Bollywood Babes (15 page)

“Well, a group of the student volunteers have been coordinating the making and collection of decorations for the hall,” Mr. Arora began. “And Chapati MC has agreed to do a set for half his normal fee.
We've also booked Mr. Sagoo's bhangra group to perform.”

“I hope we don't have to pay
them
,” Mr. Grimwade interposed sternly.

“Amit says they'll do it for free,” said Miss Patel.

“Excellent.” Mr. Grimwade looked considerably brighter.

“We'll put the posters up at the beginning of next week, once we've added the great news.” Mr. Arora bowed gallantly in Molly Mahal's direction. “I'm sure there'll be a mad rush for tickets.”

“Thank you, Mr. Arora.” Mr. Grimwade turned to Auntie, looking a little nervous. “And—er—the catering preparations, Miss Dhillon? Are they under control?”

“Of course,” said Auntie quietly. “The canteen staff have put a freezer at our disposal, and we're filling it at a great rate. The parents have been very good about making food and sending it in with the children.”

“How many people are we expecting, anyway?” Miss Patel asked. “We don't want to run out of food.”

“Or alcohol,” Mr. Hernandez added.

“It will be strictly soft drinks only,” Mr. Grimwade said pompously. Mr. Hernandez looked depressed.

“We're calculating on selling around a hundred tickets maximum,” Auntie explained. “I really don't think there'll be a problem with the food running out.”

“How many people can we fit into this hall?”

Until now Molly Mahal had said nothing. She'd simply reclined in her chair, her chin resting on one slender
hand, listening and looking beautiful. Now she leaned forward and gazed inquiringly at Mr. Grimwade.

“Well …” Mr. Grimwade considered. “With fire regulations and so on … about five hundred.”

Molly smiled. “Then that's the amount we should be catering for,” she said.

“
Five hundred people?
” Auntie repeated incredulously.

“Oh dear,” whispered Geena. “Trouble's on its way.”

“Yes, indeed,” I replied.

“Well, I'm sure there are many people who are going to turn up to see such a distinguished guest of honor,” Mr. Arora began doubtfully. “But still, five hundred! We've never had a school event that's been even half as well supported as that.”

“You will this time,” Molly said confidently. “Trust me.”

I looked round at the assembled volunteers. All were staring at Molly Mahal as if she was the Holy Grail, the Promised Land, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They believed in her utterly.

“You see,” Molly went on breezily, “it's all down to publicity. As a movie star, I know about such things. Leave it to me.” She flashed us a wide, confident smile. “I'm going to make sure that everyone—
everyone
—knows about the party at Copperwood School.”

“Coppergate,” I muttered.

“Whatever,” said Molly.

“W
hat do you think she'll do?” asked Jazz. I could see her face in the dressing table mirror as she brushed her hair. She looked concerned.

“Who knows?” I curled up under the duvet. “What do film stars usually do that gets them all over the newspapers?”

“They wear clothes that hardly cover them,” Jazz suggested. “They write books. They get married— Oh!” She clapped a hand to her mouth.

“Relax,” I said. “I don't think Molly Mahal is going to marry Dad just to publicize the party.”

“I bet she's planning something big, though,” Jazz muttered darkly. “Just to impress him.”

I did not reply. I was becoming ever more concerned
that Jazz's assessment of the situation was the right one. I did not want to admit it, however. I
wouldn't
admit it.

The door opened suddenly, and Geena peered in. “Quick!” she whispered urgently. “Come downstairs. You have to hear this.”

“Oh, go away.” I pulled my pillow over my head. “It's Saturday morning. I'm not getting up yet.”

Geena performed a dance of impatience in the doorway. “Auntie and Dad are in the living room. Talking about Molly.”

“Oh, really.” I stroked my chin. “Now, let me see. What about the whole question of sneaking around listening to people's private conversations?”

“Sometimes, Amber, you can be so irritating,” Geena retorted, turning on her heel.

“Wait for me.” Jazz threw down her hairbrush and scrambled across the bed toward the door, almost breaking my kneecaps.

I threw back the duvet and followed them out. We could hear Molly splashing around in the bathroom, singing a song from one of her films. Once she was in there, you never knew quite when she was coming out again. Auntie had clearly decided that it was safe to go ahead and talk to Dad.

I tiptoed down the stairs on bare feet. Geena and Jazz were already standing outside the living room door. They put their fingers to their lips and made exaggerated gestures at me to keep quiet.

“I'm not making any noise, am I?” I demanded, very quietly. Unfortunately for me, my foot slipped on the last step and I plunked down on my bottom with a
thud
. Geena and Jazz both rolled their eyes, but behind the closed door, Dad and Auntie were too busy arguing to take any notice.

“Johnny, I'm not trying to interfere,” Auntie was saying in a would-be reasonable tone, just tinged with irritation. “I was just wondering if you had any plans to get married again sometime—anytime. That's all.”

“But why are you asking?” demanded Dad. Now, he definitely
did
sound irritated. “There must be a reason.”

“Not really,” Auntie muttered.

“Oh, don't be a wuss,” breathed Geena. “Get in there.”

“Well, to be honest …” Auntie had decided to go for it. “We—I—was wondering about Molly.”

“Molly!” Dad repeated. “You mean, Molly and
me
?”

I pressed my ear against the door, trying to analyze his voice. He sounded shocked and incredulous— yes, but there was something else. What was it? Embarrassment? Annoyance? Relief?

“This is ridiculous,” Dad snapped, sounding quite angry now. “Am I going to be married off to every female I ever come into contact with? I think we ought to drop this subject right now, before one of us says something we may regret.”

“He's coming!” Geena gasped. “Quick!”

Callously elbowing Jazz and me out of the way, she
fled up the stairs. Jazz whisked round the corner into the kitchen. Meanwhile, my indecision meant that I only got halfway up the stairs after Geena. With great cunning, I turned round and pretended to be just walking down.

“Oh, morning,” I said with an artificial yawn, as Dad and Auntie stomped out of the living room. Both were red-faced. “What's for breakfast, Auntie?”

“Nothing for me,” said Dad shortly. He gave Auntie a defiant look. “Molly's asked me to give her a lift to the shops, and she wants to leave early.”

Auntie shrugged and stalked off to the kitchen, almost colliding with Jazz, who had just walked out, too casually. Dad stomped off upstairs, passing Geena, who was on her way down. She and Jazz hustled me into the living room none too gently.

“See?” Jazz said triumphantly. “I told you I was right.”

“I'm so sorry.” I raised my eyebrows. “You'll have to explain. Right about what, exactly?”

Jazz elbowed me in the ribs. “Dad and Molly, of course.”

“He denied it,” I parried swiftly.

“He didn't, actually,” Geena broke in. “He said it was ridiculous. But he didn't deny it.”

“And he sounded dead embarrassed, too,” Jazz went on. “You must have noticed that, Amber.”

“
I
did,” added Geena.

“Since when have
you
started believing all this
about Dad and Molly?” I turned on Geena. “A few days ago you couldn't decide one way or the other.”

“Since we heard him arguing with Auntie just now,” Geena snapped.

“That's the thing about listening to other people's private conversations,” said Auntie, who was standing in the doorway. “You learn so many interesting things.”

There was nothing to do but squirm and blush and look guilty.

“We didn't hear all of it,” Jazz offered. “Geena heard more than Amber and I did.”

“Thank you,” Geena said bitterly.

“What did
you
think, Auntie?” I asked with curiosity.

“I think we ought to do what your dad wants, and drop the subject,” replied Auntie. “I don't believe he feels that way about Molly at all.” But her tone didn't carry the conviction I was looking and hoping for.

“Of course,” said Jazz later that morning, “this is all your fault, Amber.”

We were lying on our bed, flicking through some of Auntie's glossy magazines. Downstairs, Auntie was banging around in the kitchen, making another hundred samosas to feed the extra guests Molly Mahal
was planning to lure to the party. For once, Auntie hadn't asked us to help. I think she was perfecting her martyr complex.

“Yes,” Geena joined in. “When she and Dad get married, Amber, you'll only have yourself to blame.”

“They won't get married,” I said with irritation. “Not now. Not ever. Not even in a parallel universe.”

Jazz began to giggle. “Auntie must be getting desperate.” She pointed at a page of the magazine she was reading. “Look at this.”

The back pages of the magazine were filled with advertisements for health spas, jewelry, makeup and cosmetic surgery. ENHANCE YOUR NATURAL ASSETS WITH BREAST IMPLANTS! BOTOX FOR BEGINNERS— MAGIC THOSE UNWANTED WRINKLES AWAY. LOOK YEARS YOUNGER AND LET THE REAL, RADIANT YOU SHINE THROUGH WITH OUR ACID SKIN PEELS. These three advertisements had been ringed with blue pen.

“She must be crazy.” I grinned. “Do you think they peel your skin off in one big piece from your forehead to your neck?”

Geena was looking a bit sick, I noticed. “I don't think it was Auntie,” she said. “Molly was looking at these magazines yesterday.”

“Molly!” Jazz stopped laughing. “She must be going all out to get Dad.”

She and Geena stared accusingly at me.

“What?” I demanded.

“Well, isn't it about time you had one of your daft
ideas?” asked Jazz. “You know, to get us out of this mess?”

“If my ideas are so daft,” I retorted, “why are you asking?” I did not want to have to admit that, for once, my boundless capacity for problem solving had deserted me.

“Because you got us
into
this,” snapped Geena.

We sat there glaring at each other. I think we would have eventually come to blows, except that Dad called us from downstairs.

“Let this be a lesson to you, Jazz,” Geena said as we clattered down the stairs. “These are the consequences of not taking responsibility for one's actions.”

“Will you be quiet?” I muttered.

Auntie, Molly and Dad were in the living room. As we walked in, Dad whipped open his leather jacket, a bit like a male stripper, which was disconcerting to say the very least. “What do you think, girls?”

He wore a white T-shirt with a huge color picture of Molly Mahal's face printed on the front. I think it was a still from
Amir Ladka, Garib Ladka
. Underneath it read: meet bollywood legend molly mahal at coppergate school's end of term party! followed by the date and time. Then it was repeated in Punjabi, Hindi, Gujerati and Bengali.

“Isn't it great?” Dad went on, glancing nervously at Auntie. “It was Molly's idea.”

“This is just the start,” Molly laughed. She dipped into a plastic bag and pulled out a handful of T-shirts. “I got some made up for you too, girls.”

“Oh, thank you,” Geena said faintly.

“Put them on, girls.” Auntie was keeping a straight face, but only just. “Let's see how they look.”

Glumly we pulled the T-shirts on over our clothes. Geena's was too small, mine was too big and Jazz could hardly get her head through hers.

“Lovely,” said Molly Mahal with satisfaction.

“How did you pay for all this?” Auntie asked a little suspiciously. I'd been wondering that too. Surely Dad hadn't footed the bill?

“We went to see Mr. Pandit at the print shop,” Dad explained quickly. “Molly was wonderful. She persuaded him to supply the T-shirts free of charge in return for advertising.”

I looked at the bold red letters on Jazz's back. “Pandit's Print Shop,” I read out. “Let me be your Prints Charming!”