Bollywood Babes

by Narinder Dhami

  “All right?” He pulled Dad's newspaper out of his bag and walked up our path. “Hey, where are your T-shirts?”

  “They're not part of our regulation school uniform,” I said frostily, sweeping past him with my nose in the air. Jazz and Geena followed, giggling.

  “Good morning, girls.” Mrs. Macey was on her way back from the minimarket, clutching a bottle of milk. She too was wearing a Molly T-shirt. It did not sit well with her tweed skirt and sensible shoes. I ground my teeth.

  “Well, it's for the school, I suppose,” Geena remarked.

  “Everybody's going Molly Mahal crazy,” Jazz moaned. “Including Dad.”

  “Don't look left,” I ordered as we passed the minimarket. “Eyes straight ahead.”

  Mr. Attwal had jumped off his stool and was banging on the window, pointing with delight at the Molly T-shirt he was wearing. There was a poster advertising the party taped to the shop door. There were more posters, one pinned to every tree the length of the street.

  “I feel like Molly's watching us everywhere we go,” complained Jazz, as we took the shortcut through the park. There were posters here, too. One on the community notice board, one on the ice cream stall and one in the children's playground.

  When we arrived at school, there was more stress awaiting us. The first person we met in the school playground was George Botley, bare-chested, with his shirt tied around his waist.

  “George, do you want me to be ill?” I asked. “Put your shirt on immediately.”

  George grinned. “Am I driving you wild?”

  “Not so you'd notice,” I replied.

  George looked disappointed. Instead of his shirt, he pulled on the T-shirt he'd been holding scrunched up in his hand.

  “Molly Mahal!” I groaned. I jumped forward and clutched George round the neck by a handful of material. “Where did you get that?”

  George looked quite pleased, probably because it's the closest I've ever got to him. “Mr. Grimwade and Mr. Arora are giving them out,” he said. “They said we can wear them every day until the party.”

  I released him and turned to Geena and Jazz. “We have to check this out,” I said sternly.

  The double doors to one of the Year 7 classrooms were open onto the playground. Mr. Arora and Mr. Grimwade were standing behind a table holding three huge cardboard boxes. Students were milling around them, and they were handing out Molly T-shirts as fast as they could. Both teachers wore T-shirts themselves, Mr. Grimwade's stretched so tight across his bulging stomach it looked as if the baby was due any minute.

  “Form an orderly queue now!” Mr. Grimwade shouted, but there was no chance of that. Molly Mahal fever had really taken a grip.

  “Girls!” Mr. Arora spotted us and waved. “Isn't this great? And we have a queue for tickets at the school office already!” He squinted at us through the morning sunshine. “Where are your T-shirts?”

  “We left them at home,” I called back.

  “Thank the Lord,” Geena muttered.

  Mr. Arora plunged his hands into a box and pulled out a handful of T-shirts. “Here you are,” he said encouragingly. “We can lend you some to wear today.”

  “Retreat,” Geena said in my ear. “Now. Before it's too late.”

  We began backing away round the side of the school. Luckily a rush of T-shirt seekers swamped Mr. Arora at just that moment, shielding us from view.

  “This is awful,” Jazz said in a tragic tone. “It's all to impress Dad, and it's just going so brilliantly.”

  Geena and I did not even have the heart to argue.

  The school office was still locked, but there was already a queue of ten people at the outside door. Mrs. Dhaliwal was one of them. She was having a heated argument with the woman in the blue salwar kameez who was standing behind her.

  “Don't try and push in front of me again,” Mrs. Dhaliwal snapped fearsomely. “I've been waiting here for twenty minutes, and I'm not in the mood to be trifled with.”

  “Is everything all right, Auntie-ji?” Geena asked diplomatically.

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Dhaliwal directed a final glare at the woman behind her. “Don't mind her. She's just my sister-in-law. Now, how's Molly? And your father?” She gave us a huge wink. “Everything going well?”

  We were saved from answering by the sound of the office door being unlocked by the secretary. We just caught a glimpse of Mrs. Capstick's scared face as the queue surged forward.

  “This is madness,” Geena said.

  “Hello,” said a bright voice behind us.

  There was Kim, beaming at us. Of course, she was also wearing a Molly T-shirt.

  “Oh!” Kim looked disappointed. “Why aren't you wearing your T-shirts?”

  “How many times do you think we'll be asked that,” I said to Geena and Jazz, “before we're compelled to kill somebody?”

  “Not long.” Jazz eyed Kim irritably. “My fingers are itching already.”

  “I thought you'd be pleased,” Kim grumbled. “I mean, it's all for the school, isn't it?”

  We stared hard at her, but Kim looked very innocent.

  “I suppose you'd know if Molly's got any other publicity stunts planned,” I remarked.

  This time Kim did turn red. It was as if all the blood in her body rushed to her face at once. “I might,” she said, attempting a casual tone. She slung her bulging bag off her shoulder and lowered it to the ground in an effort to hide her crimson face. “I might not.”

  “Oh, stop it.” I folded my arms. “You do know.”

  “Tell,” demanded Jazz. “It will save you from much pain.”

  “I can't,” Kim said assertively. “I promised.”

  “You promised,” I repeated with scorn. “Kim, how long have we been friends?”

  “Seven years,” Kim mumbled.

  “And do you remember why we became friends?” I pressured her.

  “You stopped George Botley from painting my face blue when we were five,” said Kim.

  “Yes,” I said sternly. “But we also became friends because we like and trust each other. Because we respect each other.”

  “Oh, please,” Geena said in my ear. “You'll have us in tears in a minute.”

  “Now, are you going to tell us or not?” I asked.

  “No,” replied Kim. “I would if I could, but I can't.”

  “Well,” said Geena, who was staring down at Kim's bag lying at her feet. “Are you going to tell us why you've got a copy of Masala Express in your rucksack?”

  Kim's eyes widened in horror. We all looked down at her bag. It was so full, bits of things were sticking up out of the sides. A pencil case. A science textbook. A copy of Masala Express.

  “What in heaven's name are you doing with a copy of Masala Express ?” I asked in amazement.

  “Nothing,” Kim mumbled, looking guiltier than the most guilty person in the whole world, ever. She made a dive for her bag, but Geena was quicker. She grabbed at the copy of Masala Express and caught the end of it. She then hung on for grim death as Kim tried to pull the bag away.

  “Let go,” Kim said through her teeth.

  “No chance,” replied Geena. She heaved on the magazine and it shot out of the bag like a cork out of a champagne bottle. Geena staggered backward and dropped the magazine. Kim and Jazz immediately dived for it and banged their heads together.

  “Oh dear,” I said, strolling over to the magazine and picking it up. “Why didn't you just hand it over, Kim? It would have been a whole lot easier—”

  I broke off. The whole front page of Masala Express was taken up with a huge photo of Molly Mahal. She was glamorously dressed, and posing in what I recognized as Kim's living room. The headline read: bollywood star to take part in our touch the car competition! read all about it on pages five and six!

  I shook the magazine at Kim. “What's going on?”

  “And how did you get this?” Geena grabbed the magazine from me. “It's this week's edition. It's not even out yet.”

  �
��From my neighbor,” Kim mumbled. “The Chowdhurys' son, Miki. I told you, he works at the magazine.”

  Jazz, who was still rubbing the side of her head, suddenly spotted the front cover. “Molly Mahal in the Touch the Car competition?” she repeated incredulously. “What's she doing that for?”

  “Well, to get publicity for the school party,” Kim said eagerly. “She talks about it in the interview.”

  Geena flipped to pages five and six. There were more photos of Molly in different outfits (all Auntie's) and a short interview by Miki Chowdhury. It didn't tell us much we didn't already know. The only interesting bit was where Molly said she was currently staying with “some very dear friends.” That made me smile. Or it would have done if she hadn't gone on to say that her future was looking a whole lot brighter than it had for the last few years, and she had quite a few irons in the fire. That sent a cold chill the length of my spine.

  “Dad's one of her irons,” whispered Jazz in a doom-laden tone.

  “So,” I said crossly to Kim, “she came round to your place so that Miki Chowdhury could interview her, and now she's in the Touch the Car competition this weekend?”

  “How very convenient,” remarked Geena. “I'm sure that wasn't fixed at all.”

  “Oh no,” Kim said earnestly. “Her name was picked out of a hat. It was all fair and aboveboard. She saw the competition in the copy of Masala Express that your paperboy gave her, and she entered it.”

  “Leo!” I muttered. This was like a conspiracy. It was a conspiracy.

  “I don't know why you're being so negative,” said Kim, looking puzzled. “She's doing it for the school. You should be pleased. Think positive.”

  “Why don't you just—?” I began with vigor, but Kim had already scuttled off.

  “Dad's going to be very impressed if she wins,” Jazz predicted, like some tragic prophetess. “She'll probably give him the car as a present.”

  Geena and I jumped on her. It relieved our tension somewhat, but didn't solve the problem at all.

  “She's doing what ?” Auntie's eyebrows almost flew off the top of her head. “What in God's name is a Touch the Car competition?”

  “It's pretty self-explanatory,” I replied, handing her Kim's copy of Masala Express. After school, Kim had asked me to give it back in a reasonably assertive tone, but I had refused. Rather aggressively, I'm sorry to say.

  Auntie scanned the article. “Well!” she said at last. “This beats everything, even for her.”

  The front door opened. Molly and Dad came into the hall, laughing and chatting.

  “Oh, hello, I saw Molly on the Broadway on my way home from work and gave her a lift,” Dad said defensively, all on one breath.

  Molly had already spotted the copy of Masala Express in Auntie's hand. “Oh, so you've found out my little secret,” she trilled with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “What do you think?”

  Dad looked confused. “What little secret?”

  Silently Auntie handed him the magazine, and we all watched him closely for his reaction.

  “Well!” said Dad at last. “I think that's fantastic. And you're doing it for the school?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Molly agreed. “The publicity will be excellent.”

  Maybe I was being too sensitive. Or maybe I was just getting to know her a little better. Either way, there was something in her manner that didn't quite ring true.

  “Are you going to sell the car and give the money to the school if you win?” I asked bluntly.

  Molly smiled. “Oh, I'm not going to win!” she said. “Little old me up against two big strong men? I don't stand a chance.”

  “She could take them on with one hand tied behind her back,” Jazz muttered sourly, as Molly swanned into the living room. “And trample all over them.”

  But was our dad the prize she was really going for?

  The party was in less than two weeks, and after the party there was no reason for Molly Mahal to stay here any longer.

  But by then it might be too late.

  The Touch the Car contest began on Friday afternoon at 5 p.m. By this time, it appeared that everyone in the school knew about it. It had become the single, the only topic of conversation at every opportunity—break time, lunchtime and even during lessons. Mr. Arora, like Dad, was almost overcome with admiration and, in our very hearing, had called Molly an “inspirational woman.” Mr. Grimwade was walking around in a daze, probably calculating how much money the school could raise if Molly sold the car and donated the profits. Molly Mahal T-shirts were everywhere like a rash. More posters had appeared along the Broadway. Tickets for the party were selling fast.

  “What are Molly's chances of winning this ridiculous contest?” Geena asked. We were on our way to Mr. Gill's Kwality Kar Emporium, where the competition was being held. Naturally, we weren't going to miss it.

  “Oh, who knows?” I said. “Standing and touching a car for hours doesn't seem to require a great deal of skill. Anyone could do it.”

  “Ooh, no,” Jazz broke in. “It's the ultimate endurance test. A battle of wills. You need mental toughness and physical stamina to succeed.”

  Geena and I raised our eyebrows at her.

  “I saw it on a Web site,” Jazz muttered.

  “Do you want her to win?” I asked.

  “Does it matter?” sighed Geena. “If she wins, she'll impress everyone, including Dad. And if she loses, she'll be brave little Molly who did her best.”

  “Where are these people going ?” Jazz asked, perplexed, as a steady stream of students barged their way past us, all heading in the same direction. One of them was George Botley.

  “George”—I tapped him on the shoulder—“you live in the opposite direction, remember?”

  “Ha ha, you're funny,” George retorted. “I'm going to watch the Touch the Car competition.” He elbowed his way past us.

  Geena cast up her eyes. “We should have guessed,” she murmured.

  “I hope we can get into the showroom,” said Jazz. “I don't want to miss it.”

  “Let's run,” I suggested.

  We rushed off toward the Broadway, where the Kwality Kar Emporium was situated. However, the other people who were going that way soon got the idea, and eventually there was a big crowd of us all dashing down the Broadway like marathon runners. It did at least have the advantage of sweeping everybody else out of our path like a giant broom.

  Mr. Gill's emporium was already almost full, and at least half the people there were wearing Molly T-shirts. The showroom had been cleared of all the cars except for the prize of a silver Ford Ka, which stood on a raised platform in the middle of the floor, decorated with red ribbons. There was no sign of Molly yet.

  “There's Mr. Arora,” said Jazz as we pushed our way through the tall glass doors. Mr. Gill, a short tubby figure dressed, strangely, in an ill-fitting dinner jacket and bow tie, was ushering people inside. “And Mr. Grimwade.”

  “I do believe that's Leo next to him,” remarked Geena innocently.

  I scowled. My face soured even more when I spotted Kim just behind Leo. She was chatting to a young Indian man in his twenties, wearing a baseball cap and baggy jeans and carrying a notebook and pen. I guessed that he was the Chowdhury neighbor who worked at Masala Express.

  “Hello, girls.” We turned to see Uncle Dave beaming at us. Behind him were Auntie Rita and Biji. “Well, what do you think? Is Molly going to win the car?”

  “She's quite old to stand for hours on end,” Auntie Rita sniped. “Her back will probably give out.”

  “It's ridiculous,” Biji grumbled. “Touching a car? What kind of a foolish activity is that? Hey!” She waved her stick at Mr. Gill. “Don't you have a seat for a poor, helpless old lady?”

  “About as helpless as a killer shark,” Jazz muttered, as Mr. Gill rushed over with a plastic chair.

  The showroom doors had been closed now, leaving a small crowd of people outside in the yard, their annoyed faces pressed against the
glass. Among them I could see Mrs. Dhaliwal and her entire family, and Mr. Attwal.

  The air of excitement in the showroom was almost tangible. There was a rustle of anticipation as the office door opened, followed by a sigh of disappointment as Dad, Auntie and Mrs. Macey stepped out. We edged our way through the crowd toward them.

  “Where's Molly?” I asked.

  Auntie raised her eyes heavenward. “All the contestants are in the office,” she said. “Of course, Molly had to ask for a separate dressing room to ‘prepare' herself. Typical.”

  “She needed somewhere private.” Dad leapt in to defend his heroine.

  “Did she get her own room, then?” Geena asked.

  “Well, they cleared out the cleaner's broom cupboard for her,” Auntie replied. “When we left, she was demanding Perrier water and ginger biscuits. Once a diva, always a diva.” Her eyes strayed across the room toward Mr. Arora, who was chatting to Mr. Grimwade. Mr. Arora glanced in our direction, and Auntie instantly withdrew her gaze.

  “I'm sure Molly's going to win,” Mrs. Macey said eagerly, looking as if this was the most exciting thing that had happened to her for years.

  “Amber”—Kim had appeared from nowhere and was tugging at my arm—“this is Miki, from Masala Express. He wants to ask you some questions about Molly.”

  “All right?” the young man in the baseball cap said laconically. He flipped open a notebook. “So you're friends of Molly Mahal's?”

  “No, definitely not,” said Jazz.

  “Yes, we are,” I said, stepping hard on her toes.

  “Ouch,” Jazz grumbled.

  I could see Miki Chowdhury's nostrils flaring as he scented the aroma of a story.

  “So how do you know her then?” he asked, becoming slightly more animated.

  “We just do,” Geena said repressively.

  “What's it like having a film star staying with you?” Miki queried.

  “It's one long laugh from morning to evening,” I said.

  Miki tapped his pen against his teeth. “Any funny stories? Amusing anecdotes? Heartwarming happenings?”

  “Not a single one,” I replied.