five for the fare.”
Auntie peered down the garden. “Who's the old woman?” she wanted to know.
I took a breath. “All right, this is the short version,” I said. “We saw in Masala Express that Molly Mahal was living in Reading so we decided to invite her to the Bollywood party. It was a surprise for you. But she's got no money, so we brought her home to stay with us for a bit.”
“Nice try, Amber.” Auntie fixed me with a piercing stare. “Now, the truth, if you please.”
“That's it,” I said. “Look.” I tugged the copy of Masala Express out of my bag and handed it to her. Auntie glanced at the article and then back at the taxi.
“That's Molly Mahal?” she asked incredulously.
“I'm afraid so,” I replied.
At that moment Molly Mahal rapped on the cab window and waved her hand imperiously at me. Auntie stared at her in amazement.
“Can we have the money?” I asked with urgency.
Auntie nodded as if in a trance, went inside and came back with her purse. She took out a five-pound note and handed it to me. I'd never seen her so utterly lost for words.
“Wait a minute,” Auntie said suddenly as I turned away, clutching the money. “What do you mean, you've brought her to stay for a bit?”
“She was about to be evicted,” I explained. “We couldn't leave her there, could we?”
I scooted off down the path while Auntie stared after me, her mouth open. She watched in disbelief as I paid the driver, and Molly Mahal climbed out of the cab. Geena hauled the suitcase out, cursing under her breath.
“My aunt's really pleased that you're coming to stay,” I told Molly, who inclined her head in a stately manner.
“She looks it,” Jazz muttered.
Auntie blinked hard as Molly shuffled up the path toward her. Those trainers, those leggings, that fleece did not add up to a superstar. But Molly Mahal didn't seem one bit embarrassed. Or maybe she was totally embarrassed and was covering it up very well. She was an actress, after all, even if she wasn't very good at it.
“Er—saat siri akaal,” Auntie stammered, putting her palms together.
Molly Mahal returned the greeting. Then she stood waiting by the front door, her face still an unemotional mask. I stood next to her, wondering what Auntie would do. Geena and Jazz lurked behind us, trying not to catch Auntie's eye. Mrs. Macey, meanwhile, was goggling at us from behind her net curtains.
“Please come in,” Auntie said faintly.
Molly Mahal walked into the house without a word. We all proceeded solemnly into the living room, where she sat on the sofa and stared down at her hands in silence.
“Tea,” said Auntie desperately. “I'll make some tea. And maybe you three girls would like to help me.” It was a threat, not a request.
“I'll stay here and keep Miss Mahal company,” I said quickly.
“Kitchen. Now,” said Auntie, and went out.
“Leave all the talking to me,” I said in an undertone to Geena and Jazz as we followed her.
“Oh, OK,” said Geena. “Another great idea.”
“Look, if we stick together, it'll be fine,” I said.
We shuffled guiltily into the kitchen and Auntie snapped the door shut behind us.
“It's all Amber's fault,” Jazz said.
“Thank you,” I muttered.
Auntie put her hands on her hips. “What on earth has got into you, Amber?” she demanded, her eyes flashing sparks. “She can't stay here. We don't have the space, for a start.”
“I thought she could have your room,” I said.
“And I sleep where?”
“Well, Geena's got a double bed.”
Geena and Auntie stared at each other ferociously.
“That's not going to happen,” Auntie snapped. “Look, she must have some family. Or what about Social Services? There must be somewhere she can go.”
“There is,” I said dramatically. “The streets. If we turn her away, she'll be homeless.” I opened the fridge. “Can we give her something to eat? She almost fainted before. I don't think she's been eating properly.”
For the first time Auntie looked uncertain. “What do you mean?”
“There was hardly any food in the place,” I explained.
Auntie opened the biscuit jar and shook some chocolate digestives onto a plate. “There are samosas in the fridge,” she said. She frowned. I could see that I'd given her something to think about.
“Thank you,” I said.
I carried the plates into the living room. Molly Mahal still sat on the sofa, in the same position.
“Where are your parents?” she asked abruptly.
“Dad's gone to his office to pick up some work.” I took a breath for the bit I always hated explaining. “Mum's dead. She had leukemia. Auntie looks after us now.”
Molly's eyes grew dark. I had the faintest feeling she was going to say something more. But she didn't. She simply nodded a thank-you at me as I put the plates down on the coffee table and withdrew. But I got the feeling that she was only holding herself back by the greatest effort of will, and that once I'd closed the door behind me, she'd fall on the food like a wild animal.
“Amber, are you absolutely sure she has no family close by?” Auntie asked as I returned to the kitchen.
“She said not,” I replied. I switched the kettle on. “She hasn't got anybody. Not in England, anyway.”
“Maybe she's fallen out with them,” Geena suggested. “She's not exactly Miss Congeniality.”
“Neither would you be, in those circumstances,” Auntie replied.
“See?” I looked triumphantly at Geena and Jazz. I had secretly been regretting what I'd done
since—
oh—about thirty seconds after I'd invited Molly to stay. But I wouldn't admit it. “Auntie understands. I knew she would.”
“You're not off the hook yet, miss.” Auntie threw me a warning glance. “There are still several issues to be dealt with here. Like why you lied and told me you were going shopping with Baby, for example.”
“Oh, that —” I began. Luckily, right then we heard the front door open.
“It's Dad,” said Geena.
“Stop him,” I said, “before he goes into the living room and gets the shock of his life.”
Jazz opened the door and we charged down the hall, Auntie included. Dad was in the process of taking off his leather jacket. He paused, one sleeve on and one sleeve off, a look of bewilderment on his face.
“What's the matter?” he asked.
“Quick,” I said, grabbing one arm. “In here.”
Auntie grabbed the other, and we hustled him into the kitchen.
“What in heaven's name is going on?” Dad asked. “Is the tax man here?”
“Worse,” said Jazz. “We found Molly Mahal living in Reading, and Amber said we had to bring her home with us because she was poor and had no food.”
“Well, I felt sorry for her,” I said defensively.
Dad looked at us as if our brains had dangerously overheated.
“And she's hideous,” Jazz added.
“She's kind of dull and gray and very skinny,” Geena went on.
“Oh my God.” Dad clutched his hair, looking horrified. “I've read about this. They say soft drugs are everywhere these days. That people are even selling them at the school gates—”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, Johnny,” Auntie said, looking exasperated. “We're not hallucinating. She's in our front room right now, eating samosas.”
“Not you too?” Dad moaned.
“Read this.” I pulled the battered copy of Masala Express from the back pocket of my jeans and handed it to him. Dad skimmed through it, shooting us nervous glances every so often.
“So you went to find her?” Dad was still looking puzzled. “Why?”
“For the Bollywood party at school,” I explained. “We wanted to help Auntie organize it.”
“I'm sure you didn't have any ulterior motives at all,” Auntie said smoothly.
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