Bollywood Babes

by Narinder Dhami

  Geena looked down at her empty cereal bowl. “Well, unless I'm going to eat the cutlery, I think I'm done.”

  “I could eat an egg,” Molly broke in, eyeballing Auntie haughtily across the table. She seemed able to switch from sweet to snooty in one blink of an eye. “Soft-boiled, with one piece of toast. If it's no trouble.”

  They stared each other out. Words trembled on Auntie's lips as Geena, Jazz and I watched, fascinated. Then she gave a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her toes, opened the fridge and took out a box of eggs.

  “Kim's here, girls,” Dad called from the hall.

  “Kim?” I frowned, pushing my chair back. “What's she doing here?” She didn't call for us. We usually met up on the way to school.

  Kim rushed into the kitchen, Say No and Mean It! tucked under her arm, her face eager, her eyes out on stalks. She came to a dead halt when she saw us all at the table, flushing bright red from her neck to the roots of her hair.

  “Oh!” she gasped, staring at Molly. “Are you the famous film star?”

  Molly smiled graciously. “I am Molly Mahal,” she said, and held out her hand. Kim took it reverently. For a minute I thought she was going to kiss it.

  “How did you know she was here, Kim?” I asked. I had to repeat the question twice.

  “Our neighbors the Chowdhurys were talking about it. Their son Miki works for Masala Express.” Kim immediately turned her attention back to Molly. “You're very beautiful,” she blurted out. She was so dazzled she dropped her book. It landed on Jazz's toe.

  I don't think Kim could have said anything that would have pleased Molly more. She gave Kim a very satisfied smile.

  “What are you reading?” she inquired, turning the full beam of those amazing eyes onto her.

  Kim fumbled to pick up the book, banging her head on the table and stepping back onto Jazz's other foot. “Oh …,” she said breathlessly. “Just this.”

  Molly studied the blurb. “‘Become the confident person you've always wanted to be. Learn how to get what you want. Take control of your life and learn how to make people do whatever you want them to.'” She laughed. “I've never had a problem with that.”

  “That figures,” Auntie muttered.

  “Perhaps I should give you some assertiveness training, Kim,” Molly suggested playfully.

  Kim, the fool, looked thrilled. “Oh, I'd love it!” she gasped, clasping her hands.

  “That's all we need,” I whispered to Geena. “Another diva.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “I'll get it.” Grumbling, Jazz limped over to the door. We heard a murmur of voices. A moment later Mrs. Macey crept into the kitchen, looking terrified but excited. She was followed, incredibly, by Leo. He was clutching Dad's Daily Telegraph in his hand.

  “Hey, this is getting better,” I said, smiling at him. “Personal service.”

  Annoyingly, Leo ignored me. He was staring at Molly Mahal with a look on his face that was becoming tiresomely familiar. A look of rapt enchantment.

  “I thought Miss Mahal might like some of my homemade strawberry jam,” Mrs. Macey squeaked. She produced a jar from behind her back, holding it out.

  “Oh, how kind,” said Molly. “Thank you.” She turned her dazzling gaze to Leo. “And who's this?”

  “This is Leo,” I said grumpily. “He's our paperboy.

  As you can see, he loves his job so much he actually brings the newspapers into our house and delivers them personally.”

  Leo ignored me. “Hello,” he said, spellbound.

  All this attention was having an effect on Molly Mahal. She was beginning to blossom like a flower unfurling its petals.

  “Do sit down.” She clicked her fingers in Auntie's direction. “We'll have tea.”

  I could almost see Auntie's blood pressure rising like mercury in a thermometer.

  “Well, of all the—” she began.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “I wonder who this can be,” said Jazz.

  “Well, whoever it is,” I muttered bitterly, “you can be sure they won't be coming to see us.”

  Mrs. Macey, Kim and Leo were now comfortably seated at the kitchen table with Molly. They were hanging on her every word and gesture with fascinated faces.

  “Oh dear,” said Geena. “I think our Amber's got a touch of the green-eyed monster.”

  Jazz giggled.

  “Will somebody please answer the door?” Auntie snapped.

  I slipped out of the kitchen. More than ever, I was wondering what I'd got us into. And how everything was going to end. Molly Mahal seemed able to entrance everyone and wrap them tightly round her little finger. Even Dad had fallen under her spell if he was prepared to let her stay until the school party. …

  I opened the door and almost fell over with shock.

  Mr. Arora was outside. He looked slightly embarrassed and boyishly eager.

  “Sir!” I croaked. “What are you doing here?” But I already knew.

  “Amber, so sorry to bother you this early in the morning,” he began. “But I was on my way to school, and—well—I had to come and find out if it was true—”

  “Yes, it's true,” I said wearily.

  Mr. Arora's big, dark eyes grew dreamy. “Oh, Molly was my favorite star when I was a kid,” he murmured. “She looked fantastic in Amir Ladka, Garib Ladka. Rubbish film, but she was beautiful.” He looked hopefully at me with big brown eyes. “Can I meet her?”

  “Sir”—I felt I had to warn him—“she's a lot older now. She doesn't look quite the same.”

  “Yes, I understand.” Mr. Arora wasn't about to shoulder-charge me aside, as Mrs. Dhaliwal had done, but he was edging his way forward. “I don't expect her to. What's she doing here, anyway? Are your family friends of hers?”

  “Not quite.” I grinned, thinking of Auntie. “We just heard that she was living close by, and decided it might be a good idea to invite her to the school's Bollywood party.”

  Mr. Arora looked thrilled. “What a fantastic idea!”

  “But we haven't actually asked her yet.”

  Mr. Arora wasn't listening. He had homed in on voices coming from the kitchen, and was heading toward them at speed.

  He opened the kitchen door. Auntie gasped and dropped the box of tea bags. Geena and Jazz looked stunned. So did Kim.

  Mr. Arora ignored them all. He only had eyes for one person. “I can't believe it's really you,” he breathed, moving forward as if in a trance. “It's a privilege and a pleasure to meet you.”

  For a fleeting second, Molly looked uncertain. Then she brightened visibly as she took in, at a glance, the genuine admiration in Mr. Arora's eyes, as well as his dark good looks. She rose and held out her hand. “And I'm delighted to meet you,” she purred kittenishly.

  I thought I could hear Auntie muttering under her breath as she scooped up tea bags. “This is my teacher, Mr. Arora,” I said.

  “You're a teacher?” Molly arched her eyebrows. “I'm amazed. Have you never thought of screentesting for the movies?”

  “Oh, please,” Auntie muttered.

  Mr. Arora blushed with delight. “I can't tell you how thrilled I am.” He slid into one of the chairs without taking his eyes off her. “You're as beautiful as I remember,” he added gallantly. It was a lie, but a brave one all the same.

  “Tea?” Auntie snapped, shoving the box of dusty tea bags under Mr. Arora's nose.

  He didn't even look at her. “No, thank you.”

  Auntie flounced over to the kettle.

  “Haven't you got two paper rounds to finish?” I said pointedly to Leo.

  “Yes,” he replied, not moving.

  Mr. Arora seemed unable to tear his gaze from Molly's mesmerizing brown eyes. “I know this is probably a real nerve,” he began shyly, “but we're having a Bollywood-themed party at the end of term. It would be wonderful if you would be our guest of honor.”

  Molly's eyes narrowed and she drew her breath in sharply. “No, I don't think so—” sh
e began.

  “Oh, please,” Mr. Arora broke in. “Won't you at least consider it?”

  Molly frowned. I could make a guess at what she was thinking. She wanted to continue dazzling Mr. Arora, but the thought of all those curious people staring at her and gossiping about her decline, maybe raking up all the old scandal and history, was too much.

  “You heard what she said,” Auntie cut in. “She's not interested. Anyway, the Bollywood party isn't for weeks yet”—she faced Molly with a full-on, challenging stare—“and she'll probably have left long before then.”

  “Well, there's no harm in asking,” Mr. Arora said, almost sharply.

  He and Auntie looked hard at each other. It was almost, but not quite, a glare.

  “Oh, please come to the party,” Kim said earnestly. “It won't be the same without you.”

  “Can anyone come, or do you have to be a pupil at the school?” Leo wanted to know.

  “I'll help with the preparations,” Mrs. Macey offered.

  Molly Mahal flicked Mr. Arora a look from under long, sooty lashes. “Well, I'll think about it,” she said huskily.

  “Great!” Mr. Arora beamed with pleasure. He was so dazzled by Molly, I don't think he would have noticed if Auntie had thrown the box of tea bags at him.

  Geena and Jazz closed in on me from either side.

  “Ooh, this is getting interesting,” Jazz whispered.

  “Yes,” Geena agreed. “How long before Auntie strangles Molly Mahal? Place your bets now.”

  I nodded. It seemed that if Auntie wanted Mr. Arora, she was going to have to put up a bit of a fight. Jazz was so right. Things were about to get very interesting.

  “About this film star …,” began George Botley. “George.” I put my hands on my hips and eyed him with aggression. “Never mention that subject to me again.”

  George looked aggrieved. “I just want to know if she's coming to the Bollywood party or not.”

  “I'm warning you, George.” I took a step forward. “Please go away before I'm forced to kill you with my bare hands.”

  “She means it, George,” Jazz added.

  George pulled a face. He shambled off across the school playground muttering, “Women!”

  “And that goes for anyone else who wants to ask me about film stars and Bollywood parties,” I said, shooting looks like daggers at everyone around me. Chelsea and Sharelle, who were heading in our direction, swerved aside. They hurried off, pretending to be discussing maths homework.

  “Calm down, Amber,” Geena advised me. “You're losing it.”

  “Sorry.” I took a breath. “It's been a long week.”

  Molly Mahal had been living with us for more than a week. It was true that we had been at school for most of that time so we didn't have to see her. But arriving home in the evenings had become one long ordeal. Auntie would be lurking behind the front door, waiting to escort us into the kitchen and reel off a long list of complaints. Apparently, Molly didn't do anything except sit around the house all day, have baths, watch films and change into different outfits. She didn't know how to cook, use a vacuum cleaner or do the ironing. Or so she said. She had Auntie wearing a path to Mr. Basra's video store to borrow more movies. The day before, a reporter from Masala Express had turned up on the doorstep. Molly had had a fit, and Auntie had been forced to shoo him away with a broom. Oh, Auntie had tale after tale to tell us.

  Living with Molly was a roller-coaster ride. Sometimes she would be sweet as apple pie. That was if she got what she wanted immediately. If she didn't, within seconds she'd turn into the biggest Bollywood diva going, and you could see the steel behind the sweet smile.

  Whatever Molly wanted, Molly seemed to get.

  Dad seemed more friendly with her than any of us, though. From him we found out that Molly had come to England when her career ended to stay with an old aunt. After her aunt died, she was on her own and living off her savings. When they were gone, she'd started selling her belongings and jewelry.

  “Why didn't she claim income support?” Auntie wanted to know. “And housing benefit?”

  “She went to the Social Security offices, and the Indian guy behind the desk recognized her,” Dad explained. “She was so humiliated, she never went back.”

  Listening to this, Geena, Jazz and I were silent. Lifting the curtain on someone's life and taking a peek behind it tells you all sorts of things you never dreamed. We did feel very sorry for her.

  But that did not make her one bit easier to live with.

  And now …

  Word had got round at school (I suspected Kim, Mr. Arora and all the Indian pupils, frankly) that a Bollywood film star was staying at our house and might be persuaded to be the guest of honor at our party. At least half the school had never heard of her, but they were dead excited anyway. Everyone wanted daily updates about what was happening. It was sending me slowly mad. Or slowly sending me mad. Whatever.

  “Girls!” Mr. Arora had exited the school building and was bearing down on us, his face eager. No escape was possible. “Any news about Molly?”

  “No,” I said, as rudely as I dared.

  “Oh.” Mr. Arora looked enormously disappointed.

  “Ah, there you are, Jai.” The head of the lower school, Mr. Grimwade, bounced out of the school office and headed toward us. For a man composed almost entirely of circles, he was very light on his feet. “And our Bollywood girls! I was hoping to have a word with you about this film star.”

  I ground my teeth together.

  “Easy, Amber,” Geena whispered.

  “Has she decided yet if she's coming to the party?” Mr. Grimwade looked at us hopefully.

  “No, sir,” replied Jazz. I didn't trust myself.

  “Oh. Pity. Well, keep trying.” Mr. Grimwade was becoming more desperate as the days went by. I guessed that Mr. Morgan, our free-spending headmaster, was making his life a misery. “Now …,” Mr. Grimwade went on, studying the clipboard he was clutching. “Do I have your forms for the sponsored walk next week?”

  “Yes, sir,” we chorused glumly.

  “And don't forget we're collecting aluminium drinks cans too,” he added. “There's a prize for the class that collects the most. A new whiteboard.”

  “Whoopee,” I said under my breath.

  “I hope your aunt hasn't forgotten about the meeting after school today?” inquired Mr. Arora, as Mr.

  Grimwade flipped through the huge sheaf of papers again. “We've got a good many things to sort out before the party. We need to divide up the jobs between our volunteers.”

  “Oh, she'll be there,” I assured him. “So will we.”

  Mr. Arora looked even more eager. “Maybe Molly Mahal will come with her.”

  “I wouldn't bank on it,” I said in a wet-blanket kind of voice.

  “Oh yes, I wanted to ask you about Kyra Hollins.” Mr. Grimwade looked up from the clipboard. “You're a friend of hers, aren't you, Geena? I don't seem to have her form for the sponsored walk.”

  “That's because she's broken her leg, sir,” replied Geena. “She tripped over a pile of aluminium cans she'd collected.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Grimwade tapped his pen against his bald forehead. “Will she be able to do the sponsored walk next week or not then?”

  “I should think so,” Geena said solemnly. “Providing she's allowed to hop.”

  “Yes.” Mr. Grimwade nodded slowly. “A sponsored hop. That sounds like rather a good idea. …” He beckoned to Mr. Arora and they went inside.

  “Wouldn't it be great,” Jazz said, “if we had a time machine?”

  “Oh, you mean we could go back in time and stop Amber from having such terrible ideas?” Geena took up the tale.

  “Yes,” said Jazz. “How useful would that be?”

  “Quiet,” I said irritably. I'd just spotted Kim coming in through the school gates, and my mood was not improving. She was enchanted by Molly Mahal, and talked about her constantly.

  “Why didn't you wait for me this mo
rning?” Kim asked, somewhat overassertively in my opinion.

  “We left early because Auntie was in a foul temper,” I said grumpily.

  “Oh dear.” Kim stared at me quizzically. “She's not the only one, is she?”

  “Amber's not feeling herself today,” Geena interrupted.

  “Who's she feeling then?” Jazz sniggered. I flicked her ear. “Ow!”

  “How's Molly Mahal?” Kim asked in a worshipping tone.

  “Don't mention Molly Mahal or Bollywood parties,” I warned her. “Not now. Not ever.”

  “But—”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I'm saying no and meaning it.”

  “There is no way Molly Mahal will come to the Bollywood party,” Jazz said. “So why do you think she doesn't just leave?”

  School was over and we were on our way to the meeting in the new building. As ever, we were stunned and envious when we crossed the road and entered the upper school. It was a revelation. Everything was clean and bright and sparkling new there. The floors were polished wood. The classrooms were well equipped, carpeted and spacious. The lights worked.

  “I really don't know,” I replied, running my finger along the clean cream paintwork of the wide, sunny corridor. “But she seems a lot more cheerful these days, what with Mrs. Macey, Kim and Mr. Arora chasing around after her,” I added bitterly.

  “You forgot Leo,” Geena reminded me. “I heard him telling her about his brother the other day. And didn't he bring her a free copy of Masala Express ?”

  “Don't get wound up, Amber,” Jazz said kindly. “She's way too old for him.”

  I sniffed. “As if I care.”

  The meeting was happening in the new school hall, a huge architect's dream of a building made of concrete, glass and steel. When we arrived, Mr. Arora and Ms. Woods, head of drama, were setting out chairs in a semicircle. Mr. Grimwade was standing on the sidelines ordering them about. There were several other teachers there—Miss Patel (geography); Mademoiselle Véronique, the French student teacher; Mr. Lucas, Jazz's form teacher; and Mr. Hernandez (French and Spanish), who everyone was convinced was mad after he broke into a flamenco dance at a governors' meeting. He said it was a great stress reliever.